by David Peace
Shouting -
‘Get the whiskey out!’
Noble giving the orders: ‘Put him in a cell – someone inside and someone outside the door, round the clock.’
Maurice Jobson in his ear, whispering -
Noble nodding along: ‘Yeah, and get out a couple of shotguns.’
Maurice, whispering -
Noble, another nod, calling the shots: ‘We’re taking no chances tonight, so I want the paperwork and the guns out.’
Angus shouting -
‘And the bloody whiskey!’
Up the stairs -
Beaming coppers at every turn -
At every turn only too glad to point the way -
To point the way, to shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -
Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -
Cans, backs, and hands until -
Until we’re all in an upstairs office:
Ronald Angus, George Oldman, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, Alec McDonald, John Murphy -
No Craven, no Bob -
And twenty faces I don’t know -
Twenty faces I don’t want to know -
Plus the two faces I do -
The two familiar faces I want to know -
Murphy introducing me: ‘This is Sergeant John Chain, he’s the one who nicked him.’
‘Me and John Skinner,’ nods Chain.
‘And this is DS Ellis, here at Dewsbury.’
‘Call me Mike,’ says Mike, hand out.
I take Murphy to one side: ‘What the fuck’s going on? What happened?’
‘Pulled him in Sheffield, didn’t they?’
‘Sheffield?’
‘Yeah,’ nods Murphy, a big whiskey in his fist.
‘Who?’
‘That Sergeant Chain and some PC Skinner.’
‘Which station?’
‘Hammerton Road, I think.’
‘When?’
‘Sunday night.’
‘How?’
But then there’s boots up the stairs, telephones ringing -
Head around the door: ‘She’s here, sir!’
And everyone’s heading out the door -
Back down the stairs -
Me saying: ‘Who? The wife?’
This Sergeant Ellis, Mike, he’s shaking his head: ‘Slag he was with.’
‘Luckiest bitch alive,’ laughs someone else and then -
Then we’re all heading back downstairs -
Beaming coppers at every turn -
At every turn only too glad to point the way -
To point the way, to shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -
Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -
Cans, backs, and hands until -
Until we’re downstairs -
Underground -
Back underground -
In the dark room with the one wall half glass -
Behind the glass, the two-way mirror -
Light from behind the glass -
The stage set -
Act II:
Three chairs and a table -
The players -
Alderman and Prentice and -
Today’s special guest:
Sharon Yardley, a 24-year-old convicted black prostitute and mother of two from some Sheffield shit-hole.
‘What’s going on?’ she’s asking.
Prentice, ever the gent: ‘Have a seat Miss Yardley.’
‘It’s a fucking jungle out there,’ she’s saying -
Alderman smiling, best behaviour: ‘Cigarette?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
He leans forward, his back to us, lighter out: ‘There you go.’
‘Ta very much.’
Alderman: ‘We’ve taken a bit of shine – no offence – taken a bit of a shine to one of your punters.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that?’
‘Bit of a naughty boy this one.’
‘Aren’t they all.’
‘Yeah,’ nods Prentice. ‘Aren’t they all.’
Alderman: ‘Tell us about him, this one from Sunday night?’
‘What about him?’
‘Just tell us what happened?’
She rolls her eyes, stubs out her cig and says: ‘About nine I’m sitting with Karen on Wharncliffe Road, junction with Broomhall…’
Alderman: ‘Karen?’
‘Yeah, Karen.’
‘Last name?’
‘Not a clue, officer,’ she smiles. ‘Never met her before.’
Prentice: ‘Go on.’
‘About nine, a brown Rover pulls up, window down, are we doing business? Karen goes across, gives him once over, says no ta.’
‘Why she say no?’
‘Bit creepy.’
‘How?’
‘Didn’t say.’
‘Go on.’
‘Ten minutes later, some Paki pulls up and she’s off with him.’
Alderman: ‘Not that choosy then, this Karen?’
‘Listen lover,’ she laughs. ‘There’s nowt wrong with Pakis; shoot their muck and they’re gone. All over in ten seconds.’
Prentice: ‘Go on, love.’
‘So anyway, Rover comes back and I go over and he seems all right.’
‘All right?’
‘Looked like a good-looking Bee Gee.’
Alderman: ‘A good-looking bloody Bee Gee? What the fuck’s one of them?’
Prentice: ‘Ignore him. Go on, love.’
‘So I tell him it’s a tenner and he nods and I get in and he asks if I know anywhere and I tell him to head straight up the road and turn left by Trades House.’
Prentice: ‘How long that take? Up to the Trades House?’
‘Five, ten minutes.’
‘He talk?’
‘Never bloody shut up, did he?’
Alderman: ‘He tell you his name?’
