1974

He looked up. “I’m sorry, Edward. Really I am.”

“Don’t be. You’re right,” I said. “I need help.”

At my desk for the last time, thinking take it fucking national, sweeping the whole bloody table-top into a dirty old Co-op carrier bag, not giving a fuck who knew I was gone.

Jack fucking Whitehead slapped an Evening News on to the empty desk, beaming, “Something to remember us by.”

I looked up at Jack, counting backwards.

The office silent, all eyes on me.

Jack Whitehead right back in my face, not blinking.

I looked down at the folded paper, the banner headline:

WE SALUTE YOU.

“Turn it over.”

A telephone was ringing on the other side of the office, no-one answering it.

I turned over the bottom half of the paper to a photograph of two uniformed coppers shaking hands with Chief Constable Angus.

Two uniformed coppers, naked:

A tall one with a beard, a short one without.

I stared down at the paper, at the photograph, at the words beneath the photograph:

Chief Constable Angus congratulates Sergeant Bob Craven and PC Bob Douglas on a job well done.

“They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.”

I picked up the paper and folded it in two, stuffing it into the carrier bag, winking, “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack Whitehead said nothing.

I gathered up the carrier bag and walked across the silent office.

George Greaves was looking out the window, Gaz from Sport was staring at the end of his pencil.

The telephone began to ring on my desk.

Jack Whitehead picked it up.

At the door, Fat Steph, with an armful of files, smiled and said, “I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s Sergeant Fraser,” shouted Jack from my desk.

“Tell him to fuck off. I’ve been sacked.”

“He’s been sacked,” said Jack, hanging up.

One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:

The Press Club, members only, going up to five.

At the bar, a member for now, a Scotch in one hand, the phone in the other.

“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”

Yesterday Once More on the jukebox, my money.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Fuck The Carpenters, my eyes stinging from my own smoke.

“Can you tell her Edward Dunford called?”

I hung up, downed the Scotch, lit another cigarette.

“Same again please, love.”

“And one for me, Bet.”

I looked round.

Jack fucking Whitehead taking the next stool.

“You fucking fancy me or something?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“We should talk.”

“Why?”

The barmaid set two Scotches in front of us.

“Someone’s setting you up.”

“Yeah? Big fucking news, Jack.”

He offered me a cigarette. “Who is it then, Scoop?”

“How about we start with your mates, the Two Bobbies?”

Jack lit a cigarette for himself and whispered, “How’s that?”

I swung my right hand round, waving the bandages in his face, toppling forward and shouting, “How’s that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

Jack moved out of the way, catching my bandages in his own hand.

“They did that?” he said, pushing me back into my seat, eyes on the black wad at the end of my arm.

“Yeah, in between burning down gypsy camps, stealing post mortem photos, and beating confessions out of the retarded.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just the new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police going about their business, supported by the good old Yorkshire Post, the copper’s friend.”

“You’ve fucking lost it.”

I downed the Scotch. “So everyone keeps saying.”

“Fucking listen to them then.”

“Piss off, Jack.”

“Eddie?”

“What?”

“Think of your mother.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hasn’t she been through enough? It’s barely been a week since you buried your father.”

I leant over and poked two fingers into his bony chest. “Don’t you ever fucking bring my family into this.”

I stood up and took out my car keys.

“You’re not fit to drive.”

“You’re not fit to write, but you do.”

He was stood up, holding me by the arms. “You’re being set up, just like Barry was.”

“Fucking let go.”

“Derek Box is as bad as it fucking gets.”

“Let go.”

He sat back down. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“Piss off,” I hissed, climbing the stairs, hating his lying guts and the stinking world in which he dwelt.

The M1 southbound out of Leeds, seven o’clock busy, the rain beginning to sleet in my headlights. Always on My Mind on the radio.

In the fast lane, glances in the rearview mirror, glances to the left, the gypsy camp gone.

Flicking through the radio stations, avoiding the news.

Suddenly the Castleford turn-off came out of the dark like a lorry, its lights on full.

I swerved across three lanes, horns screaming at me, the trapped faces of angry ghosts in their cars cursing me.

Inches from death, thinking bring it on.

Bring it on.

Bring it on.

Knock on the door of…