by David Peace
Chapter 10
Oldham Street, Manchester -
Saturday 20 December 1980.
In the car, the radio on:
Provisionals to end Dirty Protest as forty men take food.
More London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman.
Hunt to find sadistic gangland killers of ex-policeman and daughter.
Funeral of Ripper victim Laureen Bell.
I switch the radio off and get out of the car and cross the road.
It’s raining, a cold and dirty Manchester rain -
A funeral rain.
270 Oldham Street, black and from before the war, six or seven storeys high without a light.
Just inside the doors are the nameplates, various textile and clothing firms.
No MJM Publishing or Printing Ltd -
Fuck.
I look around, the ground floor offices silent.
There are stone stairs to the left, a lift to the right -
I take the stairs.
On the first floor, lights and the slight hum of machinery.
I tap on the old glass door that says Manchester Divan and open it -
It’s a big room, desks and cabinets by the door, machines and other equipment at the back. There are a lot of brightly dressed Indian or Pakistani women working the machinery. The windows are grey and give no light and the room smells of sweat.
An old Indian or Pakistani man with a beard and a hat looks up from his desk and says: ‘Yes?’
‘My name is Peter Hunter and I’m a police officer,’ I say and show him my identification.
‘Yes?’ he says again, nervously.
‘I’m looking for a company called MJM Publishing or MJM Printing Limited? I believe they had offices in this building?’
The man is nodding: ‘Yes, they were on the third floor.’
‘Can you remember when they left?’
‘About two or three years ago.’
‘You don’t know what happened, do you? They move, go under?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Who owns the building?’
‘Asquith and Dawson are the agents.’
‘Dawson?’
Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties -
A friend.
‘Yes, Asquith and Dawson by the library.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, an echo -
‘I can’t do time, Richard. I can’t.’
On the third floor landing the window is broken and there is dust and rubbish in the corners, in front of a door that still says MJM Publishing & Printing Ltd.
Across the landing is a second office: Linton & Sons.
There are no lights on and no-one’s answering the door.
I squat down and pick through the rubbish outside MJM’s door -
Nothing, just rubbish.
I try the door and it rattles but I think better of it.
Nearly 10:30 -
Manchester Police Headquarters -
The eleventh floor -
The Assistant Chief Constable’s office -
My office -
Just as I’d left it, but for the mountains of post in the tray.
I walk across the corridor and knock on the Chief Constable’s door.
‘Come.’
I open the door -
Chief Constable Smith behind his desk, Christmas carols playing.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
‘Thought you were in Leeds,’ he says, not looking up.
‘Yeah, I should be but something’s come up I thought you’d want to know about.’
He looks up: ‘What now?’
‘MJM Publishing and Printing?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘Never heard of them.’
‘They used to have premises on Oldham Street. Publish pornography’
‘Really? Pornographers?’ he asks, eyes lighting -
Pet hates.
‘Yeah, under-the-counter type stuff,’ I say, reeling him in.
‘Is that right? Oldham Street?’ he says. ‘You’d better sit down then, hadn’t you.’
I nod.
‘Go on,’ he says.
‘Janice Ryan was in one of MJM’s magazines.’
‘And?’
‘I found the magazine among Eric Hall’s papers. This morning I went to check out the address and found out that MJM have either gone under or moved. But guess who owns the lease on the building?’
On Oldham Street? Who?’
‘Asquith and Dawson.’
‘Richard Dawson’s firm?’
‘Yep.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he shrugs. ‘Asquith and Dawson must own half the bloody buildings in Piccadilly. They own lease on the Arndale, don’t they?’
‘But there’s a clear link here, yeah? With the Ripper?’
‘On Wednesday you were saying chances were Ryan wasn’t a Ripper job?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m sure this is the link between Dawson, Douglas, and Whitehead and the words on that tape; the link we were looking for.’
‘We? You, more like.’
‘OK, the link I think we should be looking into: Dawson, Douglas, Whitehead, Hall, Ryan, and now back to Dawson.’
‘And you Pete, don’t forget yourself.’
On the dark stair -
‘Right,’ I say. ‘And me.’
Chief Constable Clement Smith sniffs up: ‘Roger says you didn’t get right far with Mr Whitehead.’
‘No.’
He sighs, sits back in his chair, then says: ‘We’ve got Dawson coming back in on Monday morning. Are you going to be here?’
‘Don’t think so, no. Not in the morning.’
‘Well, have a word with Roger and see if he can follow up this MJM stuff and put a question in on Monday.’
‘OK,’ I say and stand up.
‘Pete?’
I stop at the door: ‘Yes sir?’
‘You look shattered,’ he says, looking back down at the work on his desk. ‘You want to cut out all this back and forthing between here and there.’
‘I know,’ I nod.
‘Too much for you, you just say the word.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
He looks up again: ‘You spoken to Philip Evans recently?’
‘No.’
‘You ought to. You should tell him about all this.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Best he hears it from you first.’
I nod and close the door behind me.
‘Small bloody world, isn’t it,’ says Roger Hook, shaking his head -
We’re sitting in his office, drinking coffee with lumps of artificial milk swimming on the surface.
I say: ‘You see that’s just it; I don’t think it is.’
‘What?’
‘A small world.’
‘So let me get this straight: you’re telling me that your mate Tricky Dicky rents out a building to some pornographers who use Janice Ryan as a model, the same Janice Ryan who’s knocking off Robert Fraser and Eric Hall, the same woman who gets done in by the Ripper, so then Jack Whitehead tries to blackmail Eric Hall, and three years later his prints turn up on a cassette tape that also has your name on it, turns up in the mouth of an ex-Yorkshire copper, a dead ex-Yorkshire copper who was working for, wait for it, wait for it – working for Richard Dawson, Tricky Dicky himself. Your mate. But it’s not a small world, eh Pete?’