‘Dave.’
Prentice: ‘What else did he say?’
‘About how he didn’t usually do this kind of thing, the usual. About his wife and how she nagged him morning, noon, and night and how they’d wanted to have kids and all the miscarriages they’d had and I said he should adopt and he reckoned they were thinking about one of them Vietnamese Boat People, that kind of thing. Usual bloody excuses.’
‘Then you came to Trades House?’
She nods: ‘Reversed in, didn’t he.’
‘Odd?’
‘Never seen it before.’
‘And?’
‘And he keeps yapping and after a bit I tell him I want the tenner and he gives it me and I give him rubber.’
‘And?’
‘And I take my knickers off but he says he wants to do it in back seat but I say it’ll be all right here, nothing to worry about, and he unzips it and lies on top of me but he’s too nervous, cold as ice he is, and after a couple of minutes of this I tell him we’re not going to be able to do it.’
‘What did he say? Angry was he?’
‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘Just nodded and said that’s what it looked like.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Then what happened was you lot bloody turned up, didn’t you?’
‘What did he do?’
‘Froze, then said he’d do all talking and I’m his girlfriend, aren’t I? Didn’t have heart to tell him, I’d shagged every copper this side of Hallam.’
Alderman, laughing: ‘That include Sergeant Chain and PC Skinner?’
‘You’re a bad man you are, aren’t you lover?’ she tuts, winking at the glass.
Prentice: ‘So what happened then?’
‘One of you lot comes over.’
‘And?’
‘And he taps on glass, and Dave, he winds down window and asks if there’s a problem and this young copper…’
‘PC Skinner.’
‘Yeah, he asks who we are and what we’re doing and Dave, now he says he’s Peter Logan and I’m his girlfriend but Skinny, he shi
nes his torch on me and says, hello Sharon, thought you were inside and he asks Pete or Dave or whoever he is, he asks him if it’s his car and whatever-his-bloody-name-is tells him it is and then PC Plod says something witty like, don’t go anywhere lovebirds, and he walks off back to the Panda.’
‘And so you two are alone again?’
‘Yeah, dead romantic it was.’
‘What was he saying now?’
‘Dave? Asks me if we should make a run for it.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Said there wasn’t much point, seeing as how they knew me anyway’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are back aren’t they – taking his keys, tax disk off window, asking who he really is and now he’s saying he’s Peter Williams and how he doesn’t want his wife to know and how he’s been done for drunk driving or something and how he’s going to lose his job. Usual bloody nonsense.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well then they get us out of the car and they see that the plates are only held on with bleeding tape and for a split second I honestly thought daft bugger was going to make a run for it, but he’s just off for a piss he says and then when he comes back, they take us down to Hammerton Road.’
‘He say anything on way down?’
‘No,’ she laughs. ‘Too busy trying not to shit himself, wasn’t he?’
Prentice: ‘Probably had a lot on his mind.’
And then she stops laughing at her own joke and says: ‘Why?’
Prentice: ‘Why what?’
‘Why all questions? Who is he?’
And Alderman, he picks up the bag off the floor and he tips the two hammers, the screwdriver, and the knife onto the table and says -
Says: ‘The Yorkshire Ripper.’
And in her eyes she sees -
In her eyes -
Her own death -
Her own death with these tools -
With these tools -
These two hammers -
This screwdriver -
This knife -
Her own death with these tools -
Her own death -
In her eyes -
In her eyes she sees -
The Yorkshire Ripper -
And she pukes -
Pukes down the side of herself -
Her left leg -
The table leg -
In a puddle on the floor, the yellow bile.
Up the stairs -
Beaming coppers at every turn -
At every turn to shake your hand -
To shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -
Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -
Cans, backs, and hands until -
Until we’re all back in the upstairs office:
Ronald Angus, George Oldman, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, Alec McDonald, John Murphy, Mike Ellis and me -
No Bob Craven -
And the twenty faces I don’t know -
The twenty faces I don’t want to know -
Plus Sergeant John Chain -
Holding court -
The King is dead, long live the King:
The King of all Detectives -
The King of all Detectives telling us how it was:
‘I mean, you see a car up the side of the Trades House and you know what they’re up to inside that.’
Me: ‘What time?’
‘Eleven,’ he shrugs. ‘No later. Anyway I send Skinny over with his torch and he’s like a ferret down a hole is that one, thinks he’s going to cop some quim and sure enough if it isn’t Sharon Yardley with some punter. So Skinny, he comes trotting back and we put the plates through…’
Thirty people nodding -
Not me, me asking him: ‘What were they? The plates?’
