1980

‘I proposed a number of changes to the Investigation and the Police Committee have accepted them.’

‘Your resignation?’ shouts someone from the back.

Angus feigns deafness: ‘We have invited a number of senior detectives from across Britain and a leading Home Office scientist to assist us in our hunt for this maniac.

‘These men are Mr Leonard Curtis, the Deputy Chief Constable of Thames Valley, who unfortunately could not be with us today…’

‘Bit like the fucking Ripper, eh Ron?’

‘Mr William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads. Commander Donald Lincoln, the Deputy Chief Inspector of Constabulary. Mr Peter Hunter, an Assistant Chief Constable with Greater Manchester, and Dr Stephen Tippet from the Home Office Forensic Science Services.

‘These gentlemen represent the most experienced group of officers who could be mustered to assist our investigations. They will conduct a thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper. They will look critically at police action and advise their West Yorkshire colleagues as to appropriate strategies.

‘Furthermore I would like to announce some internal operational changes which the Police Committee have also approved.

‘As of today Peter Noble has been appointed Temporary Assistant Chief Constable and been taken off all other duties and given sole responsibility for the hunt for this man.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Oldman will remain as head of West Yorkshire CID with responsibility for every incident except the inquiry into these murders and attacks.

‘It is my sincere hope that, with the continued assistance and support of the public, these changes will bring about a speedy and successful end to these horrific crimes.

‘Thank you.’

The sea of hate swells -

A deafening, roaring wave:

‘Would the Chief Constable care to comment on allegations that valuable time was lost…’

‘Was Laureen not reported missing as early as ten-thirty?’

‘And comments from her flatmate that she called the police repeatedly to insist that a search be conducted…’

‘… comment on rumours that she bled to death while officers failed to respond to the repeated worries of her friends and flatmate?’

‘And that Miss Bell’s bloodstained handbag was discovered some time…’

‘That her bag was handed in and simply logged as lost property despite the bloodstains?’

‘… and would it not have been possible for roadblocks to have been set up?’

‘Have any suspects been arrested, any witnesses…’

Drowned, beached -

Oldman, a redhead resting in his left hand, glasses off, tears in his eyes.

Noble straining to pick questions from the torrent.

Angus, lips pursed, fingers in the dam.

The man from Community Affairs trying to keep afloat, sinking.

The rest of us, at sea -

Lost.

I look up at the ropes again, dangling -

Looking for a way out -

An exit -

An exit from:

‘… suggestions in some reports that the so-called Wearside Jack Tape, the Ripper Tape, that it is in fact a hoax?’

Silence.

Oldman eyes closed, Noble mouth open, Ronald Angus on his feet and shouting: ‘I would urge members of the public, all members of the public and the press to ignore suggestions that the recording is a hoax. I am 99% sure that the man on the tape, that the voice on the tape is genuine, 99% certain that this is the man we are looking for, that this is the Yorkshire Ripper.’

Looking up at the ropes, dangling -

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

A way out -

An exit.

‘Fuck.’

Doors slamming, jackets off, sandwiches flying, cans cracking.

‘Fucking cunts, the lot of them.’

In the back room, the Brass whipped.

‘A bloody shambles.’

The recriminations and the blame, looking for lambs, a scapegoat -

Community Affairs to the slaughter, Angus wielding the knife:

His turn for blood.

Oldman off to one side, staring into space:

The Scapegoat.

I leave Murphy by the silver foil and the sandwiches and walk over.

‘George,’ I say.

He looks up, taking off his glasses, thinner than I’ve ever seen him.

‘Can I sit down?’

He’s staring straight up at me, his eyes black and tiny holes.

‘George?’

‘Fuck off Hunter.’

There’s a hand at my elbow, Noble whisking me away.

‘We’ll meet in Millgarth at six,’ he’s telling me.

I’m nodding, staring back at Oldman, him back into space, black and tiny.

‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s had a shock that’s all,’ Noble is saying.

Nodding, staring into my own space -

White and huge -

Lost.

‘What was all that about?’ Murphy is shaking his head, reversing out of the car park.

Radio on:

‘Big changes were ordered today in the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper

‘He didn’t know,’ I say.

‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, announced that a brains trust of senior detectives from around the country and a leading forensic scientist are being drafted in to the hunt for the man who has now claimed

‘They don’t waste any bloody time, do they?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Angus also confirmed that Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable and Head of West Yorkshire CID, has been relieved of his command of the inquiry.’

We drive up the motorway, the Ml, listening in silence as the stories eventually change, as they move on to two and a half million unemployed, a job lost every two minutes, on to the H Blocks and the Eastern Bloc, to a local woman who cut her own throat with a pair of electric hedge clippers.

‘Jesus,’ mutters Murphy as we approach Leeds. ‘What a fucking place.’

Leeds -

Wakefield deserted and barren, Leeds twice that hell and more -