‘I need to see you.’
‘I told you not to ring me here.’
‘So where am I supposed to call you? At work?’
‘I made a mistake, I -’
‘Please, I need to -’
I hang up. I go to the bathroom. I wash my hands -
Wash them and wash them and wash them -
Thanking Christ the wife is out, the kids at school.
Thursday 23 March 1972 -
Brotherton House, Westgate, Leeds:
Downstairs in my office, the door locked -
Cigs out and a pile of newspapers:
Front pages full of the Belfast Station bomb and the Heath-Faulkner talks -
Inside pages the biggest ever Littlewoods Pools win, Jimmy fucking Savile with his bloody OBE -
Then there she is -
Susan Search Widens – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
That same photograph for the past two days:
A long fringe and big teeth.
72 hours coming up -
Missing.
I light another cigarette. I pick up the phone: ‘News desk, please.’
I wait. I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, please.’
I wait. I hear: ‘Jack Whitehead speaking?’
‘Jack?’ I say. ‘Maurice Jobson.’
‘Maurice? And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Got something good for your Uncle Jack, have you?’
‘I was hoping you might have something for me.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
I look at my watch. I ask him: ‘What you doing for lunch?’
‘What I usually do for lunch.’
‘Press Club?’
‘I’m banned.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I can’t fucking remember. That’s the problem.’
‘Where they taking your money these days then?’
‘Taking my money? I’m not fucking paying to drink with you.’
‘There’s no such thing as a free pint, Jack. You should know that.’
I hear him light a cigarette. Exhale. He says: ‘Duck and Drake?’
‘Duck and fucking Drake? Jesus, Jack.’
‘You ought to drink in there more often, Maurice,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t need to keep crawling back to me then, would you.’
‘Twelve?’
‘Don’t be late.’
On my way out, I stop and ask Wilson on the front desk if he’s seen Bill today -
‘Off, isn’t he?’ says Wilson.
‘Yeah? Must be a first.’
‘The wedding on Saturday, isn’t it?’
‘Fuck, yeah.’
‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten, not way he’s been going on.’
‘You’re off then?’
Wilson smiles: ‘Must have invited whole bloody force and then some.’
‘That’s the Badger,’ I agree, walking off.
‘Going to miss him when he’s gone.’
I stop. I turn back: ‘You what?’
Sergeant Wilson and his boils are a deep and crimson red: ‘Just a rumour.’
‘Is that right,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’
Duck and Drake, back of the bus station, down the side of the Kirkgate market:
Not a nice pub; even when it’s pissing it down on a black Thursday in March.
I’m five minutes late -
Jack’s on his second pint and whiskey.
I take off my coat. I say: ‘Same again?’
‘You’re a gentleman,’ he nods.
I go over to the bar.
The big bloke behind the bar looks over at Jack then back at me: ‘You feller he says is going to pay for his drinks?’
I nod: ‘Same again for him and a Guinness for me.’
‘That’s a fucking Mick drink,’ says a long-haired cunt -
A long-haired cunt with his back to me at the bar -
His mate grinning over the cunt’s shoulder at me.
‘You what?’ I say to the back of the cunt’s head.
‘You heard,’ says the cunt -
The cunt still with his back to me, nodding to his mate -
But his mate’s not grinning now.
The long-haired cunt slowly turns around. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, the hair out of his eyes.
The barman puts the Guinness on the counter.
‘Drink it,’ I tell the long-haired cunt.
‘What?’
‘You heard,’ I say. ‘Drink it.’
‘Fuck off,’ the cunt says, straightening up.
I take my warrant card out of my inside pocket. I put it down next to the pint of Guinness.
The long-haired cunt stands there blinking at the card on the bar next to the pint.
‘Drink it,’ I hiss.
The cunt glances at his mate and at the barman. He picks up the Guinness and drinks it down in one. He puts the glass back on the bar next to the card. He wipes his lips on his sleeve. He says with a smile: ‘Ta very much, officer.’
‘Now pay for it,’ I say. ‘And don’t ever call anyone a Mick who isn’t, you dirty little gyppo cunt.’
The dirty little gyppo cunt looks at his mate and the barman again. He shrugs his shoulders. He takes out a pound note from his jeans. He hands it across the counter to the barman.
‘And these,’ I say, nodding at the whiskey and Tetleys on the counter -
The barman already pulling me a fresh Guinness.
‘What?’
‘You heard,’ I say.
‘You can’t fucking do that,’ says the cunt.
I pick up my warrant card and the tray of drinks. I say: ‘I just did.’
‘Fucking hell…’ the cunt starts to say before his mate touches his arm -
‘Leave it, Donny,’ says the cunt’s friend. ‘Not worth it.’
‘Wise man,’ I say.
‘Fuck off.’
I walk across the room to where Jack’s sat waiting -
‘Making friends with the locals,’ he winks.
I put the drinks down: ‘How’s the wife, Jack?’
‘Ex-wife,’ he smiles. ‘Remarried and living with a builder’s mate in sunny Ossett. And yours?’
‘My what?’
‘Wife? Family?’
‘Who the fuck knows.’
Jack raises his glass: ‘Ain’t that the truth, Maurice.’
‘Now there’s a funny thing,’ I nod, raising my glass. ‘The truth?’
‘What about it?’ laughs Jack.
‘Well I was rather hoping you could give me some?’
‘Give you some what? Some truth? Shouldn’t it be other way round, officer?’
‘In a perfect world,’ I smile.
Jack offers me a cig.
I lean across. I take it with a light -
‘Fucking pig bastard!’ comes a shout from the door -
‘Wanker!’ yells another -
I turn around to raise my glass but the cunt and his mate are already gone.
‘Perfect world, eh?’ says Jack.
I shake my head: ‘What’d one of them look like, I wonder?’
Jack stubs out his cig: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’
I sit forward. I say: ‘Susan Louise Ridyard.’
‘What about her?’ shrugs Jack.
‘Been reading your pieces.’
‘Rehashes from the Manchester Evening News, mate.’
‘You not been over there?’
‘Rochdale? Nah, why?’
‘George Oldman has.’
‘And your boss,’ nods Jack.
‘You don’t think this has all got a bit of a familiar ring to it then?’
Jack sits back in his chair. He shakes his head. He takes out another cigarette. He says: ‘Not you and all?’
‘What? Someone else talked to you about this?’
‘Yeah,’ he nods.
‘Who?’
‘Your girlfriend.’
‘What you mean, my girlfriend?’
‘Mystic Mandy.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Come on, Maurice,’ he winks again. ‘Everyone fucking knows.’
‘Fucking knows what?’
‘That you’ve been having your fucking cards read a fair bit, what you think people fucking know?’