‘Can’t remember can I, but they weren’t right ones, tell you that. So we get the word from Hammerton that whatever they were, these plates they should’ve been sitting on a bloody Skoda not a big brown fucking Rover 3500 and Skinny’s seen plates are only taped on anyway. So we go back over to them and take keys off him and have a look at his disk and he tells us his real name is Peter Williams from Bradford and he says he doesn’t want his missus to find out, does he. I tell him he’ll have to come down station because we reckon plates are nicked and he just nods and we ask them to get in our car and, right, this is when he dashes off behind water-tank and I’m like, hold your horses, where you off to? But he’s bursting for a pee, he says and he’s back in a couple of minutes. Did cross me mind he was going do a runner, but he comes back and we go down Hammerton Road and all way down he’s quiet, not a word.’
Thirty people, all nodding along -
Not me, me: ‘What about his car? Did you have a look inside?’
‘Yeah, yeah – messy, it was. Tools, rope, bits and pieces, you know – windscreen wipers, a Speedo, carpet, wood.’
‘Go on, John,’ says someone. ‘What happened then?’
‘Well then we interview them and we let her go but he tells us he’d taken plates off a car in a scrap yard in some place called Cooper’s Bridge near Mirfield. So we’re right, where the fuck is Cooper’s Bridge? And we call Leeds and Wakey and then find out it’s Dewsbury, so we call here and by now it’s like gone 5 in morning and they tell us they’ll send some lads down when Early Boys get on and so we call his missus in Bradford and tell her that her husband’s been nicked for dodgy plates.’
Me: ‘What she say?’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs again. ‘Not much, I heard. Anyway, that was me. I knocked off and it wasn’t until yesterday night when I come back on for another bloody graveyard and gaffer tells us that they’re still holding punter from Sunday night and Ripper Squad are giving him once over. So that gets me old brain ticking and that’s when I go off back up to Trades House…’
Thirty people, nodding, in awe -
The King of the Detectives.
Not me, me: ‘You call here first?’
‘No.’
‘You tell anyone what you were up to?’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t really think there’d be anything there, did I. But I just wanted to make double sure.’
‘Go on, John. Go on.’
‘So I get up there and I remember him saying he needed a slash like, going behind tank. So that’s where I go and fuck me if there isn’t a hammer and a bloody knife on ground by back wall.’
Me: ‘You touch them?’
Him: ‘No.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Ran straight back to car and called station and they’re straight on to here and Ripper Room and then word comes back to leave them, in situ like, and photographer’s on his way and someone, Bob Craven, he’s on his way from Leeds.’
Applause -
Thirty beaming coppers -
Shaking his hand all over again -
Shaking his hand, patting his back and cracking him cans -
Cans, backs, and hands until -
Until Noble says -
‘It’s time.’
Underground -
Back underground -
In the dark room with the one wall half glass -
Behind the glass, the two-way mirror -
Light from behind the glass -
The stage set -
Act III, the Final Act:
Four chairs and a table -
The players -
Noble and Alderman and Prentice -
Today’s special guest -
Back by popular demand:
Peter David Williams of Heaton, Bradford -
34-year-old, married, lorry driver -
Black beard and curly hair, a blue jumper with a white v-neck band -
The Yorkshire Ripper -
Behind the glass -
Noble: ‘This is going to take some time, Peter?’
The Yorkshire Ripper nods.
Noble: ‘Let
’s just get straight who it is we’re talking about, OK?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘OK.’
Noble: ‘So first would be Joyce Jobson?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Then Anita Bird?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Theresa Campbell?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Clare Strachan?’
The Yorkshire Ripper shakes his head: ‘No.’
Noble: ‘You sure about that?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Joan Richards?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Ka Su Peng?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Marie Watts?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Linda Clark?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’
Noble: ‘Rachel Johnson?’
The Yorkshire Ripper pauses, then says: ‘I…’
Noble repeats himself: ‘Rachel Johnson, Peter? Yes or no?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Janice Ryan?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’
Noble: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Kathy Kelly?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Tracey Livingston?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Candy Simon?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Doreen Pickles?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Joanne Thornton?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Dawn Williams?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘No relation?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’
Noble: ‘Laureen Bell?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’
Noble: ‘Missed anyone have we, Peter?’
The Yorkshire Ripper looks directly into the mirror -
The mirror, the glass -
The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -
On the other side of the mirror where we’re all sitting -
Angus, Oldman, Murphy, McDonald, Ellis, and me -
Looks through the mirror, the Yorkshire Ripper -
And he nods at us -
Noble: ‘Who, Peter? Who?’
The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Noorjahan Davit.’
On the other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -
On the other side of the mirror where Ellis is on his feet -
Where I’m thinking -
Noorjahan Davit, murdered Bradford, November 1978.