A low whistle from Alec McDonald.
‘It’ll be a long list, aye Alec,’ I say. ‘And I’m not finished; plus I want descriptions of all suspects, descriptions of all cars sighted or investigated, alphabetically by make, year, and colour. Finally the names of all policemen involved in the case, alphabetically.’
‘Policemen?’ repeats Hillman.
‘Yes. No matter how minor their role.’
Silence -
‘OK?’
Silence -
‘Mike 1974 and 75, including Clare Strachan.’
A nod.
‘Helen, 76.’ Another nod.
‘John, you got the short straw: 77.’
‘Liz McQueen?’
‘Amongst others.’
Alec McDonald sighs: ‘78 and 79?’
‘No, that’d give you five,’ I say. ‘Just 78. I’ll take 79 and this last one.’
Notebooks open, already writing.
Me: ‘OK, listen -’
Another pause, another beat, before I say: ‘His name, the Ripper’s name, it’s in those files. They’ve met him.’
Helen Marshall says quietly: ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked for the names of any person who has been arrested in connection with any crime involving prostitutes, again no matter how minor or insignificant. Because he’s known.’
‘George Oldman did say if he met the Ripper he’d know him instantly,’ says Mike Hillman.
I close my eyes, hands together -
‘Let me add that you’re to list everyone irrespective of blood type or accent. Especially accent.’
‘So we’re not looking for a Geordie then?’ grins Alec McDonald.
‘No.’
A last pause, then -
‘We’re looking for the Yorkshire Ripper.’
One final beat -
‘And we’re going to find him.’
Back upstairs, on the edge of the hotel bed, dialing Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter.’
Hold.
Murphy’s leaning against a cheap chipped dressing table, snow falling on the roof of Leeds City Station, the windows rattling with the trains and the traffic, the wind and the draughts.
‘You realise how many bloody names we’re going to get?’
I start to speak, but put my hand up, listening -
‘The Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’
I say: ‘You tell him it’s urgent.’
‘I’ve been told to hold all calls.’
It’s an emergency.’
‘But -’
‘I am Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter of the Greater Manchester Police Force and I’m ordering you to put me through.’
Hold.
‘Fucking hell,’ mutters Murphy.
I take a deep breath.
‘Peter Noble speaking.’
‘Peter? Peter Hunter here. Sorry to disturb your meeting.’
‘Yes?’
‘The office? Is it available? What’s happening?’
‘What?’
‘The Chief Constable said last night that an office on the same floor as the Murder Room would be made available for the use of me and my team, yeah?’
‘And you want it now? This minute?’
‘Please.’
Silence -
I look up from the grey carpet.
Murphy’s shaking his head.
Noble asks: ‘Where are you?’
‘The Griffin.’
‘It’s nine -’
‘Half past.’
‘Whatever. An office will be ready by one.’
‘That’s the earliest -’
‘The earliest.’
‘OK if we come over now and start getting copies of the files we need?’
Another silence -
Noble: ‘No-one’s explained the system then?’
‘What system?’
‘Well, we obviously can’t just let you take stuff willy-nilly.’
‘Of course -’
‘Not a bloody library.’
‘Of course not. We’re going to need to log -’
‘Actually, no. Well, yes; you’re going to have to log it, that’s right. But you’re also going to have to request the files first.’
‘OK. We’d like to request access to copy all the case files pertaining to the Ripper Investigation.’
‘Look -’
‘Everything.’
‘Look -’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Look, that’s not going to happen.’
‘What do you mean?’
Another silence, longer -
‘You better come over. I’ll call the Chief Constable.’
‘Fine.’
‘Ten o’clock?’
‘Ten it is.’
I hang up.
Murphy’s looking at the dirty snow, watching a train pull out of the station -
‘That’d be the Manchester train,’ he says. ‘Train home.’
Step inside -
Noble and I are sat in silence, waiting for Angus.
I’m facing the window and the snow, my back to the door, massaging my temple.
