‘Peter Williams, the Yorkshire Ripper, will again appear at Newport Magistrates’ Court on the Isle of Wight to give evidence against James Abbott, a fellow prisoner who is accused of wounding Williams with a piece of glass at Parkhurst Prison on January 10 this year; an attack that left Williams badly scarred and requiring surgery.
‘Williams, dressed in a grey suit, open-necked shirt with gold cross and chain, was booed upon his appearance in court. The defence first asked him if he was not a rather unpopular person, to which Williams replied that this was an opinion based upon ignorance. Williams was also asked whether he realised that his story was worth a lot of money to the press. Williams said that this was the trouble with society today, that people were motivated by greed and that there were no moral values at all.
‘Earlier Williams admitted that he continues to receive advice from the voices in his head. The trial of Mr Abbott continues.’
I switched off the radio. I took off my glasses.
I was sat in the chair in tears again;
In tears -
Knowing there was salvation in no-one else -
No other name here under heaven.
In tears -
Thursday 19 May 1983:
Day 8.
I drove out of Wakefield and into Castleford, black light becoming grey mist over Heath Common, the ponies standing chained and still, the roads empty but for lorries and their lights.
I parked behind a pub called the Swan. I walked into the centre of Castleford.
On the high street a bald newsagent was fetching in two bundles of papers from the pavement.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Morning,’ he said, his face red.
‘You know where Ted Jenkins had his studio?’ I asked. ‘Photographers?’
He stood upright: ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’
I showed him my warrant card.
He shrugged: ‘Was up road on right, not there now though.’
‘Since when was that then?’
Another shrug: ‘Since it burned down – seven, maybe even ten years ago now.’
‘So I’m actually a bit late then, aren’t I?’
He smiled.
‘Can I have one of them?’ I said, pointing down at a Yorkshire Post and Hazel.
He nodded and took out a small pocket-knife. He cut the string that bound the papers together.
I handed him the money but he refused it: ‘Go on, you’re all right.’
‘Which one was it then?’ I asked him. ‘His studio?’
He peered up the road: ‘Where that Chinkie is.’
‘Knew Ted well, did you?’
He shook his head: ‘Just to say how do, like.’
‘Never turned up, did he?’ I said, looking up the road.
He sighed: ‘Long time ago now.’
‘After fire?’ I said. ‘No-one ever heard of him after that?’
Another shake of the head: ‘Thought your mob reckoned he did a bloody Lord Lucan on us?’
I nodded: ‘Long time ago.’
‘Here,’ he winked. ‘I’ll tell you who else worked there -’
‘Thanks for the paper,’ I nodded again and started walking away -
‘Michael bloody Myshkin,’ he shouted after me. ‘Pervert who did all them little lasses.’
I kept walking, walking away, crossing by a shoe shop -
‘Should have hung him, evil little bastard…’
Long time ago.
I came to the Lotus Chinese Restaurant & Take Away. I peered in over the menu in the window, white tablecloths and red napkins, the chairs and the tables, all stood there in silence and shadow -
A long time ago.
Across the road was another empty shop, just a name and a big weatherbeaten sign declaring that the property was to be redeveloped by Foster’s Construction, builders of the new Ridings Shopping Centre, Wakefield:
Shopping centres -
Such a long time ago -
Fucking shopping centres -
Such a long, long time ago -
But the lies survived, those accepted little fictions we called history -
History and lies -
They survived us all.
Morley Police Station -
The Incident Room:
Alderman, Prentice, Gaskins, and Evans.
We were looking at a photograph and a poster -
One big word in red:
MISSING -
Above a picture of a ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, carrying a black drawstring gym bag.
I said: ‘What happened to the H embroidered on the bag?’
‘It was difficult -’ began Evans with the excuses.
I put up my hand to stop him. I held up the poster. ‘Just tell me these’ll be back from the printers by this afternoon?’
Evans was nodding: ‘They’ll be here for two.’
‘Good,’ I sighed. ‘What about the school? You spoke with the Head, they know what they’re doing?’
Evans still nodding: ‘I said we’d be there from three.’
‘Calendar and Look North?’
‘Yep, but Calendar can only go with the photos at six; say they’ll use the film after the News at Ten. Timing’s not good.’
‘Not going to be National then?’
Evans shook his head: ‘Not at this stage, no.’
I turned to Gaskins: ‘How many uniforms we got?’
‘Hundred and fifty with roadblocks set up at both ends of Victoria Road and one at the top of Rooms Lane, another on Church Street.’
I looked up at the map of Morley pinned to the board beside her photograph: ‘Where are the ones on Victoria Road?’
Gaskins stood and pointed at the map: ‘One here at the junction with Springfield Road, other up here before King George Avenue.’
‘They know what to do?’
‘Drivers’ licences and registrations,’ he nodded. ‘Show them the picture, spot of where were you last Thursday, and let them on their way.’
I turned to Prentice: ‘Jim, you got me the unmarked cars?’
‘Where you want them, Boss?’
My turn to stand and point and say: ‘Junction with Asquith Avenue, here. Another up by this farm, here. Get one for centre as well, here by Chapel Hill.’
‘Right,’ he said.
‘I want numbers,’ I told him. ‘Any vehicle stopping or reversing or changing direction when they see the roadblocks, take down their plate and call it through.’
Dick: ‘You think he’ll show.’
I nodded.
‘Who?’ asked Evans.
I picked up a piece of chalk. I turned to the board. I wrote up two names:
Jenkins and Ashworth.
Jim pointed at the first name: ‘I thought he were dead?’
‘Either of these names show,’ I said. ‘You detain them and call me. Immediately.’
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, all good children go to heaven -
‘Fuck is this?’ I said to Dick Alderman as we parked outside Morley Grange Junior and Infants, the playground full of children and parents, TV camera crews and journalists, their vans and their cars -
Reconstruction time.
‘Evans,’ I was shouting as I crossed the road, adjusting my glasses and looking at my watch. ‘Evans!’
He was coming towards me, arms full of papers and files: ‘Sir?’
‘Get these fucking vans and cars out of here!’ I yelled. ‘Fucking circus.’