by David Peace
His face full of shadow –
He hands me the phone.
I swallow. I say: ‘This is Maurice Jobson speaking.’
Mandy says: ‘Maurice –’
The telephones all ringing at once, every single fucking one –
‘Bloody wings –’
People picking them up –
‘I’ve seen her –’
People shouting to Rudkin –
‘Down by the prison –’
Rudkin picking them up one after another –
‘In a ditch –’
Rudkin listening –
‘She’s dead –’
Rudkin looking at me –
‘Maurice,’ she’s crying. ‘Maurice –’
I drop the receiver –
‘She had wings, bloody wings –’
The room, the building, the whole fucking place full of shadow:
The shadow of the Horns.
100 miles an hour back down the motorway –
I see her –
Lights and sirens –
Down by the prison –
Into Wakefield –
In a ditch –
My new patch –
She’s dead –
Patch of sheer fucking, bloody hell.
Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield –
In the shadow of the prison:
The wasteland beside the Dewsbury Road –
Across from St Michael’s.
Drive straight on to the rough ground, two police cars already here –
More on their way;
Door open before the car’s stopped –
Boots in the mud;
George barking at the uniforms –
My uniforms.
I’m out the car, my hand on his shoulder –
‘You don’t work round here any more,’ I tell him. ‘I do.’
‘Fuck off, Maurice!’ he shouts –
But I’m past him, waving at the gallery, telling my lads: ‘Get them out of here.’
Barking my orders to my boys –
360° as I cross the ground;
Oldman, Alderman, Prentice, Rudkin –
Everyone else in my wake;
Rain in our faces –
Cold and black.
180° I see it –
Big bold letters flapping in the piss:
Foster’s Construction –
Cold and fucking black.
Another 180° and I’m there –
The edge of the ditch;
I stop –
Stop dead:
The air that I breathe, choking me –
The rain;
I look away –
Look up at the bloody grey sky;
I’m crying –
Tears, cold and fucking black;
The air that I breathe, killing me –
I drop to my knees, my hands together:
I see her –
I SEE HER NOW;
On my knees, hands together –
Praying:
In the shadow of his Horns –
Sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.
Dark times –
No darker day –
This Third Day:
Eleven in the morning –
Saturday 14 December 1974:
Yorkshire –
Wakefield:
Wood Street Police Station –
Down the long, long corridor –
Room 1:
Terry Jones, thirty-one, in his black wet donkey jacket at our table –
Terry Jones of Foster’s Construction –
Terry Jones who was working on Brunt Street, Castleford, in July 1969 –
Terry Jones, working where we just found Clare Kemplay in December 1974.
I ask Terry Jones: ‘So tell us again, Terry, what happened?’
And Terry Jones tells me again: ‘Ask Jimmy.’
Back upstairs they’re shitting fucking bricks, already talk of bringing in outside Brass, the fucking Yard even, like we’re some gang of monkeys can’t find our arses without a bloody map, and I’m wishing to Christ there’d been no amalgamation, no West Yorkshire fucking Metropolitan Police and –
‘Maurice?’
Ronald Angus is looking at me –
Chief Constable Ronald Angus –
My Chief Constable.
I say: ‘Pardon?’
‘I said, George will do the Press Conference if you’ve no objections.’
I stand up. I say: ‘None.’
‘Where you going?’ asks Angus.
‘Well, if you’ve no objections,’ I smile. ‘I thought someone ought to try and catch the fucking cunt. If that is, you’ve no objections.’
Long dark times –
Endless dark day –
The Third Day:
Three-thirty in the afternoon –
Saturday 14 December 1974:
Yorkshire –
Wakefield:
Wood Street Police Station –
Down the long, long corridor –
Room 2:
We open the door. We step inside:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice –
One with a long moustache, the other one with fine sandy hair:
Moustache and Sandy.
And me:
Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson –
Thick lenses and black frames –
The Owl.
And him:
James Ashworth, fifteen, in police issue grey shirt and trousers, long lank hair everywhere, slouched in his chair at our table, dirty black nails, dirty yellow fingers –
Jimmy James Ashworth of Foster’s Construction –
Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.
‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.
Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.
Prentice sits down at an angle to Ashworth. He takes a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passes them to Dick Alderman.
Dick Alderman walks around the room. He plays with the handcuffs.
I close the door to Room 2.
Dick Alderman puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist. He leans against one of the walls.
I sit down next to Jim Prentice, opposite Ashworth, watching his face –
In the silence:
Room 2 quiet –
Jimmy Ashworth looks up. He sniffs. He says: ‘You talk to Terry, did you?’
