Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two (16 page)

Chapter 12

Silence.
A hot, dirty, red-eyed silence.
Twenty-four hours for the four of us.
Oldman was staring at the letter in his hands, the piece of flowered cloth in another plastic envelope on the desk, Noble avoiding me, Bill Hadden biting a nail in his beard.
Silence.
A hot, dirty, yellow, sweaty silence.
Thursday 9 June 1977.
The morning’s headlines stared up from the desk at us:
RIPPER RIDDLE IN MURDER OF RACHEL, 16
.
Yesterday’s news.
Oldman put the letter flat on the desk and read it aloud again:

From Hell
.

Mr Whitehead
,
Sir, this is a little something for your drawer, would have been a bit of stuff from underneath but for that dog. Lucky cow
.
Up to four now they say three but remember Preston 75, come my load up that one. Dirty cow
.
Anyway, warn whores to keep off streets cause I feel it coming on again
.
Maybe do one for queen. Love our queen
.
God saves
Lewis
.
I have given advance warning so its yours and their fault
.
Silence.
Then Oldman: ‘Why you Jack?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why’s he writing to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s got your home address,’ said Noble.
Me: ‘It’s in the book.’
‘It’s in his, that’s for sure.’
Oldman picked up the envelope: ‘Sunderland. Monday’
‘Took its time,’ said Noble.
Me: ‘Bank Holiday. The Jubilee.’
‘Last one was Preston, right?’ said Hadden.
Noble sighed, ‘He gets about a bit.’
Hadden asked, ‘Lorry driver?’
I said, ‘Taxi driver?’
Oldman and Noble just sat there, mouths shut.
‘That last one,’ said Hadden. ‘That stuff he sent, that was from Marie Watts?’
‘No,’ said Noble, looking at me.
Hadden, eyes wide: ‘What was it then?’
‘Beef,’ smiled Noble.
‘Cow,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Noble, the smile gone.
I asked Oldman, ‘But this must match what Linda Clark was wearing?’
‘It would appear to,’ stressed Noble.
I repeated, ‘Appear to?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Oldman, hands up, looking at Hadden and me. ‘I’m going to be frank with you, but I must insist that this remain completely off the record.’
‘Understood,’ said Hadden.
Noble was looking at me.
I nodded.
‘Yesterday was about the worst day of my career as a police officer. And this,’ said Oldman, holding up the plastic envelope with the letter, ‘this didn’t help. As Pete says, the jury was still out on the last letter but this one, the tests are more conclusive.’
I couldn’t help myself: ‘Conclusive?’
‘Yes, conclusive. One, it’s the same bloke as before. Two, the contents are genuine. Three, initial saliva tests indicate the blood group we’re interested in.’
‘B?’ said Hadden.
‘Yes. The tests on the first letter were spoiled. Four, there are traces of a mineral oil on both letters that have been present at each of the crime scenes.’
I was straight in: ‘What kind of oil?’
‘A lubricant used in engineering,’ said Noble, clear this was as specific as he was going to get.
‘Finally,’ said Oldman. ‘There’s the content: the threat to kill just days before Rachel Johnson, the Queen and the Jubilee, and the reference to Preston and him
coming his load.’
Hadden said, ‘That wasn’t in any of the papers?’
‘No,’ said Noble. ‘And that’s what distinguishes that crime from the others.’
I was straight at Oldman: ‘So you think he did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alf Hill’s sceptical.’
‘Not any more,’ said Oldman, nodding at the letter.
WKFD.
Wakefield
.
‘Would it be possible for me to take a look at the Preston file?’
‘Talk to Pete later,’ shrugged Oldman.
Bill Hadden, on the edge of his seat, eyes on the letter: ‘Are you going to go public with it?’
‘Not at this stage, no.’
‘And so we’re not to print anything?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to brief the other editors, Bradford, Manchester?’
‘Not unless they start getting fan mail like this, no.’
I said, ‘It’ll put a few noses out of joint if it gets out.’
‘Well, let’s see that it doesn’t then.’
Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman picked up his glass of water and stared out at the pack.
Millgarth, 10.30 a.m.
Another press conference.
Tom from Bradford: ‘At this stage do you have a picture in your mind of the kind of man you’re looking for?’
Oldman: ‘Yes, we now have a very clear picture in our minds of the type of man we are looking for, and obviously no woman is really safe until he is found. We are looking for a psychopathic killer who has a pathological hatred of women he believes are prostitutes. We believe he is probably being protected by someone because on several occasions he must have returned home with heavily bloodstained clothing. This person is in urgent need of help, and anyone who leads us to him will be doing him a service.’
Gilman from Manchester: ‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable be prepared to describe the type of weapons members of the public should be on the lookout for?’
‘I believe I know the weapons that have been used but no, I am not prepared to say what, other than that they include a blunt instrument.’
‘Have any weapons been recovered?’
‘No.’
‘Have any eye-witnesses come forward in connection to the murder of Rachel Johnson?’
‘No. As yet we have not had any detailed descriptions of this man.’
‘Have you got any suspects?’
‘No.’
‘What have you got?’
Back in the office, the sun on the big seventh-floor windows, burning paper under glass.
Leeds on fire.
I got out my fiddle:

NO WOMAN SAFE WITH RIPPER FREE, SAY POLICE

Detectives hunting West Yorkshire’s Jack the Ripper killer finally established last night that the same man had brutally murdered five women in the North of England
.
Forensic scientists at the Home Office laboratories, Wetherby, yesterday managed to link the sadistic attacks on four prostitutes with that on Rachel Johnson, a sixteen-year-old shop assistant
.
Her mutilated body was found in an adventure playground alongside Chapeltown Community Centre on Wednesday morning
.
Last night the police officer who has taken charge of the biggest multiple murder hunt in the North since the M62 coach-bomb explosion described the wanted man
:
‘We are looking for a psychopathic killer who has a pathological hatred of women who he believes are prostitutes. It is crucial that this man is found quickly
,’
said Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable of the West Yorkshire Police
.
Throughout yesterday, as the striking similarities between the five murders were matched up, Mr Oldman and other senior detectives spent time discussing the mind of the killer with psychiatrists
.
‘We now have a clear picture in our minds of the type of man we are looking for, and obviously no woman is safe until he is found
.
‘We believe he is probably being protected by someone because on several occasions he must have returned home with heavily bloodstained clothing. This person is in urgent need of help, and anyone who leads us to him will be doing him a service,’ added Mr Oldman
.
Police believe the man is from West Yorkshire, certainly with good knowledge of Leeds and Bradford, and has possibly developed a psychological hang-up about prostitutes, either at the hands of one or because his mother was one
.
Mr Oldman said that as well as forensic evidence, the details of which he was not prepared to discuss, other similarities included
:
all
the victims were ‘good time girls’ except Rachel Johnson, who could have been attacked by mistake as she made her way home late on Tuesday night
.
no evidence
of sexual assault or robbery on any of the victims apart from one
.
all suffered
horrific head injuries and other injuries to their bodies, including frenzied knife wounds.
Last night Rachel Johnson’s Chapeltown neighbours were collecting signatures on a petition calling on the Home Secretary Mr Merlyn Rees to restore the death penalty for murder
.
One of the organisers, Mrs Rosemary Hamilton, said: ‘We’re going to go round every house in Leeds if necessary. This kid never did anyone any harm in her life and when they catch her killer he won’t get what he deserves.’
The Press Club.
Dead, but for George, Bet, and me.
‘Some of the things they say he does,’ Bet was saying.
George, nodding along, ‘Slices their tits off, right?’
‘Takes out their wombs, this copper was saying.’
‘Eats bits and all.’
‘Another?’
‘And keep them coming,’ I said, sick.
I staggered round the corner of my road and there he was, under the streetlight.
A tall man in a black raincoat, a hat, and a battered briefcase.
He was standing motionless, staring up at my flat, frozen.
‘Martin,’ I said, coming up behind him.
He turned, ‘Jack. I was getting worried.’
‘I told you, I’m fine.’
‘Been drinking?’
‘About forty years.’
‘You need some new jokes, Jack.’
‘Got any?’
‘Jack, you can’t keep running.’
‘You going to exorcise my demons, are you? Put me out of my fucking misery?’
‘I’d like to come up. To talk.’
‘Another time.’
‘Jack, there might not be another time.
I
t’s running out.’
‘Good.’
‘Jack, please.’
‘Goodnight.’
The telephone was ringing on the other side.
I opened the door and answered it.
‘Hello.’
‘Jack Whitehead?’
‘Speaking.’
‘I’ve got some information concerning one of these Ripper murders.’
A man’s voice, young and local
.
‘Go on.’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Not important, but I can meet Saturday night.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘On Saturday. Variety Club.’
‘Batley?’
‘Yeah. Between ten and eleven.’
‘OK, but I need a name?’
‘No names.’
‘You want money I suppose?’
‘No money’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘You just be there.’
At the window, the Reverend Laws still under the streetlight, a lynched East End Jew in his black hat and coat.
I sat down and tried to read, but I was thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her hair, thinking of her ears, thinking of her eyes, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her lips, thinking of her teeth, thinking of her tongue, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her neck, thinking of her collarbone, thinking of her shoulders, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her breasts, thinking of the skin, thinking of her nipples, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her stomach, thinking of her belly, thinking of her womb, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her thighs, thinking of the skin, thinking of the hair, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her piss, thinking of her shit, thinking of her hidden bits, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, and praying.
I stood up and turned to the bed, to be under the sheets, thinking of her, touching me.
I stood up, I turned, and there she was.
Ka Su Peng gone.
Carol home.
‘Did you miss me?’

The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Friday 10th June 1977

Chapter 13

In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand
.
And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up
.
Someone’s tapping on my face.
I open my eyes.
It’s Bobby.
He smiles, eyes alive, teeth tiny and white.
He pushes a book on to my chest.
I close my eyes.
He taps on my face again.
I open my eyes.
It’s Bobby, in his blue pyjamas.
I’m on the settee in the front room, the radio on in the back, the smell of breakfast in the house.
I sit up and pick up Bobby and his blue pyjamas, put him on my knee and open his book.
‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit, a magic rabbit who lived on the moon.’
And Bobby’s got his hands up, pretending they’re rabbit’s ears.
‘And the rabbit had a giant telescope, a magic telescope that looked down on the earth.’
And Bobby’s making a telescope out of his hands, turning round to stare up at me, hands to his eye.
‘One day the magic rabbit pointed his magic telescope at the world and said: “Magic telescope, magic telescope, please show me Great Britain.”
‘And the magic rabbit put his eye to the magic telescope and looked down on Great Britain.’
And suddenly Bobby jumps down from my knee and runs to the lounge door, arms flapping in his blue pyjamas, shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Magic Rabbit, Magic Rabbit!’
And Louise is standing there, behind us, watching, and she says, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’
I sit down at the table, the neat cloth and three places, Bobby between us, and look out on the back garden.
It’s seven, and the sun is on the other side of the house.
Louise is pouring milk on Bobby’s Weetabix, her face fresh, the room slightly cold in the shadow.
‘How’s your Dad?’ I say.
‘Not good,’ she says, mashing the cereal for Bobby.
‘I’m off today. We can go up together if you want?’
‘Really? I thought they’d have cancelled all days off.’
‘They have, but I think Maurice must have swung me a day’
‘He was at the hospital Tuesday’
‘Yeah? Said he was going to try and get up.’
‘John Rudkin and all.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He’s kind, isn’t he? What did your Uncle John buy you?’ she asks Bobby.
‘Car, car,’ and he tries to get down.
‘Later, love,’ I say. ‘Eat your Weetabix first.’
‘Peace car. Peace car.’
I look at Louise, ‘Peace car?’
‘Police car,’ she smiles.
‘What’s Daddy’s job?’ I ask him.
‘Peace Man,’ he grins, a mouth full of milk and cereal.
And we laugh, all three of us.
Bobby’s walking between us, one hand for Mummy, one for Daddy.
It’s going to be really hot and all the gardens on the street smell of cut grass and barley water, the sky completely blue.
We turn into the park and he slips out of our hands.
‘You’ve forgotten the bread,’ I shout, but he just keeps on running towards the pond.
‘It’s the slide he likes,’ says Louise.
‘He’s getting big, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
And we sit on the swings among the quiet and gentle nature, the ducks and the butterflies, the sandstone buildings and black hills watching us from above the trees, waiting.
