He had the gun by the muzzle, raising it over his head. I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.
He brought the gun down upon my head:
“THIS IS THE NORTH. WE DO WHAT WE WANT!”
I fell backwards seeing Paula lying naked on the road, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.
Chapter 11
We were jumping into a river holding hands. The water was cold. I let go of her hand. I opened my eyes. It felt like a morning. I was lying at the side of a road in the rain and Paula was dead.
I sat up, my head splitting, my body numb.
A man was getting out of a car further up the road.
I looked out across empty brown fields and tried to stand.
The man came running towards me.
“I almost bloody killed you!”
“Where am I?”
“What the hell happened to you?”
A woman was standing by the passenger door of the car, looking down the road at us.
“I was in an accident. Where am I?”
“Doncaster Road. Do you want us to call an ambulance or something?”
“No.”
“The police?”
“No.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“Could you give me a lift?”
The man looked back at the woman standing by the car. “Where to?”
“Do you know the Redbeck Cafe, on the way into Wakefield?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking from me to the car and back again. “OK.”
“Thanks.”
We walked slowly back down the road to the car.
I got in the back.
The woman was sitting in the front, looking straight ahead. She had blonde hair the same shade as Paula’s, only longer.
“He’s been in an accident. We’re going to drop him down the road,” said the man to the woman, starting the engine.
The clock in the front said six.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What day is it?”
“Monday,” said the woman, not turning round.
I stared out at the empty brown fields.
Monday 23 December 1974.
“So tomorrow’s Christmas Eve then?”
“Yes,” she said.
The man was looking at me in his rearview mirror.
I turned back to the empty brown fields.
“This OK?” asked the man, pulling over by the Redbeck.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“You sure you don’t want a doctor or anything?”
“I’m sure, thanks,” I said, getting out.
“Bye then,” said the man.
“Bye and thanks very much,” I said, shutting the door.
The woman was still looking straight ahead as they drove away.
I walked across the car park, through the holes filled with muddy rain water and lorry oil, round the back to the motel rooms.
The door to Room 27 was open a crack.
I stood before the door listening.
Silence.
I pushed open the door.
Sergeant Fraser, in uniform, was asleep on a blanket of papers and folders, tapes and photographs.
I closed the door.
He opened his eyes, looked up, then stood up.
“Fuck,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Yeah.”
He stared at me.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
He went over to the sink and began to run some water.
“You’d better sit down,” he said, leaving the sink to tip over the base of the bed.
I walked across the papers and the files, the photos and the maps, and sat down on the bare base of the bed.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m going to be suspended.”
“What the fuck did you do?”
“Know you.”
“So?”
“So I don’t want to be suspended.”
I could hear the rain coming down hard outside, lorries reversing and parking, their drivers running for cover.
“How did you find this place?”
“I’m a policeman.”
“Really?” I said, holding my head.
“Yeah, really,” said Sergeant Fraser, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
“Have you been here before?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” I said.
Fraser soaked the only towel in the sink, wrung it out, and tossed it across to me.
I put it to my face, ran it through my hair.
It came away the colour of rust.
“I didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Fraser picked up a grey bedsheet and began tearing off strips.
“Why’d they let me go?”
“I don’t know.”
The room was going black, Fraser’s shirt grey.
I stood up.
“Sit down.”
“It was Foster, wasn’t it?”
“Sit down.”
“It was Don Foster, I fucking know it.”
“Eddie…”
“They fucking know it, don’t they?”
“Why Foster?”
I picked up a fistful of foolscap. “Because he’s the link in all this shit.”
“You think Foster killed Clare Kemplay?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Bollocks. And Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?”
“Yeah.”
“And Mandy Wymer and Paula Garland?”
“Yeah.”
“So why stop there? What about Sandra Rivett? Maybe it wasn’t Lucan after all, maybe it was Don Foster. And what about the bomb in Birmingham?”
“Fuck off. She’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“No but why? Why Don Foster? You haven’t given me a single fucking reason.”
I sat back down on the bed with my head in my hands, the room black, nothing making sense.
Fraser handed me two strips of grey bedsheet.
I wrapped the strips around my right hand and pulled tight.
“They were lovers.”
“So?”
“I have to see him,” I said.
“You’re going to accuse him?”
“There are things I need to ask him. Things only he knows.”
Fraser picked up his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”
“You’ll be suspended.”
“I told you, I’m going to be suspended anyway.”
“Just give me the keys.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re all I’ve got.”
“Then you’re fucked.”
“Yeah. So let’s leave it at me.”
He looked like he was going to puke, but tossed me his keys.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I went over to the sink and rinsed the old blood off my face.
“Did you see BJ?” I asked.
“No.”
“You didn’t go to the flat?”
“I went to the flat.”
“And?”
“And he’s either done a runner or been nicked. Fuck knows which.”
I heard dogs barking and men screaming.
“I should phone my mother,” I said.
Sergeant Eraser looked up. “What?”
I was standing at the door, his keys in my hand. “Which one is it?”
“The yellow Maxi,” he said.
I opened the door. “Bye then.”
“Bye.”
“Thanks,” I said, like I’d never see him ever again.
I closed the door to Room 27 and walked across the car park to his dirty yellow Maxi, parked between two Findus lorries.
I pulled out of the Redbeck and switched on the radio: the IRA had blown up Harrods, Mr Heath had missed a bomb by minutes, Aston Martin was going bust, Lucan had been spotted in Rhodesia, and there was a new Mastermind.
It was going up to eight as I parked beside the high walls of Trinity View.
I got out of the car and walked up to the gates.
They were open, the white lights on the tree still on.
I looked up the drive, across the lawn.
“Fuck!” I shouted aloud, running up the drive.
Halfway up, a Rover had hit the back of a Jaguar.
I cut across the grass, slipping in the cold dew.
Mrs Foster, in a fur coat, was bent over something on the lawn by the front door.
She was screaming.
I made a grab for her, my arms around her.
She lashed out in every direction with every available limb as I tried to push her back, back towards the house, back from whatever was on the lawn.