‘No.’
‘So what is it then?’
‘It’s a big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells, and when those hells collide it’s time for us to sit up and take fucking notice.’
Silence -
Roger Hook uncomfortable, he takes a mouthful of cold coffee before he says: ‘So what now?’
‘I’ll go round to Asquith and Dawson, see what happened to MJM Publishing Limited.’
‘You don’t have to do that. Send Ronnie.’
/>
I roll my eyes and stand up.
‘Not Ronnie then. Anyone, it’s just bloody legwork.’
‘I like legwork.’
‘Please yourself,’ he says. ‘Usually do anyway.’
I stop at the door, turn around and say: ‘Reminds me. Did anyone talk to that orderly at Stanley Royd, Leonard Marsh?’
‘Shit, sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it when I’m back over there.’
‘Lucky you like legwork,’ Hook smiles.
‘Isn’t it.’
Asquith and Dawson, big fat offices on the corner of Mosley Street and Princess Street.
At reception, I ask the young girl in the roll-neck sweater: ‘Is Mr Dawson in?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s Saturday.’
‘I’m from the police, love,’ I say. ‘And I know it’s Saturday’
‘But he’s not in,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears.
‘OK, then I need you to help me get some information.’
‘I don’t think I can do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m new.’
‘Is there anyone old here?’
‘No, it’s Saturday. Sorry, I mean no.’
I sigh: ‘You’re on your own then?’
‘Everyone else is out,’ she nods.
‘When will they be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK,’ I say, taking out my ID. ‘I’d like you to find the records on one of your properties on Oldham Street. Number 270.’
‘But I don’t know how.’
‘I’m just after a forwarding address.’
‘A forwarding address?’
‘Yes, the people have moved and we need to get in touch with them. It’s very important police business.’
‘But I don’t know where they keep that kind of information.’
‘Well, where are the records?’
‘Upstairs, on top floor I think.’
‘Can you show me?’
‘Mr Asquith says I’m not to leave the desk.’
‘OK, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ll just nip up and have a look and be back in a sec’
‘I’m not sure that’s OK.’
‘Is it open?’
‘Yes, it’s open but…’
‘OK, then. You can hang on to this,’ I say, handing her my ID. ‘Any questions you have you call the Manchester Police Headquarters. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
I leave her holding the wallet and start up the stairs -
‘Top floor?’ I call back.
She nods, staring at the ID.
I take the stairs two at a time, past the empty offices with their big yellow computers and their potted black plants, their posters of foreign lands and pastel wallpapers -
At the top of the stairs, there’s a set of double doors -
I open them and -
Fuck:
I stare at rows and rows of filing cabinets -
I walk down the rows and rows, peering in drawers as I go, properties listed by obscure references -
I turn and walk down another row, again opening drawers as I go -
Bingo:
Client records.
Down the row I go, heading for the Ms -
I pull open the drawer marked Mi – Mo -
I flick through, I flick through, I flick through -
Yes:
MJM Publishing & Printing Limited.
It’s a thick file, bound in manila card.
I want copies, but I’ve no chance.
I flick through, I flick through. I flick through -
Flicking through for a forwarding address -
Yes:
MJM Publishing Ltd, c/o 230 Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks.
I take it and am away -
Down the stairs -
The young girl at the desk is still holding my wallet, staring at it.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
She hands me my ID.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.
‘Helen.’
‘That’s a nice name,’ I say. ‘My favourite.’
‘Thanks,’ she smiles.
‘Bye,’ I say.
‘Bye.’
Back in the office, I call Philip Evans:
‘Hello, this is Peter Hunter. Could I speak to Mr Evans please?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Evans is not at work today.’
‘OK. I’ll call back on Monday then.’
‘I’m sorry, but we’re not expecting Mr Evans back until after Christmas.’
‘Really? OK. Thank you.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Bye.’
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back. I flick through my address book, looking for Evans’ home number -
It’s not there.
I pick up the phone and call his office again but the line’s engaged.
After a few minutes I try again but it’s still engaged, so I go back to the cards and the letters in my tray.
*
At about three, I call Leeds:
‘Can you put me through to Chief Superintendent Murphy, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’
‘Hang on.’
I hang on -
‘Chief Superintendent Murphy’s not here.’
‘Thank you.’
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back.
I pick up the phone and call Philip Evans’ office again:
No-one’s answering.
I go back to the cards and letters in my tray.
At about half-four, I call Wakefield:
‘Can you put me through to the Chief Constable, please?’
‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’
‘Just a moment, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
I wait -
‘This is Chief Constable Angus speaking.’
‘Sorry to bother you, sir. This is Peter Hunter.’
‘What can I do for you Mr Hunter?’
‘I’d like to arrange to have some time with a couple of your senior detectives, ones who’ve been involved in the inquiry.’
‘I see.’
‘Is that going to be a problem?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, provided we can spare them.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.’
‘OK. When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘I know, but we’re going to be into Christmas soon. It won’t take long.’
‘I’ll give Pete Noble a call and see what we can do.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Til have him call you. You at Millgarth?’
‘No, sir. I’m in Manchester.’
‘Manchester? Any progress with Bob Douglas?’
‘No, sir.’
A pause, then: ‘I see, so when will you next be deigning us with your presence over here?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘OK, then I’ll either have the lads waiting for you or a message.’