1974

“The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.

“Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”

“Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.

“Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.

“Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”

I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”

“Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”

“Be some bird again,” said Gilman from the Manchester Evening News, not interested.

“Here we go,” whispered New Face.

Round Two:

The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.

No relatives.

The Pack smelling Clare dead.

The Pack thinking no body.

The Pack thinking no news.

The Pack smelling a story dead.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.

Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.

The first spits of a hard rain.

Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of dark factories and silent mills:

Election posters, mush and glue.

A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.

Big Brother watching you.

Fear eats the soul.

I switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, playing back the press conference as I drove, searching for details.

It had been a waste of everybody’s time but mine, no news being good news for Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, playing hunches.

“Concern is obviously mounting…”

Oldman had stuck to his story: bugger all despite all the best efforts of all his best men.

The Public had come forward with information and possible sightings but, as yet, all the best men had nothing substantial to go on.

“We’d like to stress that any member of the public who may have any information, no matter how trivial, should contact their nearest Police Station as a matter of some urgency, or telephone…”

Then there had been a spot of fruitless Q &A.

I kept it shut, not a bloody word.

Oldman, each of his answers straight back to me, eyes locked, never blinking.

“Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all for now…”

And, as he stood up, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman winked the Big Wink my way.

Oilman’s voice at the end of the tape: “What the fuck’s with you two?”

Foot down with Leeds behind me, I switched off the tape, turned on the heater and the radio, and listened in as fears continued to grow on the local stations and a story grew on the nationals.

Every fucker biting, the story refusing to lie down and die.

I gave them one more day without a body before it went inside to Page Two, then a police reconstruction next Friday marking the one week anniversary and a brief return to the Front Page.

Then it was Saturday afternoon sport all the way.

One arm on the wheel, I killed the radio as I flipped through Kathryn’s precise typed A4 on my lap. I pressed record on the Pocket Memo, and began to chant:

“Susan Louise Ridyard. Missing since 20 March 1972, aged ten years old. Last seen outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale, 3.55 PM”

“Extensive police search and nationwide publicity spelling zero, nothing, nowt. George Oldman headed the inquiry, despite being a Lancashire job. Asked for it.”

“Castleford and…?”

“Rochdale.”

Lying bastard.

“Investigation still officially open. Parents solid, two other kids. Parents continue to regularly put up fresh posters across the country. Re-mortgaged house to cover the cost.”

I switched off the tape, smiling a big Fuck You to Barry Cannon, knowing the Ridyards would be right back there and I’d be bringing them nothing new but fresh publicity.

I pulled up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a freshly painted bright red phonebox.

Fifteen minutes later I was reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a quiet part of Rochdale.

It was pissing down.

Mr Ridyard was standing in the doorway.

I got out of the car and said, “Good morning.”

“Nice weather for ducks,” said Mr Ridyard.

We shook hands and he led me through a tiny hall into the dark front room.

Mrs Ridyard was sitting on the sofa wearing slippers, a teenage girl and boy on either side of her. She had her arms round them both.

She glanced at me and whispered, “Go and tidy your rooms,” squeezing them tight before releasing them.

The children left the room looking at the carpet.

“Please sit down,” said Mr Ridyard. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Love?” he said, turning to his wife as he left the room.

Mrs Ridyard was miles away.

I sat down opposite the sofa and said, “Nice house.”

Mrs Ridyard blinked through the gloom, pulling at the skin on her cheeks.

“Looks like a nice area,” I added, the words dying but not quick enough.

Mrs Ridyard sat on the edge of the sofa, staring across the room at a school photograph of a little girl poking out between two Christmas cards on top of the TV. “There was a lovely view before they put them new houses up.”

I looked out of the window, across the road, at the new houses that had spoilt the view and no longer looked so new.

Mr Ridyard came in with the tea on a tray and I took out my notebook. He sat down on the sofa beside his wife and said, “Shall I be mother?”

Mrs Ridyard stopped staring at the photo and turned to the notebook in my hands.

I leant forward in my seat. “As I said on the phone, my editor and I thought that now would be a good…It’d be interesting to do a follow-up piece and…”

“A follow-up piece?” said Mrs Ridyard, still staring at the notebook.

Mr Ridyard handed me a cup of tea. “This is to do with the little girl over in Morley?”

“No. Well, not in so many words.” The pen felt loose and hot in my hand, the notebook cumbersome and