1974

eaten something.

“I don’t think they’ll ever find a body,” I whispered.

I wanted to go back to the Ridyards and apologise. I thought of Kathryn.

The barman said, “You what?”

“You got a phone?”

“There,” smiled the fat barman, pointing to my elbow.

I didn’t fucking care. I turned my back again.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Look. About last night, I…”

“Eddie, thank God. There’s a press conference at Wakefield Police Station at three.”

“You’re fucking joking? Why?”

“They’ve found her.”

“Shit.”

“Hadden’s been looking…”

“Fuck!”

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door of the Huntsman.

Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.

· 59 PM

One minute to kick-off.

Me, up the stairs and through the one door, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman through the other.

The Conference Room horror-show quiet.

Oldman, flanked by two plainclothes, sitting down behind a table and a microphone.

Down the front, Gilman, Tom, New Face, and JACK FUCKING WHITEHEAD.

Eddie Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, at the back, behind the TV lights and cameras, technicians whis pering about bloody fucking cables.

Jack fucking Whitehead on my fucking story.

Cameras flashed.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman, looking lost, a stranger in this station, in these times:

But these were his people, his times.

He swallowed and began:

“Gentlemen. At approximately nine thirty this morning, the body of a young girl was discovered by workmen in Devil’s Ditch here in Wakefield.”

He took a sip of water.

“The body has been identified as that of Clare Kemplay, who went missing on her way home from school in Morley on Thursday night.”

Notes, take fucking notes.

“At the present time, the actual cause of death has not been determined. However, a full scale murder investigation has been launched. This investigation is being led by myself from here at Wood Street.”

Another sip of water.

“A preliminary medical examination has been conducted and Dr Alan Courts, the Home Office pathologist, will conduct the post-mortem later tonight at Pinderfields Hospital.”

People checking spelling, glances at their neighbour’s notes.

“At this stage in the investigation that is all the information I am able to give you. However, on behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal for any member of the public who might have any information to please contact your nearest police station.

“We would particularly like to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch between midnight Friday and 6 AM this morning and who saw anything at all, particularly any parked vehicles. We have also set up a hot-line so members of the public can telephone the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence. Thank you gentlemen.”

Oldman stood, his hands already up in the face of a barrage of questions and flashes. He shook his head slowly from side to side, mouthing apologies he didn’t mean, excuses he couldn’t use, trapped like King fucking Kong on top of the Empire State.

I watched him, watched his eyes search the room, my heart pounding, my stomach aching, reading those eyes:

SEE ME NOW.

A shove in the shoulder, smoke in my face. “Glad you could join us, Scoop. Boss wants to see you a.s.a.p.”

Face to face with the slicked-back ratface of my fucking nightmares, Jack fucking Whitehead; whisky on his breath, a smile on his chops.

The Pack pushing past us, running for their phones and their cars, cursing the timing.

Jack fucking Whitehead, giving me the big wink, a mock punch to the jaw. “Early bird and all that.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The M1 back into Leeds.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fat grey slabs of Saturday afternoon skies turning to night on either side of me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eyes out for Jack fucking Whitehead’s Rover.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hitting the dial for Radio Leeds:

The body of missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kerriplay was dis covered on wasteland in Wakefield’s Devil’s Ditch by workmen early this morning. At a press conference at Wakefield’s Wood Street Police Station, Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman launched a murder hunt, appealing for witnesses to come forward:

On behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal…

Fuck.

“Someone’s got to you. Someone’s fucking got to you!”

“You are very wrong and I’d thank you to watch your language.”

“I’m sorry, but you know how close I am…”

The words became inaudible again and I gave up trying to hear what was being said. Hadden’s door was thicker than it looked and Fat Steph the Secretary’s typing wasn’t helping.

I looked at my father’s watch.

Dawsongate: Local Government money for private housing; substandard materials for council housing; back-handers all round.

Barry Cannon’s baby, his obsession.

Fat Steph looked up from her work again and smiled sym pathetically, thinking You’re Next.

I smiled back wondering if she really did like it up Trap Two from Jack.

Barry Cannon’s voice rose again from within Hadden’s office. “I just want to go out to the house. She wouldn’t have bloody phoned back if she didn’t want to talk.”

“She’s not a well woman, you know that. It’s not ethical. It’s not right.”

“Ethical!”

Fuck. This was going to take all bloody night.