transmission two in cleckheaton on Cumberland avenue attractive anita bird on monday the fifth of august nineteen seventy four day clive had hidden every pair of my shoes grabbed my head and plunged it into a bucket of cold water he was a mental man who had been advised to keep away from women for at least five years but he had bought me a colour television and we made up but e was frightened of him and feeling a bit tearful playing crying in the chapel as e brought in the sheets from outside and folded them in the kitchen the kitten missing so e went to look for it and out of shadows the darkness he steps well dressed he was and smelt of soap a good looking waiter Italian or greek he wanted to come in for a cup of tea his racing eyes and dainty hands and in a yorkshire way he says do you fancy it not on your life e say and then the hammer comes down one two three times and he pulls down her panties and he raises her blouse and slashes her stomach and wants to stab but then the light goes on and the man is asking what is going on who is out there who is making all that noise come on what is going on out there nothing to worry about you go back inside everything is all right now are you sure yes nothing to worry about but she will need a twelve hour operation to remove the splinters of brain from her skull the last rites to live behind wires and alarms alone with her cats and her pictures of christ and david soul and khalid aziz the three inch dents in her head and the hair she cuts herself crying in the chapel e am in my own world the curtains pulled in a housecoat with her cats walking in the middle of the road scared of the shadows and the men behind her when six months before the mystery man had come to the corner shop and left messages every day for a week would she go out with him for an evening for a few drinks and spot of supper and he drove her into bradford to a city centre restaurant and she cannot remember which but she knows all waitresses wore black long skirts and he was friendly in a yorkshire way and he knew all about her even though they had never met before and he said his name was michael gill or was it gull a doctor gull he lived with his grandmother who was old and ill and that he also had a cat they finished their meal and he drove her home to cleckheaton and no he would not come in for a coffee because he had to go home to put grandmother to bed and he did not even give her a kiss on the cheek and she never saw him again and six months later she lay in the street the blows from cuban heeled boots and the lacerations across her stomach the kind that west indian boyfriends like her clive inflict upon girlfriends who have been unfaithful do you fancy it not on your life and then the hammer comes down one two three times he pulls down her panties and he raises her blouse slashes her stomach and she is not anita now she is anna and she will never be anita again cos anita died that night on cobblestones and times e wish e had not had that operation e wish e had died with her on cobblestones for then e would have known nothing but the blackness and nothing more for if e had known what lay ahead for me e would have refused what they term a life saving operation for my life is not saved it is lost so e have had fifteen thousand pounds compensation no amount of money can give me back my anonymity can give me back my boyfriends no money can remove the stigma of the ripper can give me back my doctor gull or was it gill michael gill fifteen thousand pounds compensation to live behind wires and alarms with my cats and pictures of christ scared of the shadows and the men behind me alone do you fancy
Chapter 2
7:00 a.m.
Friday 12 December 1980.
Manchester Police Headquarters.
The eleventh floor.
The Assistant Chief Constable’s office -
My office.
I’ve got my suitcase by the door, the radio on:
Going through the tray on my desk, the Christmas cards.
I hear the door across the corridor open and close.
I put the last papers in their folders and go out into the corridor.
I stand before the door of the Chief Constable and knock.
‘Come.’
I open the door.
Chief Constable Clement Smith is behind his desk.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
He doesn’t look up.
I stand, waiting.
Eventually he says: ‘So you took it?’
‘Yes.’
The Chief Constable looks up; his close-cropped hair, full black beard and dark eyes giving Clement Smith one expression:
‘I’ve been asked to put together a team to assist me,’ I say.
Silence.
‘I’d like to take John Murphy and Alec McDonald, plus DI Hillman and DS Marshall from Serious Crime.’
‘Helen Marshall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know you can have up to three more?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you spoken to these people?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got a timetable in mind?’
‘With your permission, I’d like to get everyone together this morning.’
Silence.
‘I’ve got to be over in Wakefield for the afternoon press conference and I’d like to take John Murphy with me for that.’
Silence.
‘I’m due to meet Chief Constable Angus, George Oldman and Pete Noble, and then make a start.’
Silence.
‘If that’s OK with you?’
Eventually he says: ‘I’ve been instructed to give you whatever you need.’
‘Thank you.’
A pause, then: ‘I’ll have them meet in your office at ten.’
‘Thank you.’
Clement Smith nods and goes back to the work on his desk.
I walk to the door.
