way back to my mother’s.
I got in the very last car and sat in more silence, unable to place any of the faces, or name any of the names. There was a moment’s panic as the driver took a different route back to Ossett, convincing me I’d joined the wrong fucking party. But then we were heading back up the Dewsbury Cutting, all the other passengers suddenly smiling at me like they’d all thought the exact same thing.
Back at the house, first things first:
Phone the office.
Nothing.
No news being bad news for the Kemplays and Clare, good news for me.
Twenty-four hours coming up, tick-tock.
Twenty-four hours meaning Clare dead.
I hung up, glanced at my father’s watch and wondered how long I’d have to stay amongst his kith and kin.
Give it an hour.
I walked back down the hall, the Byline Boy at last, bringing more death to the house of the dead.
“So this Southern bloke, his car breaks down up on Moors. He walks back to farm down road and knocks on door. Old farmer opens door and Southerner says, do you know where nearest garage is? Old farmer says no. So Southerner asks him if he knows way to town. Farmer says he don’t know. How about nearest telephone? Farmer says he don’t know. So South erner says, you don’t know bloody much do you. Old farmer says that’s as may be, but am not one that’s lost.”
Uncle Eric holding court, proud the only time he ever left Yorkshire was to kill Germans. Uncle Eric, who I’d seen kill a fox with a spade when I was ten.
I sat down on the arm of my father’s empty chair, thinking of seaview flats in Brighton, of Southern girls called Anna or Sophie, and of a misplaced sense of filial duty now half redundant.
“Bet you’re glad you came back, aren’t you lad?” winked Aunty Margaret, pushing another cup of tea into my palms.
I sat there in the middle of the crowded back room, my tongue on the roof of my mouth, trying to move the stuck white bread, glad of something to clear out the taste of warm and salty ham, wishing for a whisky and thinking of my father yet again; a man who’d signed the Pledge on his eighteenth birthday for no other reason than they asked.
“Well now, would you look at this.”
I was miles and years away and then suddenly aware my hour was at hand, feeling all their eyes on me.
My Aunty Madge was waving a paper around like she was after some bluebottle.
Me sat on the arm of that chair, feeling like the fly.
Some of my younger cousins had been out for sweets and had brought back the paper, my paper.
My mother grabbed the paper from Aunty Madge, turning the inside pages until she came to the Births and Deaths.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Is Dad in?” said Susan.
“No. Must be tomorrow,” replied my mother, looking at me with those sad, sad eyes.
“Mrs
Emotional fucking pleas.
“
All around the room everyone began assuring me how proud my father would have been and how it was just such a pity he wasn’t here now to witness this great day, my great day.
“I read all stuff you did on that Ratcatcher bloke,” Uncle Eric was saying. “Strange one that one.”
The Ratcatcher, inside pages, crumbs from Jack fucking Whitehead’s table.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling and nodding my head this way and that, picturing my father sat in this empty chair by the cupboard reading the back page first.
There were pats on the back and then, for one brief moment, the paper was there in my hands and I looked down:
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.
I didn’t read another line.
Off the paper went again round the room, I saw my sister across the room sat on the windowsill, her eyes dosed, her hands to her mouth.
She opened her eyes and stared back at me. I tried to stand, to go over to her, but she stood up and left the room.
I wanted to follow her, to say:
I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m sorry that it had to happen today of all days.
“We’ll be asking him for his autograph soon, won’t we,” laughed Aunty Madge, passing me a fresh cup.
“He’ll always be Little Eddie to me,” said Aunt Edie from Altrincham.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Doesn’t look so good though does it?” said Aunty Madge.
“No,” I lied.
“There’s been a couple now, haven’t there?” said Aunt Edie, a cup of tea in one hand, my hand in the other.
“Aye, going back a few years now. That little lass over in Castleford,” said my Aunty Madge.
“That is going back a bit, aye. There was that one not so long ago mind, over our way,” said Aunt Edie, taking a mouthful of tea.
“Aye, in Rochdale. I remember that one,” said Aunty Madge, lightening her grip on her saucer.
“Never found her,” sighed Aunt Edie.
“Really?” I said.
“Never caught no-one either.”
“Never do though, do they,” said Aunty Madge to the whole room.
“I can remember a time when these sorts of things never happened.”
“Thems in Manchester were the first.”
“Aye,” muttered Aunt Edie, letting go of my hand.
“Evil they were, just plain bloody evil,” whispered Aunty Madge.
“And to think there’s them that’d have her walking about like nowt was wrong.”
“Some folk are just plain daft.”
“Short memories an’ all,” said Aunt Edie, looking out at the garden and the rain.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door.
Cats and bloody dogs.
Motorway One back to Leeds, lorry-thick and the going slow. Pushing the Viva a hard sixty-five in the rain, as good as it got.
Local radio:
“The search continues for missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay, as fears grow…”
A glance at the clock told me what I already knew: 4 PM meant time was against me, meant time was against her, meant no time to do background checks on missing kids, meant no questions at the five o’clock press conference.
Shit, shit, shit.
Coming off the motorway fast, I weighed up the pros and cons of asking my questions blind, right there and then at the five o’clock, with nothing but two old ladies behind me.
Two kids missing, Castleford and Rochdale, no dates, only maybes.
Long shots in the dark.
Punch a button, national radio; sixty-seven dismissed from the
