by David Peace
With the kisses and the thank yous and all the merry Christmases and happy new years done, we pull away, Joan waving at the seven figures stood in the doorway, the kids racing off back into the house before we’re even at the end of the road, and I put the radio on and Joan asks:
‘What time is it?’
And I press the button that illuminates my new digital watch and say: ‘Six-thirty one and eight seconds.’
‘Thought Carl was going to have it off your wrist,’ she laughs.
‘Took a shine to it, didn’t he?’
She’s nodding: ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’
And I’m thinking the same too, nodding.
We pull in to her Aunty Edith’s drive and get out, Joan with another present.
I ring the doorbell and listen to the sound of laughter from the TV as Edith comes to the door of her bungalow -
‘Peter!’ she says. ‘Joan!’
And we hug and we kiss on her doorstep, wishing each other a merry Christmas and then she ushers us in.
And we get another cup of tea and some After Eight’s and Turkish Delight as Edith opens her present and gives us ours.
Then we sit and admire the tea-towels, the handkerchiefs, and the red and black striped tie, as a war film starts on the TV.
Joan’s asleep as we head down the Altrincham Road and on into Alderley Edge and we’re about to turn on to the Macclesfield Road when the first fire engine overtakes us and it’s then I know, know instantly what’s happened -
‘Joan,’ I’m saying. ‘Wake up, love!’
‘Are we back?’
‘It’s the house, love! Look!’
And I pull in to the side of the road and we stare up at the house, another fire engine and another and another -
The house in flames -
Lit match -
Gone.
my face and e shake my fists at the black sky that rains morning noon and night and cry who are these faceless people who forbid my entrance to the halls of grief has no one before descended to this sad hollows depths from that place where pain is host and all hope cut off transmission nine murdered in bradford in november nineteen seventy eight but not received until nineteen eighty noorjahan davit who was initially reported missing in September nineteen seventy eight after leaving an acquaintance looking after her two children and failing to get back in touch which was out of character on leaving home she had stated that she was going to visit her mother at her leeds address and would return later that day however she never arrived at her mothers house person in question is a convicted prostitute who left home in possession of only train fare and stated that she expected her mother to provide her with money for the children extensive inquiries in the manningham area have failed to trace subject this woman is on bail and due to appear at bradford magistrates court to answer charges of soliciting for prostitution at bradford conditions of bail are a curfew between nineteen hundred hours and seven hundred hours daily it is believed that miss davit intended to attend court and had made tentative enquiries to arrange for the custody of her children in the event of her losing her liberty which indicates that she had no intention of absconding also she thereafter failed to keep an appointment with her defending solicitor she is described as being Pakistani born february second nineteen fifty six five feet five inches tall of slim build wearing black polo necked jumper yellow trousers green and black wavy striped woollen jacket with wide sleeves black shoes and carrying a small handbag of the kind that is carried under the arm without strap or handles missing until her body found secreted under an old wardrobe on waste ground off arthington street bradford a post-mortem was carried out and death was due to massive head injuries possibly caused by a heavy blunt instrument it is thought that death occurred some weeks ago and the body is partially decomposed davit was living with a friend off lumb lane when she left home saying she was going away for a few days and was reported as missing from home one week later and in view of the recent spate of prostitute murders a large scale search was carried out and enquiries made regarding her whereabouts all of which proved negative and there had been no positive sightings of her from her being reported missing until the discovery of her body but it is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders from the pattern of the injuries this death is connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders connected with the other prostitute murders the ripper murders other prostitute murders the ripper in the red room the numbers upside down the tape playing singing along you are a pal and a confidant and it always will stay this way my hat is off see the biggest gift would be from me the card attached would say thank you for being a friend and when we both get older with walking canes and hair of grey have the fear for it is hard to hear so e stand real close as we walk on across this marsh of shades beaten down by the heavy rain our feet pressing on their emptiness that looks like human form we make our way through the filthy mess of muddy shades and slush moving slowly talking a little he says when we die and float away into the night the milky way you will hear me call as we ascend e will say my name then
Chapter 16
Dawn -
Boxing Day:
Friday 26 December 1980 -
I stand in front of a burnt-out shell, thinking this is the second time in a week I’ve seen these marks and smelt this smell, tasted this taste, but this time -
This time I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my own house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, this time -
This time the marks on my house, the smell of my house, the taste of my house, this time -
Getting tears in my eyes -
Unable to stop the tears, getting the fear -
Unable to stop the fear -
The stench of that fear and all it’s claimed stinging the inside of my nose and throat, but I can’t move away -
Unable to stop the fear -
And I can only walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, can only keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room -
The War Room -
Where the smell is worse still, another door gone, more walls black, the photographs and the map gone, the cassette recorder and the reel to reel, the television and the typewriter, the computer parts melted, Anabasis gone – all of it gone, the metal filing cabinets stained black, the boxes of paper, the stacks of magazines and newspapers, charred and gone -
Everything gone -
Everything but the fear -
Thinking they did this to me because of who I am, because of what I am -
Because of who I know, of what I know -
Because of the fear -
To give me the fear -
And I bend down and take a handful of hot black ash -
The Fear here.
