“In the Press Club, I suppose. If I must.” She smiled.
“You must,” I winked.
Down the corridor, into records.
Yesterday’s news.
Through the metal drawers, into the boxes.
A thousand Ruby Tuesdays.
I grabbed the reels, took a seat at a screen, and threaded through the microfilm.
July 1969.
I let the film fly by:
B Specials, Bernadette Devlin, Wallace Lawler, and
Wilson, Wilson, Wilson; like Ted had never been.
The Moon and Jack fucking Whitehead were everywhere.
Me in Brighton, two thousand light years from home.
Bingo.
I started to write.
“So I went back through all the files, spoke to a couple of the lads, rang Manchester, and I think we’ve got something,” I said, wishing my editor would look up from the pile of Spot the bloody Ball photos on his desk.
Bill Hadden picked up a magnifying glass and asked, “Did you talk to Jack?”
“He’s not been in.” Thank Christ.
I shifted in my seat and stared out of the window, ten floors up, across a black Leeds.
“So what exactly have you got?” Hadden was stroking his silver beard, peering through the magnifying glass at the photo graphs.
“Three very similar cases…”
“In a nutshell?”
“Three missing girls. One aged eight, the others both ten. 1969,1972, yesterday. All of them went missing within yards of their homes, within miles of each other. It’s Cannock Chase all over again.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“I was being sarcastic. Sorry.”
“Oh.” I shifted in my seat again.
Hadden continued to peer through the glass at the black and white photographs.
I looked at my father’s watch; eight bleeding thirty.
“So what do you think?” Not hiding my irritation.
Hadden held up a black and white photograph of some footballers, one of them Gordon McQueen, going up for a cross. There was no ball. “Do you ever do these things?”
“No,” I lied, disliking the game we were about to play.
“Spot the Ball,” Bill Hadden, editor, said, “is the reason thirty-nine per cent of working-class males buy this paper. What do you think of that?”
Say yes, say no, but spare me this.
“Interesting,” I lied again, thinking the exact fucking opposite, thinking thirty-nine per cent of working-class males have been having some fun with your researchers.
“So what do you honestly think?” Hadden was looking back down at some other photographs.
Caught off guard, genuinely dumb. “About what?”
Hadden looked up again. “Do you seriously think it could be the same man?”
“Yeah. Yes, I do.”
“All right,” said Hadden and put down the magnifying glass. “Chief Superintendent Oldman will see you tomorrow. He won’t thank you for any of this. The last thing he wants is some bloody Kiddie-Catcher scare. He’ll ask you not to write the story, you’ll agree, and he’ll appear grateful. And a grateful Detective Chief Superintendent is something every North of England Crime Correspondent should have.”
“But…” My hand was up in the air and it felt stupid there.
“But then you’ll go ahead and prepare all the background on the two Rochdale and Castleford girls. Interview the families, if they’ll see you.”
“But why, if…”
Bill Hadden smiled. “Human interest, five years on or what ever. And so then, if you are right about all this, we won’t be left back in the starting stalls.”
“I see,” I said with the Christmas present I’d always wanted, but in the wrong size and colour.
“But don’t push George Oldman tomorrow,” said Hadden, edging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “This paper has an excellent relationship with our new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Force. I’d like to keep it that way, especially now.”
“Of course.” Thinking,
Bill Hadden leant back in his big leather chair, arms behind his head. “You know as well as I do that this whole thing could blow over tomorrow and, even if it doesn’t, it’ll be buried by Christmas anyway.”
I stood up, reading my cue, thinking you’re so wrong.
My editor picked up his magnifying glass again. “Still getting letters on the Ratcatcher. Good stuff.”
“Thank you, Mr Hadden.” I opened the door.
“You really ought to have a go at one of these,” said Hadden, tapping a photograph. “Right up your street.”
“Thank you, I will.” I closed the door.
From behind the door, “And don’t forget to talk to Jack.”
One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:
The Press Club, in the sights of the two stone lions, Leeds City Centre.
The Press Club, gone eleven, Christmas busy from here on in.
The Press Club, members only.
Edward Dunford, member, down the stairs and through the door. Kathryn at the bar, an unknown drunk at her ear, her eyes on me.
The drunk slurs, “And one lion says to other, rucking quiet isn’t it?”
I looked to the real stage and a woman in a feather dress belting out
Excitement shrinking my stomach, swelling my chest, a Scotch and water in my hand beneath the tinsel and the fairy lights, a pocketful of notes, thinking THIS IS IT.
From out of the reds and the black, Barry Cannon raised a fag hand. Taking my drink and leaving Kathryn, I went over to Barry’s table.
“First Wilson gets burgled then, two days later, John fucking Stonehouse vanishes.” Barry Cannon decrees to the dumb, holding court.
“Don’t forget Lucky either,” smirked George Greaves, old hand.
“And what about bloody Watergate?” laughed Gaz from Sport, bored of Barry.
I stole a seat. Nods all round: Barry, George, Gaz and Paul Kelly. Fat Bernard and Tom from Bradford two tables down, Jack’s mates.
Barry finished his pint. “Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected.”
“Stoke City and the League fucking Championship,” laughed Gaz again, Mr Sport, lighting up another.
“Big match tomorrow, eh?” I said, part-time football fan.
Gaz, real anger in his eyes. “Be a right fucking shambles if it’s owt like last week.”
Barry stood up. “Anyone want anything from the bar?”
Nods and grunts all round, Gaz and George up for another night talking Leeds United, Paul Kelly looking at his watch, shaking his head.
I stood up, downing my Scotch. “I’ll give you a hand.”
