‘Of course,’ nods Philip Evans. ‘And this is Michael Warren, from the Home Office.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking the thin man’s hand.
Evans points to a big chair with wide arms: ‘Sit down, Pete.’
There is a soft knock on the door and Mrs Evans brings in a tray, setting it down on the low table between us.
‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’
There’s a pause, just the wind and Mrs Evans talking to a dog as she retreats back into the kitchen.
Philip Evans says: ‘We’ve got a small problem.’
I stop stirring my coffee and look up.
‘As I mentioned on the phone, there’s been another murder. A nurse, twenty years old, outside her halls of residence. Leeds again.’
I nod: ‘It was on the radio.’
‘Couldn’t even give us a day,’ sighs Evans. ‘Well anyway, enough is enough.’
Michael Warren sits forward on the sofa and places a small portable cassette recorder beside the plastic tray on the coffee table.
‘Enough is enough,’ he echoes and presses play:
A long pause, tape hiss, and then:
‘I’m Jack. I see you are still having no luck catching me. I have the greatest respect for you George, but Lord! You are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when I started. I reckon your boys are letting you down, George. They can’t be much good can they?
‘The only time they came near catching me was a few months back in Chapeltown when I was disturbed. Even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective.
‘I warned you in March that I’d strike again. Sorry it wasn’t Bradford. I did promise that but I couldn’t get there. I’m not quite sure where I’ll strike again but it will be definitely some time this year, maybe September, October, even sooner if I get the chance. I am not sure where, maybe Manchester, I like it there, there’s plenty of them knocking about. They never learn do they George? I bet you’ve warned them, but they never listen.’
Thirteen seconds of hiss, then:
‘Take her in Preston, and I did, didn’t I George? Dirty cow. Come my load up that.
‘At the rate I’m going I should be in the book of records. I think it’s eleven up to now isn’t it? Well, I’ll keep on going for quite a while yet. I can’t see myself being nicked just yet. Even if you do get near I’ll probably top myself first. Well it’s been nice chatting to you George. Yours, Jack the Ripper.
‘No use looking for fingerprints. You should know by now it’s as clean as a whistle. See you soon. Bye.
‘Hope you like the catchy tune at the end. Ha. Ha.’
Reed leans forward and switches off the cassette just as Thank You for Being a Friend starts.
‘As you know that was June last year,’ says Warren. ‘What you won’t know is that Home Secretary Whitelaw immediately approved the use of the Police National Computer to back up covert surveillance operations of vehicles in the West Yorkshire area, to use birth and school registers to cross-reference these against all males born in Wearside since 1920. He also secretly approved the release of DHSS records to trace all males who have lived or worked in Wearside in the past fifty years. So far they’ve interviewed and eliminated 200,000 people, done over 30,000 house to house searches, taken over 25,000 statements, and spent the best part of four million pounds.’
‘And most of it on bloody publicity,’ says Sir John Reed.
‘Flush out the Ripper,’ whispers Philip Evans.
Sir John snorts: ‘Some bloody plan that was. 17,000 fucking suspects.’
‘Some bloody plan,’ repeats Michael Warren, putting in another cassette tape, pressing play again:
‘Every time the phone rings I wonder if it’s him. If I get up in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about him. I feel after all this time, I feel that I really know him.’
I look across at Reed, the grey skin and red eyes.
He’s shaking his head.
‘If we do get him, we’ll probably find he’s had too long on the left breast and not enough on the right. But I don’t regard him as evil. The voice is almost sad, a man fed up with what he’s done, fed up with himself. To me he’s like a bad angel on a mistaken journey and, while I could never condone his methods, I can sympathise with his feelings.’
Warren presses stop.
‘You know who that was?’
‘George Oldman?’ I say.
Philip Evans is nodding: ‘That was Assistant Chief Constable Oldman talking to the Yorkshire Post last week.’
Warren: ‘Thank Christ they called us.’
Silence.
On the dark stair, we miss our step.
Sir John Reed says: ‘Sixteen hours a day, six – sometimes seven – days a week.’
I shrug: ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.’
‘What do you know?’
‘About?’
‘About the whole bloody farce?’
‘Not much more than I’ve read in the papers.’
‘I think you’re being modest, Mr Hunter. I think you know a lot more,’ winks Reed.
I start to speak, but he raises his hand: ‘I think like most senior detectives in this country, I think you feel West Yorkshire have lost the plot, that the Ripper Tape is bollocks, that he’s laughing at us, the British Police, and that you’d like nothing more than to have a crack.’
I return his stare: ‘So is it bollocks? The tape?’
He smiles and turns to Philip Evans, nodding.
There’s a pause before Evans says: ‘There’ll be a press conference later today and Chief Constable Angus will tell them that Oldman’s out.’
I say nothing now, waiting.
‘Peter Noble’s been made Temporary Assistant Chief Constable with sole responsibility for the hunt.’
Again I say nothing, waiting.
Michael Warren coughs and leans forward: ‘Noble’s a good man.’
Nothing, just waiting.
‘But there are already calls for outside help, a fresh perspective etc., so Angus is also going to announce the formation of a brains trust, a Super Squad if you like, to advise Noble’s team,’ continues Warren.
Nothing, waiting.
‘This Super Squad will be Leonard Curtis, Deputy Chief Constable, Thames Valley; William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads; Commander Donald Lincoln, Sir John’s Deputy; Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Science Service; and yourself.’
Waiting.
Sir John Reed lights a cigarette, exhales and says: ‘So what do you think now?’
I swallow: ‘We are to advise?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
Michael Warren says: Two or three weeks.’
Reed is staring at the end of his cigarette.
I say: ‘May I speak frankly?’
‘Of course,’ says Philip Evans.
‘As a public relations exercise I think we might have some success in diffusing the undoubted criticism the Yorkshire force is going to face over the next week but, as for any practical use we might have, I think we’ll be distinctly limited.’
The whole room is smiling, grey skins and red eyes shining.
‘Bravo,’ claps Sir John Reed.
‘We called you here today,’ says Evans, handing me a thick red ringbinder. ‘Because we would like you to head up a covert Home Office inquiry into these murders, working tinder the guise of this Super Squad. You’ll be able to handpick up to seven officers to work with you; based in Leeds, you will be reporting only to myself here in Whitby. Your brief is to review the case in its entirety, to highlight areas of concern, should any arise, to determine strategies, to pursue all avenues.’
‘And to catch the cunt,’ spits Reed.
I wait, eyes on the prize.