‘They burnt my house down! My fucking house down!’
‘I know, I know,’ says Roger Hook, his hands up.
‘So where is he? Where the fuck is Smith?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I can bloody see that.’
‘Pete, please?’
‘Burnt my house down! Burnt my house down and threatened to kill my wife!’
He’s nodding, asking: ‘Where is Joan?’
‘I’m not fucking telling you. I’m not telling anyone.’
‘You want a car? Two cars? They’re yours.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to see the Chief fucking Constable because I want to ask him what the fuck he’s going to do about all this.’
‘Let me go and make some calls; see what I can do.’
I nod, then say: ‘Thanks, Roger. Thank you very much.’
He stands up and leaves me sat there, sat there in one of the eleventh floor offices of one of the Assistant Chief Constables of the Greater Manchester Police force -
My office.
But it doesn’t feel like my office.
I look at my watch, my new digital watch:
10:09:36 -
And I remember leaving my old watch, my father’s watch on the windowsill yesterday morning, remember it like it’s someone else’s memory, yesterday someone else’s yesterday -
And sitting here, here in my office that doesn’t feel like my office, I’m unable to stop the tears, getting the fear again -
Unable to stop the fear.
The telephone on the desk is ringing -
The telephone on my desk, my telephone -
I pick it up: ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Hunter? Mr Lees is on line two.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, pressing the flashing button, thinking:
Donald Lees, the Clerk to the Greater Manchester Police Authority.
I say: ‘This is Peter Hunter speaking.’
‘Mr Hunter, allegations have been made against you that indicate a disciplinary offence on your part and these allegations are to be investigated by Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.’
‘What?’
‘Mr Hunter, you are to be in your office at two this afternoon.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s all I can tell you, Mr Hunter.’
‘Mr Lees, what’s going on? What allegations?’
‘Mr Angus will give you the necessary details this afternoon. Goodbye.’
‘Mr Lees -’
The line dead, the room spinning -
The Christmas cards and the unopened post in the tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, spinning -
My whole office -
But it doesn’t feel like my office -
It feels like I’m choking in someone else’s office -
And I try to stand -
But I stumble -
I walk to the door -
I open it -
Roger Hook is in the corridor, Roger Hook talking to John Murphy -
I look at them -
They look away.
I’m outside, outside in the car park -
Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:
10:27:09 -
Struggling with the car door -
Slumped behind the wheel:
Fucked.
Struggling, slumped and fucked -
In the reserved space that says:
Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable.
Back upstairs, the corridors dead -
I dial his home number:
He picks up: ‘Clement Smith speaking.’
‘It’s Peter Hunter.’
‘Good morning, Mr Hunter.’
‘You know we lost the house?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know.’
‘And I suppose you know I’ve also had a call from Donald Lees?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to know what the bloody hell is going on?’
‘It would be inappropriate of me to say anything to you at this point.’
‘So you do know what these allegations are then?’
‘I can’t say anything. It would not be appropriate.’
‘So you’re not going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Mr Angus will give you all the information you’re entitled to later on today, I believe.’
‘But what about the Ripper Inquiry? It’s to do with that, isn’t it?’
‘Peter,’ he says, quietly. ‘You must, from now on, worry only about yourself.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Duty dictates I can say no more.’
‘What?’
‘Goodbye to you Mr Hunter.’
Speechless, I slam down the phone.
The office of one of the Assistant Chief Constables of the Greater Manchester Police force -
My office:
Friday 26 December 1980 -
Boxing day:
13:54:45.
