“How about yourself?”
“I got the bus over to Pontefract. I had another interview.”
“So what time would you say it was when you last saw Mr Gannon?”
“It must have been about a quarter to three at the latest,” I said, thinking and he told me Marjorie Dawson had said his life was in danger and I thought nothing of it then and I’m going to say nowt of it now.
“And you’ve no idea where he went from there?”
“No. I assumed he’d be coming back here.”
“Why did you think that?”
“No reason. I just assumed that’s what he’d do. Type up the interview.”
“You’ve no idea why he might have gone to Morley?”
“None.”
“I see. Thank you. You’ll be obliged to attend the inquest tomorrow, you do know that?”
I nodded. “Bit quick isn’t it?”
“We have almost all the details and, between you and me, I think the family are keen to, you know…What with Christmas and everything.”
“Where’s it at?”
“Morley Town Hall.”
“Right,” I said. I was thinking about Clare Kemplay.
Sergeant Eraser closed his notebook. “You’ll be asked much the same questions. They’ll probably be a wee bit more on the drinking, mind. You know how these things are.”
“He was over then?”
“I believe so.”
“What about the brakes?”
Fraser shrugged. “They failed.”
“And the other vehicle?”
“Stationary.”
“True it was carrying plates of glass?”
“Yes.”
“And one went through the windscreen?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
“Yes.”
“So it was instantaneous?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
We were both white. I stared out of the foyer at the traffic heading home through the rain, the headlights and the brake-lights flashing on and off, yellow and red, yellow and red. Sergeant Fraser flicked through his notebook.
After a while, he stood up. “You don’t know where I could reach Kathryn Taylor do you?”
“If she’s not in the building she’s probably gone home.”
“No, I’ve been unable to contact her either here or at home.”
“Well I doubt she knows anything. She was with me most of the evening.”
“So I’ve been told. But you never know.”
I said nothing.
The Sergeant put on his hat. “If you do speak with Miss Taylor, please ask her to get in touch. I can be reached any time through the Morley Station.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for your time Mr Dunford.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow then.”
“Yeah.”
I watched him walk over to reception, say something to Lisa behind the desk, and then leave through the revolving doors.
I lit a cigarette, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.
Three hours straight I sat at my desk and worked.
There’s no quiet time on the only regional newspaper with a morning and an evening edition, but today was as close to the grave as it got, everybody pissing off as early as possible. A goodbye here, a goodbye there, and a few of us’ll be down the Press Club later if you fancy it.
No Barry Cannon.
So I typed and typed; the first real work I’d done since my father died and Clare Kemplay disappeared. I struggled to remember the last time I’d sat at this desk and just worked and typed. Joyriders, that would’ve been it. But I couldn’t remember if my father had still been in the hospital or if he’d been moved back home by then.
No Ronald Dunford.
At about six, Kelly brought the photos up and we went through them, putting the best in the drawer. Kelly took my piece and his photos to the Sub, then to Layout. In the process I lost fifty words which, on a good day, would’ve been cause for a large one in the Press Club with Kathryn.
But this wasn’t a good day.
No Kathryn Taylor.
I’d been to see Fat Steph and told her to keep it shut but she didn’t know what the fuck I was going on about, except that Jack Whitehead was right about me. We’re all upset you know, but I should get a grip. Jack was right about me, Stephanie had said over and over, again and again, to me and everyone else within a ten-mile radius.
No Jack fucking Whitehead?
No such rucking luck.
On every desk were copies of tonight’s paper.
CATCH THIS FIEND.
Banner headlines across the Front Page of the
BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CHIEF CRIME REPORTER & CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR 1968 &1971.
Fuck.
A post-mortem into the death of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay revealed that she had been tortured, raped, and then strangled. West Yorkshire Police are withholding the exact details of the injuries, but Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, speaking at a press conference earlier today, described the extreme nature of the murder as ‘defying belief and as ‘by far the most horrific case encountered by myself or any other member of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Force’.
Home Office pathologist Dr Alan Coutts, who conducted the post mortem, said, “There are no words to fully convey the horror visited upon this young girl.” Dr Coutts, a veteran of over fifty murders, looked visibly moved as he spoke, saying he hoped, “never to have to perform such a duty again.”
Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman spoke of the urgency in finding the killer and announced that Detective Superintendent Peter Noble would be in charge of the day to day hunt for whoever was responsible for Clare’s murder.
In 1968, Detective Superintendent Noble, then with the West Midlands Force, gained national recognition as the man chiefly res ponsible for the arrest of the Cannock Chase Murderer, Raymond Morris. Between 1965 and 1967, Morris had molested and then suffo cated three little girls in and around Stafford, before being arrested by then Detective Inspector Noble.
Detective Superintendent Noble spoke of his resolution to find Clare Kemplay’s murderer, appealing to members
