Paul Kelly was sitting on the edge of my desk.
“Our Paula’s been ringing you.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s going on Eddie?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“She called me. Said you’d told her about me seeing that Mandy Wymer woman.”
“Leave her be, Eddie.”
Two hours straight shit-work, one-handed typing making it four. I transcribed my Ridyard notes for Jack Whitehead’s big story, glossing over my meetings with Mrs Paula Garland:
Jack-Mrs Garland is reluctant to talk about the disappearance of her daughter. Her cousin is Paul Kelly, an employee of this paper, and he has asked that we respect her wish to be left alone.
I picked up the receiver and dialled.
On the second ring, “Hello, Edward?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I’ve been warned off again.”
“Who by?”
“Your Paul.”
“I’m sorry. He means well.”
“I know, but he’s right.”
“Edward, I…”
“I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“Are you going to court?”
Alone in the office, I said, “Yeah.”
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it looks that way.”
“Please come over.”
“I can’t.”
“Please?”
“I’ll ring tomorrow, I promise. I’ve got to go.”
The line went dead and my stomach knotted.
I had my head in my good and bad hands, the stink of hospitals and her on them both.
I lay in the dark on the floor of Room 27, thinking of women.
The lorries in the car park came and went, their lights making shadows dance like skeletons across the room.
I lay on my stomach, my back to the wall, eyes closed and hands over my ears, thinking of girls.
Outside in the night, a car door slammed.
I jumped up, out of my skin, screaming.
Chapter 7
· AM, Thursday 19 December 1974.
My mother was sat in her rocking chair in the back room, staring out at the garden in the grey morning sleet.
I handed her a cup of tea and said, “I’ve come for my black suit.”
“There’s a clean shirt on your bed,” she said, still looking out of the window, not touching the tea.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What the fuck happened to your hand?” said Oilman from the Manchester Evening News.
“I got it caught,” I smiled, taking my seat down the front.
“Not the only one, eh?” winked Tom from Bradford.
West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police HQ, Wood Street, Wakefield.
“Aye, and how’s that bird?” laughed Gilman.
“Shut it,” I whispered, red-faced, checking my father’s watch, 8.30.
“Someone died?” said New Face, sitting down behind three black suits.
“Yeah,” I said and didn’t turn round.
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbled.
“Southern wanker,” muttered Gilman.
I looked back at all the TV lights. “Fuck, it’s hot.”
“Which way you come in?” asked Tom from Bradford.
New Face said, “The front.”
“Many folk outside?”
“Fucking hundreds.”
“Shit.”
“Got a name?” whispered Gilman.
“Yeah,” I smiled.
“Address?” said Gilman, loud and proud.
“Yeah,” we all said together.
“Fuck.”
“Morning ladies,” said Jack Whitehead, sitting down directly behind me, kneading my shoulders hard.
“Morning Jack,” said Tom from Bradford.
“Keeping your hand in, Scoop?” he laughed.
“Just in case you miss anything, Jack.”
“Now, now, girls,” winked Gilman.
The side door opened.
Three big smiles in three big lounge suits.
Chief Constable Ronald Angus, Detective Chief Superin tendent George Oldman, and Detective Superintendent Peter Noble.
Three fat cats who had got their cream.
A bang and a whistle as the microphones went on.
Chief Constable Angus picked up a piece of white A4 paper and grinned broadly.
“Gentlemen, good morning. A man was arrested early yes terday morning on the Doncaster Road, Wakefield, following a brief police chase. Sergeant Bob Craven and PC Bob Douglas had signalled to the driver of a white Ford transit van to pull over in connection with a faulty brakelight. When the driver of the van refused, the officers gave chase and eventually forced the vehicle off the road.”
Chief Constable Angus, wavy hair like a grey walnut whip, paused, still beaming, like he was expecting applause.
“The man was brought here to Wood Street, where he was questioned. During the course of a preliminary interview, the man indicated he had information about more serious matters. Detective Superintendent Noble then proceeded to interview the man in relation to the abduction and murder of Clare Kemplay. At eight o’clock yesterday evening, the man confessed. He was then formally charged and will appear in court before Wakefield Magistrates later this morning.”
Angus sat back with the look of a man stuffed full of Christmas Pudding.
The room erupted in a firestorm of questions and names.
The three men bit their tongues and broadened those grins.
I stared into Oldman’s black eyes.
“You think you’re the only cunt putting that together?”
Oldman’s eyes on mine.
“My senile bloody mother could.”
The Detective Chief Superintendent looked at his Chief Con stable and exchanged a nod and a wink.
Oldman raised his hands. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Yes, the man in custody is also being questioned about other similar offences. However, at the present time, that is all the information I’m able to give you. But, on behalf of the Chief Constable, Detective Superintendent Noble, and all the men who have been involved in this investigation, I would like to publicly thank Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas. They are outstanding officers, who have our heartfelt thanks.”
Again, the room was ablaze with names, dates, and questions.
Jeanette ‘69 and Susan ‘72, unanswered.
The three men and their grins stood up.
“Thank you, gents,” shouted Noble, holding the side door open for his superiors.
“Fuck off!” I shouted in my black suit, clean shirt, and grey bandages.
HANG THE BASTARD,
HANG THE BASTARD,
HANG THE BASTARD NOW.
Wood Street, Wakefield’s Trinity of Government: The Nick, the Court, and the Town Hall. Just gone nine and mob deep.
COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD!
Two thousand housewives and their unemployed sons. Gilman, Tom, and me, in the thick of the thick. Two thousand hoarse raw throats and their sons. A suedehead with his Mam, a Daily Mirror, and a home made noose. Proof enough.
COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD.
Ugly hands pulling, grabbing, and pushing us; This way and that way and that way and this. Suddenly pinched, getting my collar felt by the long arm of the law.
Sergeant Fraser to the rescue.
STRING HIM UP! STRING HIM UP! STRING THE BLOODY BASTARD UP.
Behind the marble walls and the thick oak doors of Wakefield Magistrates Court there lay a brief kind of calm, but not for me.
“I need to talk to you,” I whispered, spinning round and straightening my tie.
“Too fucking right,” hissed Eraser. “But not here and not now.”
The size tens tapped off down the corridor.
I pushed through the door into Court Number Two, packed tight and quiet.
Every seat taken, standing room only.
No families, only the gentlemen of the press.
Jack Whitehead down the front, leaning over the wooden railing, laughing with an usher.
I stared up at the stained-glass windows with their scenes of hills and sheep, mills and Jesus, the light outside so dull that the glass just reflected back the strips of electric lights that buzzed so loudly overhead.