A knock -
Chief Constable Ronald Angus and Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson are shown in -
Nods and handshakes:
Angus: ‘Mr Hunter.’
‘Peter,’ says Maurice Jobson, the Owl.
Angus is looking at my chair behind my desk but I gesture at the two chairs in front of the desk -
We all sit down.
I look across my desk at Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, and I wait -
He says: ‘Maurice is here because unfortunately George Oldman, as you know, has not been well and Pete Noble is a bit busy.’
He’s smiling, the tables turned.
I say: ‘That explains why Maurice is here. But what about you?’
He’s not smiling now, not smiling as he tells me: ‘I have been invited here today by your own Police Committee to investigate certain matters affecting yourself. This is not a formal interview and I will be taking no notes.’
I hold up my pen: ‘I will be.’
‘As you wish.’
I say: ‘My wish Mr Angus is that I wasn’t here at all, that I was with my wife. As you may or may not know, may or may not even care, our house was destroyed in a fire last night, a fire that followed a threatening letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper, a letter that you are aware of. So I would be very grateful if you could tell me what these certain matters are that you’ve been asked to investigate, so that I can clear this whole thing up as quickly as possible.’
‘I cannot at this moment tell you what these matters are. They amount only to rumour, innuendo, and gossip about your associations with various people in Manchester.’
‘Who?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
‘I am not able to tell you. We have a number of inquiries to make.’
‘I have done nothing wrong and I would like you to note that here and now.’
He doesn’t -
He says: ‘No evidence or written statements have been provided to me, but I’m sure this investigation…’
‘Investigation?’
‘No, that’s too strong a word – this inquiry - I’m sure it shouldn’t take too long.’
‘How long?’
‘About a month, I should think.’
‘I have to be back in Leeds on Monday’
He coughs and sits forward slightly in his chair and says: ‘I have been authorised by your Police Committee to invite you to take extra leave. You will not be going back to Leeds and you can consider yourself off the Ripper Investigation.’
‘For now or forever?’
‘Forever.’
‘You’ve spoken to Philip Evans, Sir John Reed?’
‘Yes. It’s been agreed that Chief Superintendent Murphy will take over the investigation, using your team.’
I say: ‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘I cannot say.’
I look at Maurice Jobson -
He’s looking at the floor.
Angus says: ‘I can tell you that it has absolutely nothing to do with Leeds or the Ripper Investigation.’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Well, I’m telling you.’
‘Well, let me tell you something: I have no intention of accepting any free leave. If you have the grounds for a suspension, then suspend me. Otherwise, I will continue with my duties as an Assistant Chief Constable.’
Ronald Angus stands up: ‘Mr Hunter, it is now my intention to ask you to leave your office and these headquarters right away’
‘What?’
Maurice Jobson stands up next to him.
Me: ‘You’re joking?’
Angus shakes his head.
Jobson is looking past me, out of the window behind me.
Slowly I
stand, looking around the office -
The Christmas cards and the unopened post in the tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, my whole office -
But it doesn’t feel like my office -
Because it isn’t my office -
I’m choking -
Trying not to sway as I stand there -
Trying to think -
Think, think, think.
I reach for my briefcase and I open it, sweeping the cards and the unopened post into it -
And I stare at the photographs and the certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations; their awards, their commendations, thinking:
Fuck ‘em – fuck ‘em all.
And I walk to the door -
Trying not to stumble, briefcase under my arm -
And I open the door.
Angus says: Two o’clock tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘Meet us here at two o’clock tomorrow please.’
And I just nod and walk out into the corridor -
And I stand there, in the corridor, until Jobson comes up behind me.
This way,’ he says and leads me over to the lift.
He presses the button and we wait.
The lift arrives and the door opens -
He says: ‘Sorry about your house.’
I look at him -
He looks away.
Outside, outside in the car park -
Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:
14:36:04 -
Struggling with the car door and my briefcase -
Slumped behind the wheel:
Fudged.
Struggling, slumped and fucked -
In the reserved space that still says:
Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable.
Someone’s tapping on the glass -
I open my eyes:
Dark, night.
The policeman is saying:
‘I’m sorry, you can’t park here.’
Fuck.
‘It’s reserved.’
And I switch on the engine and the headlights in the reserved space that says: