button, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.
“
The lift doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed the 10 button, my heart beating, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.
“
The lift doors opened on the tenth floor, the office alive, the hum everywhere. The look on every face, shouting out, WE GOT HIM!
I clutched the Philips Pocket Memo in my left hand, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth, thanking Jimmy James Ashworth.
“
Thinking Scoop.
No knock, into Hadden’s office.
The room, eye-of-the-hurricane still.
Jack Whitehead looking up, two days beard and eyes as big as dinner plates.
“Edward…” Hadden, glasses halfway down his nose.
“I interviewed him this afternoon. I fucking interviewed him!”
Hadden winced. “Who?”
“No you didn’t,” grinned back Jack, the stink of drink in the air.
“I sat in his front room and he practically told me everything.”
“Really?” Jack, mock-quizzical.
“Yeah, really.”
“Who are we talking about, Scoop?”
“James Ashworth.”
Jack Whitehead looked at Bill Hadden, smiling.
“Sit down,” said Hadden, pointing at the seat next to Jack.
“What is it?”
“Edward, they didn’t arrest any James Ashworth,” he said as kindly as he could.
Jack Whitehead pretended to look at some notes, arching an eyebrow even higher, unable to resist
“Who?”
“Michael John Myshkin,” repeated Hadden.
“Parents are Polacks. Can’t speak a word of English,” laughed Jack, like it was funny.
“That’s lucky,” I said.
“Here Scoop. Have a read.” Jack Whitehead tossed the morning first edition at me. It bounced off me and on to the floor. I leant forward to pick it up.
“What on earth happened to your hand?” said Hadden.
“I got it trapped in a door.”
“ Trust it’s not going to hamper your style, eh Scoop?”
I flapped around with the paper in my left hand.
“Need a hand?” laughed Jack.
“No.”
“Front Page,” he smiled.
CAUGHT screamed the headline.
BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR, boasted the byline. I read on:
Early yesterday morning police arrested a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay.
According to a police source, exclusive to this newspaper, the man has confessed to the murder and has been formally charged. He will be remanded in custody at Wakefield Magistrates Court later this morning.
The police source further revealed that the man has also confessed to a number of other murders and formal charges are expected shortly.
Senior Detectives from around the country are due to arrive in Wakefield throughout the day to question the man about other similar unsolved cases.
I let the paper fall to the floor.
“I was right.”
Jack said, “You think so?”
I turned to Hadden. “You know I was. I said they were connected.”
“Which ones are they talking about Jack?” asked Hadden.
“Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard,” I said, tears in my eyes.
“For starters,” said Jack.
“I rucking told you.”
“Language, Edward,” muttered Hadden.
I said, “I sat in this office, I sat in Oldman’s office, and I told you both.”
But I knew it was over.
I sat there at the end of it all with Hadden and Jack White-head, my hand frozen with pain. I looked from one to the other, Jack grinning, Hadden fiddling with his glasses. The room, the outer office, the streets beyond, all suddenly silent. For one moment I wondered if it was snowing outside.
For just one moment, and then it started again:
“Have you got an address?” I asked Hadden.
“Jack?”
“54 Newstead View.”
“Newstead View! That’s the same fucking street.”
“What?” Hadden, drained of patience.
“James Ashworth, the lad who found her body, he lives on the same bloody street as this bloke.”
“So?” smiled Jack.
“Fuck off, Jack!”
“Please watch your language in my office.”
Jack Whitehead had his arms up in mock surrender.
I saw red, red, and only red, my head alive with pain. “They live on the same bloody street, in the same town, ten miles from where the body was found.”
“Coincidence,” said Jack.
“You reckon?”
“I reckon.”
I sat back, my right hand heavy with still blood, feeling the same heaviness creep over everything, like it was snowing here in this room, here in my brain.
Jack Whitehead said, “He coughed for them. What more do you want?”
“The fucking truth.”
Jack was laughing, really laughing, big fat belly laughs.
We were pushing Hadden too far.
Quietly, I said, “What did they get him on?”
Hadden sighed, “Faulty brakelights.”
“You’re joking?”
Jack had stopped laughing. “Wouldn’t pull over. Panda car gives chase. They haul him in, out of the blue he coughs for all this.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“Transit van,” said Jack, avoiding my eyes.
“What colour?”
“White,” smiled Jack, offering me a cigarette.