I reach across and take her hand, give it a squeeze.
‘Should have gone to Flamingo Land or somewhere. Scarborough or Whitby.’
‘It’s difficult,’ she says.
‘Sorry,’ I say, remembering.
‘No, you’re right. We should do though.’
And Bobby comes down the slide on his belly, his shirt all up and his tummy out.
‘Getting a paunch like his dad,’ I say.
But she’s miles away.
Louise is in the queue for the fish stall, Bobby tugging my arm to come and look in the toy shop window, to come and look at the Lone Ranger and Tonto.
All around us, a Friday.
And the sky is still blue, the flowers and the fruit bright, the telephone box red, the old women and the young mothers in their summer dresses, the ice-cream van white.
All around us, a market day.
Louise comes back and I take the shopping bags and we walk back up Kingsway, Bobby between us, a hand for both of us, back home.
All around us, a summer’s day.
A Yorkshire summer’s day.
Louise cooks the lunch while Bobby and I play with his car and bricks, his Action Man and Tonka Toy, his Lego and teddies, the Royal Flotilla coming down the Thames on the TV.
We eat fish in breadcrumbs, drenched in parsley sauce and ketchup, with chips and garden peas, and jelly for pudding, Bobby wearing his dinner medals with pride.
After, I do the dishes and Louise and Bobby dry, the TV off before the news.
Then we have a cup of tea and watch Bobby showing off, dancing on the settee to an LP of Bond themes.
On the drive over to Leeds, Louise and Bobby sit in the back and Bobby falls asleep with his head in her lap, the sun baking the car, the windows open, listening to Wings and Abba, Boney ? and Manhattan Transfer.
We park round the back and I lift Bobby out and we walk round to the front of the hospital, the trees in the grounds almost black in the sun, Bobby’s head hanging over my shoulder.
In the ward we sit on tiny hard chairs, Bobby still asleep across the bottom of his Grandad’s bed, as Louise feeds her father tinned tangerines on a plastic spoon, the juice dribbling down his unshaven face and neck and over his striped Marks & Spencer pyjamas, while I make aimless trips to the trolley and the toilet and flick through women’s magazines and eat two Mars Bars.
And when Bobby wakes up about three, we go out into the grounds, leaving Louise with her father, and we run across the bouncy grass playing Stop and Go, me shouting, ‘Stop,’ him shouting, ‘Go,’ the pair of us laughing, and then we go from flower to flower, sniffing and pointing at all the different colours, and when we find a dandelion clock we take it in turns to blow away the time.
But when we go back upstairs, tired and covered in grass stains, she’s crying by the bed, him asleep with his mouth open and his dry cracked tongue hanging out of his bald shrunken head, and I put my arm round her shoulder and Bobby rests his head upon her knees and she squeezes us tight.
On the drive back home, we sing nursery rhymes with Bobby and it’s a pity we had fish for lunch because we could have stopped at Harry Ramsden’s for a fish supper or something.