I nod.
‘He tell you same, did he?’
I shake my head. I say: ‘One more time, Jimmy.’
He slouches back in his chair. He sighs. He picks at his dirty black nails.
‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.
Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.
I push an open pack of fags his way. I say again: ‘One last time, Jimmy.’
He sniffs. He flicks his fringe out of his face. He takes a cigarette.
Jim Prentice holds out a lighter.
Ashworth leans in for a light. He looks up across the table at me. He smiles.
I turn away. I nod at Dick Alderman.
Dick takes two small steps from the wall. Dick smacks Jimmy Ashworth hard across the face.
The boy falls from his chair on to the floor.
Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says to Jimmy Ashworth: ‘Be this one next time, lad.’
Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor. He plonks him back down in his seat.
‘Are we ready now?’ I ask.
‘I told you,’ he says.
I turn away. I look at Dick Alderman –
‘No, no,’ Ashworth screams. ‘No, wait …’
We wait:
‘I told you, we were hanging about for Gaffer. But he never come and it was raining so we were just
arsing about, you know, drinking tea and stuff. I went over Ditch to have a waz and that’s when I saw her.’
‘Where was she, Jimmy?’
‘Near top.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I just froze, didn’t I?’
‘That’s when Terry came over, is it?’
He nods.
‘When you was all frozen?’
Jimmy Ashworth sniffs. He says: ‘Yes.’
I turn away. I nod.
Dick takes two steps from the wall. Dick smacks Ashworth hard across the face.
Ashworth falls from his chair again on to the floor.
Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says: ‘That was last with left, lad. I promise you.’
Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor again. He plonks him back down in his seat.
‘The truth please, Jimmy?’
‘I must have gone back,’ he moans. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘You want that gentleman over there to help jog that memory of yours, do you, Jimmy?’
‘No, no,’ he screams again. ‘No, listen will you …’
We listen:
‘I went back to shed, you’re right. I was hoping Gaffer would be there because he’d know what to do. But it was just Terry, wasn’t it?’
‘What about the others?’
‘They were off in van somewhere.’
‘So you and Terry Jones, the two of you went back over to Ditch?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Terry telled me to phone you lot.’
‘So that was what you did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which phone you use?’
‘One on Dewsbury Road.’
‘We’ll check, you know that, don’t you?’
He nods.
‘Is that everything, Jimmy?’
Jimmy Ashworth nods again.
I look at Dick.
Dick shrugs.
I say: ‘Thank you, Jimmy.’
Dick takes the handcuffs off his knuckles. He steps out into the corridor.
Jim Prentice stands up. He says: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’
I wait until he’s out in the corridor with Dick. I lean across the table. I bring the lad’s head towards me. I whisper into Jimmy’s ear: ‘One last question.’
Ashworth looks at me from under his fringe, his face swelling beneath his eyes.
I ask him: ‘What’s your Gaffer’s name?’
‘Mr Marsh,’ he whispers back.
‘George Marsh?’
He nods –
He nods. My heart pounds –
My heart pounds. My fists clench –
My fists clench. There is blood in my mouth.
I brush his long lank hair out of his face. I touch his cheek. I hold his cheek. I say: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’
He nods.
‘Not a word,’ I tell him. ‘Not a word.’
He nods again.
I stand up. I step out into the corridor –
Dick and Jim are waiting.
I look at my watch –
It’s almost five:
They’ll be finishing the post-mortem –
The little thing cut to bits for a second time –
George Marsh sitting down for his tea.
I look up. I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor –
Familiar footsteps –
Bill Molloy coming towards me –
Retired Detective Chief Superintendent Badger Bill Molloy –
The black hair gone grey, his skin a terrible yellow.
I close the door to Room 2. ‘Bill?’ I say. ‘What you doing here?’
Bill Molloy tries to see over my shoulder. He turns back to me. He winks: ‘Helping hand, that’s all.’
I lock the door. I dial Netherton 3657.
I listen to it ring. It stops –
‘Netherton 3657, who’s speaking please?’
‘Is your dad there?’
‘No, he’s –’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘Hospital? What’s wrong with him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Which hospital?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I speak to your mam?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to see me dad.’
‘When she gets back, will you –’
There’s a knock at the door. I hang up.
Back upstairs with the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass in their nice new suits and polished shoes with their nice new sheepskins hanging by their trophies and their tankards, the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass with their beer guts and their wallets bulging in those nice new suits, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Brass plus one ex-Brass:
Badger Bill Molloy –
The helping hand.
