‘What’s wrong?’
‘Leave it, Bob.’
‘Tell me.’
She’s swallowing, trying to stop the sobs.
I’m on the toilet floor, holding up her chin, asking, ‘What happened?’
In the backs of expensive motors, leather gloves gripping the back of her neck, cocks up her arse, bottles up her cunt…
‘Tell me!’
She’s shaking.
I hold her, kissing her tears.
‘Please…’
She stands up, pushing me off, over to the mirror, wiping her face, ‘Fuck it.’
‘Janice, I need to know…’
She turns square, hands on her hips: ‘All right. They picked me up…’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you fucking think?’
‘Vice?’
‘Yeah, Vice.’
‘Who?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘You saw their warrant cards?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake Bob.’
‘You told them to call Eric?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘And Eric told them to call you.’
There are ropes around my chest, thick heavy ropes, getting tighter with every second, every sentence.
‘What did they say?’
‘They laughed and called the station. Called your house.’
‘My house?’
‘Yes, your house.’
‘And then what?’
‘They couldn’t find you, Bob. You weren’t there.’
‘So what…’
‘You weren’t there, Bob?’
The ropes burning my chest, breaking my ribs.
‘Janice…’
‘You want to know what happened then? You want to know what they did next?’
‘Janice…’
‘They fucked me.’
Bile in my mouth, my eyes closed.
She’s screaming: ‘Look at me!’
I lift the lid and cough, her behind me.
‘Look at me!’
I turn around and there she is:
Naked and bitten, red streaks across her breasts, across her arse.
‘Who?’
‘Who what?’
‘Who was it?’
She slips down the wall and on to the bathroom floor, sobbing.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Four of them.’
‘Uniforms?’
‘No.’
‘Where?’
‘A van.’
‘Where?’
‘Manningham.’
‘Fuck you doing in Bradford?’
‘You said it wasn’t safe round here.’
I’ve got her in my arms, cradling her, rocking her, kissing her.
‘You want a doctor?’
She shakes her head and then looks up. ‘They took photos.’
Fuck, Craven.
‘One of them have a beard, a limp?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
She looks away and swallows.
There’s bright sunlight on the window, creeping across the toilet mat, getting nearer.
‘They’re dead,’ I hiss. ‘All of them.’
And then suddenly there are car doors slamming outside, boots on the stairs, banging on the doors, banging on our door.
I’m out in the room, ‘Who is it?’
‘Fraser?’
I open the door and there’s Rudkin, Ellis behind him.
Rudkin: ‘Fuck you doing here? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Visions of Bobby, broken eggs and red blood on white baby cheeks, cars braking too late.
Too late.
‘What’s wrong? What is it?’
But Rudkin’s staring past me into the bathroom, at Janice on the floor:
Naked and bitten, red streaks across her breasts, across her arse.
Ellis has his mouth open, tongue out.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s been another.’
I turn and close the door in their faces.
In the bathroom I say, ‘I’ve got to go.’
She says nothing.
‘Janice?’
Nothing.
‘Love, I’ve got to go.’
Nothing.
I take a blanket off the bed and bring it into the bathroom and put it over her.
I bend down and kiss her forehead.
And then I go back to the door and when I open it they’re still stood there, peering past me.
I close the door and push between them, down the stairs and into the car.
I sit in the back, heavy duty sunlight in my face.
Rudkin drives.
Ellis keeps turning round, grinning, desperate to start up but this is Rudkin’s car and he’s in the driving seat and he’s saying nowt.
So I look out at Chapeltown, the trees and the sky, the shops and the people, and feel dull.
If it’s him, it feels different.
Blank, my mind blank:
The trees are green, not black.
The sky blue, not blood.
The shops open, not gutted.
The people on the streets living, not dead.
Noon in a different world.
And then I think of Janice:
The trees black.
The sky blood.
The shops gone.
The people dead.
And we’re back:
Millgarth, Leeds.
Saturday 4 June 1977.
Noon.
The gang’s all here:
Oldman, Noble, Alderman, Prentice, Gaskins, Evans, and all their squads.
And Craven.
I catch his eye.
He smiles, then winks.
I could kill him now, here, in the briefing room, before lunch.
He leans over to Alderman and whispers something, patting his breast pocket, and they both laugh.
Three seconds later Alderman looks at me.
I stare back.
He looks away, a slight smile.
Fuck.
They’re all whispering, I’m losing it:
Wasteground, a long black velvet dress on wasteground.
Oldman starts up:
‘At a quarter to seven this morning a paper boy heard cries for help coming from wasteland beside the Sikh temple on Bowling Back Lane in the Bowling area of Bradford. He discovered Linda Clark, aged thirty-six, lying seriously injured with a fractured skull and stab wounds to her abdomen and back. A preliminary investigation suggests that her head injuries were caused by hammer blows. She was rushed to hospital and is now in Pinderfields Hospital, Wakefield, under twenty-four-hour guard. Despite the seriousness of her injuries, Mrs Clark has been able to give us some information. Pete.’
She’s on her stomach on the wasteground, her bra up and her panties down, his trousers too.
Noble stands:
‘Mrs Clark spent Friday night at the Mecca in the centre of Bradford. Upon leaving the Mecca, Mrs Clark went to queue for a taxi to her home in Bierley. Because the queue was too long, Mrs Clark decided to start walking and flag down a taxi on the way. At some point later, a car pulled up and offered Mrs Clark a lift, which she accepted.’
Noble pauses, shades of George.
He comes in his hand and then he cuts her.
‘Gentlemen, we’re looking for a Ford Cortina Mark II saloon, white or yellow, with a black roof.’
We’re on our feet, practically out the door.
A triangle of skin, of flesh.
‘Driver is white, approximately thirty-five, large build, about six foot, with light brown shoulder-length hair, thick eyebrows and puffed cheeks. With very large hands.’
For later.
The whole room is on fire:
WE’VE GOT HIM, WE’VE FUCKING GOT HIM.
I look at Rudkin, on the edge, impassive, miles, years away.
But it’s not the same.
Alderman is saying, ‘SOCO are checking tyre-marks as we speak, Bradford going door-to-door.’
The knock on the door, the thousand knocks on a thousand doors, a thousand wives with sideways eyes at husbands white as sheets, a thousand sheets.
Noble again: ‘Forensics will be back within the hour, but Farley’s already saying this is our man. Our Ripper,’ he says, spitting the last words out.