Chapter 3
There were people on the TV singing hymns -
People on the TV singing hymns with no face -
People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -
And when I switched off the TV, when I pulled back the curtain, everything outside was white and without feature, except for the parked cars and the ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.
I’m awake, sweating and afraid -
The word shreds on my lips thinking, what face or no-face does he see?
I reach out for Joan but she’s not there -
I’m alone in cold hotel sheets, the radio on:
Dirty protests, hunger strikes, three London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman, Helen Smith…
I turn over and reach for my watch on the bedside table:
It’s 5:10 -
Saturday 13 December 1980.
It’s still dark and freezing outside, the rain gone -
Just the Ice Age.
I walk up the precinct beside the Bond Street Centre.
I buy a Yorkshire Post and go back to the Griffin.
I sit in the dining room, the first guest, and order breakfast.
The smell of paint, the synthesizer rendition of Hoist’s The Planets and the hiss of the speakers, the bad dreams -
I’ve a headache.
It gets worse:
I open the Yorkshire Post, read their reports of the Ripper, of yesterday’s press conference -
I read my name.
The porridge comes and goes and I’m staring at a cold mixed grill, the terrible colours running together, wishing I was back home with Joan.
‘Just what the doctor ordered, that,’ says John Murphy, sitting down.
‘Big night?’
‘Ah, you know; building bridges, that kind of thing. And yourself?’
‘Dinner with Angus and Noble.’
‘No George?’
‘No George.’
‘And?’
‘Not much; just defined the terms of our investigation for us.’
‘What?’
I hand him the letter: ‘Did you call the others?’
He nods, eyes on the piece of paper before him: ‘Meeting us here at half eight.’
‘Good.’
‘What is this bollocks?’ he says, finished reading.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to make some calls.’
Murphy’s breakfast arrives and he sets about it.
I order a fresh pot of tea.
‘How was Dickie Alderman?’
‘Friendly enough. You know him?’
‘Not really; just the face. Learn anything?’
‘Morale’s shocking. George going’s about the last straw for most of them. We’re not going to help.’
‘That why they put us here?’ I say, watching the workmen arrive.
Murphy smiles: ‘Yorkshire hospitality.’
‘Bastards, eh?’
I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and dial Whitby:
‘Philip Evans speaking.’
‘This is Peter Hunter.’
‘Pete? How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Settled in?’
‘We’ve got an office and the hotel’s sorted.’
‘Saw the press conference. Looked rough?’
‘It was.’
‘How are they treating you?’
‘Not bad, but I am calling about Chief Constable Angus.’
‘I see.’
‘I was wondering if you’re aware of a letter he’s given me in which he’s basically outlined the terms of reference for our investigation?’
‘I see.’
‘Have you seen it?’
There’s a pause, then Evans says something I can’t catch -
I say: ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’
‘Can you forward the letter to me? And I think it’d be wise if you did the same with any future correspondence pertinent to the Inquiry.’
‘No problem. Is Sir John aware of the letter?’
‘I couldn’t say. He’s on holiday until the New Year.’
‘Yes, someone said. Should I contact Donald Lincoln?’
‘No, I’ll do that.’
‘So I should just ignore the letter?’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort everything out.’
‘I’m a bit concerned that…’
‘Don’t be. Leave the politics to me and just concentrate on the investigation. Any hint of obstruction on Yorkshire’s part, pick up the phone and I’ll put a stop to it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Keep in touch, Pete.’
‘I will.’
‘And remember, it was never going to be a picnic’
‘Goodbye.’
I hang up and dial Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Peter Hunter.’
Hold.
‘I’m afraid the Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’
‘But I’m -’
The dial tone.
In the lobby of the Griffin, in between the white sheets and the splattered ladders, they’re waiting:
Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald.
Detective Inspector Mike Hillman.
Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.
‘Good morning.’
Nods and greetings, twitching and blinking.
I sit down next to John Murphy, the five of us round a low marble-topped table, a plastic bag keeping the paint off.
‘Sorry about this,’ I begin. ‘We have been promised an office in Millgarth, but it’s yet to be set up. I thought we might as well make a start here.’
‘Better than bloody Millgarth,’ laughs Mike Hillman, an eye to the dйcor.