Plus one guest Brass:
Detective Superintendent Peter Noble –
The man who nicked Raymond Morris.
Ronald Angus, fingers in a church beneath his chin: ‘The Hunslet gypsy camp –’
Fuck, I’m thinking –
‘George,’ says Angus. ‘Would you care to brief the troops on the latest.’
Here we fucking go again:
‘Witness has given us a positive sighting of a white Ford Transit in Morley last Thursday night. This witness has been shown photos taken by surveillance at the Hunslet camp of a similarly described van and we now have a positive ID. I’ve got officers over in Rochdale picking up the Lamberts who also made a statement about a white van and some gypsies spotted around the time of Susan Ridyard’s disappearance,’ pants Oldman.
‘When we going to hit the bastards?’ asks Dick.
‘Midnight,’ says Oldman.
Prentice: ‘Bring the cunts back here?’
Oldman: ‘Split them between here and Queen’s.’
‘Briefing will be downstairs at ten,’ nods Angus. ‘Anything else?’
Bill Molloy looks across the table. He says: ‘You’re very quiet, Maurice.’
‘Not like you,’ smiles Oldman.
‘Not a crime, is it?’ I say.
Bill looks at me. He says: ‘It’s a coincidence, Maurice.’
‘What else could it be?’ I nod –
In my nice new suit and polished shoes with my nice new sheepskin on the wall, my beer gut and my wallet bulging in that nice new suit –
I nod because there’s nothing more to say –
They’re going to die in this hell –
We all are.
I drive out of Wakefield –
Up to Netherton.
I park at the end of Maple Well Drive –
The night here now.
All the bungalows but one have their lights on –
All the bungalows but number 16.
I get out –
I walk along the road.
Their house dark –
No van parked outside.
I go up the path –
Fucking bird table on the small lawn;
I ring the doorbell:
No answer.
I try again –
No answer.
I go round the back –
The curtains not drawn;
No fire left on –
Nothing.
I go back down the path –
Back to the car.
I get in and I wait –
I wait and I watch;
Wait and watch –
Nothing.
It’s gone nine when I turn into Blenheim –
Hearts cut, leaves lost;
I park in the drive. I open the car door. I spit –
That taste in my mouth;
I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water –
Ugly moonlight and black rain
;
The bottoms of my trousers, my socks and shoes, muddy –
Devil’s Ditch.
I open the downstairs door. I go up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5 –
‘Maurice?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me, love.’
The door opens without the chain and there she is –
So truly fucking beautiful.
‘I saw her,’ she says.
I nod.
She takes my hand. She pulls me towards her –
‘I can’t,’ I say.
She looks at me –
‘I have to go back.’
‘She had wings, Maurice. Bloody wings –’
I nod.
‘I saw her.’
‘I know.’
She squeezes my hand –
‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say.
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’
She squeezes my hand again –
‘Lock the door,’ I tell her.
There are three envelopes on my desk. I sit down with an unlit cig. I open the top envelope. I pull out two sheets of typed A4 and three enlarged black and white photographs:
The post-mortem.
I wipe my eyes. I look at my watch:
Eleven-thirty –
Saturday 14 December 1974.
I reach for the phone book. I turn the pages. I find the number I want. I pull the telephone closer. I dial, a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
The number rings. And rings –
‘Ossett 256199. Who’s speaking please?’ a woman asks.
‘Is Edward there?’
‘Just a minute, please.’
There’s a pause –
Beethoven down the other end of the line.
‘Edward Dunford speaking.’
I ask him: ‘Saturday night all right for fighting?’
‘Who’s this?’
I wait.
‘Who is it?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You interested in the Romany Way?’
‘What?’
‘White vans and gyppos?’
‘Where?’
‘Hunslet Beeston exit of the M1.’
‘When?’
‘You’re late,’ I say. I hang up –
4 LUV.
Chapter 41
You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library for the last time –
It is Saturday 4 June 1983:
The car doors locked, you are staring into the rearview mirror and then the wing; the rearview and then the wing; rearview and then wing –
The relentless sound of the rain on the roof, the radio on as loud as it can go:
‘200 arrests at USAF base at Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire; VC’s widow accuses Healey of despicable and cheap conduct over his remarks about Mrs Thatcher and the Falklands; Dr Owen warns that the Tories need a constraining force to combat Mrs Thatcher and Norman Tebbit and that voters are afraid of Big Sister …’