‘Peter,’ he says.
I turn around.
‘You made up your mind pretty quickly?’
‘Not something I felt I could refuse.’
‘You could have,’ he says. ‘I would have.’
‘I think it’s an honour, sir. An honour for the Manchester force.’
He goes back to the work on his desk again.
I open the door.
‘Peter,’ he says again.
I turn around.
‘Let’s hope so,’ he says. ‘Let’s hope so.’
10:00 a.m.
My office.
Detective Chief Superintendent John Murphy: Manchester-Irish, mother knew mine, early fifties, over twenty years’ CID experience, a couple of tours with me in A10, direct involvement in the so-called Ripper Hunt having been in charge of the 1977 Elizabeth McQueen investigation.
Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald: Scots, Glasgow-bred, late forties, five years with Vice, five years Serious Crime, direct involvement with the Ripper through the 1978 Doreen Pickles investigation.
Detective Inspector Mike Hillman: mid thirties, five years A10 with me, extensive anti-corruption work, now Serious Crime.
Detective Helen Marshall: early thirties, ten years Vice and Drug Squads, now Serious Crime.
The best we have -
Their eight bright and shining eyes on me:
‘Thank you all for coming and at such short notice.’
Nods and smiles -
‘I’ll get straight to it: I’ve been asked by the Home Office to head an investigation into the murders and assaults on women in the North of England publicly referred to as the work of the Yorkshire Ripper. Murders that as of yesterday now total thirteen.’
No nods, no smiles -
‘The brief of the investigation is to review and to highlight areas of concern, to advise alternative strategies, and to pursue and arrest the man responsible.’
Eight eyes on me -
‘I’ve asked you here this morning as I would like each one of you to be a part of this investigation. However, it is going to mean that you will be seconded from your present duties, that you will be over in Yorkshire a hell of a lot, that you will be away from your families, working twenty-four-hour days, seven-day weeks, limited time off.’
No nods, no smiles, just stares -
‘You know the demands and I would not wish to presume upon any of you. But I have worked with each of you and I believe you are the best people for this job.’
Hard stares -
‘So, if you cannot commit, say so now.’
Silence, then -
John Murphy: ‘I’m in.’
‘Thank you, John.’
Alec McDonald: ‘In.’
‘Thank you.’
Mike Hillman: ‘I hate bloody Yorkshire, but go on then.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
Helen Marshall: ‘I’ll have to get someone to feed the dog, I suppose.’
‘Thank you.’
I sit back down in my chair: ‘Thank you, all of you. I knew I could count on you.’
Smiles again, the stares gone.
‘In a bit, John and myself will get over to Wakefield for their afternoon press conference. Everyone else should take the opportunity to hand over their present duties. Chief Constable Smith’s office will issue all the necessary authorisation later this morning.
‘After the press conference, I have got a meeting scheduled with Chief Constable Angus and Assistant Chief Constable Oldman. John’ll secure the offices and arrange hotels for us. But let’s provisionally agree to meet in Leeds tomorrow morning at nine, location to be confirmed later today?’
Nods.
‘Questions?’
Mike Hillman: ‘They know we’re coming?’
‘Brass, yes; but not their lads or the press and we should keep it that way.’
Nods again.
Alec McDonald: ‘You want us to start boxing up our files on McQueen and Pickles?’
‘Not straight off. Let’s see what they’ve got over there first.’
A nod.
Silence, then -
I say: ‘OK? Until tomorrow.’
We all stand up.
‘And thanks again,’ I say, eight bright eyes shining back.
The best -
Over the Moors again, between the articulated lorries, stark and empty, snow across their cold, lost bones -
John Murphy and myself, the memories neither cold nor lost -
The football exhausted, my hands tight on the wheel, eyes on the road, silent.
After a few minutes I put the radio on, listeners phoning Jimmy Young about the death of John Lennon, about the hostages in Iran and the Third World War, about a factory in Germany that needs no people, just machines, and about the Yorkshire Ripper, mainly about the Yorkshire Ripper:
Murder and lies, war:
Murder and lies, lies and murder.
Murphy says: ‘When were you last over this way?’
‘Yesterday’
‘No, I mean with A10?’
‘Should have been Bradford Vice, 1977. Remember all that?’
He nods: ‘All set to come right? Interviews, the lot, then -’
‘Case closed.’
‘Muddy waters, eh Pete?’
‘You could stand your truncheon in it, John.’
He sniffs up: ‘Before that would have been the Strafford then?’
‘Yep.’
‘Fuck,’ whistles Murphy. ‘Bloody Yorkshire.’
