He goes to the end of the long narrow corridor and bangs on a door, then opens it. He talks to someone inside and then beckons me over.
The room is bare and bright, sunlight across an empty chair and table, across a man lying on a little bed, his face to the wall, his back to me and the door.
Colin gestures at the seat, saying, ‘This is Walter. Walter Kendall. He knew Clare Strachan.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Fraser, Mr Kendall. I’m with Leeds CID and we’re looking into a possible link between the murder of Clare Strachan and a recent crime in Leeds.’
Colin Minton is nodding, staring at Walter Kendall’s back.
‘Colin here, he says you knew Clare Strachan,’ I continue. ‘I’d be very grateful for anything you can tell me about Miss Strachan or the time of her murder.’
Walter Kendall doesn’t move.
I look at Colin Minton and say, ‘Mr Kendall?’
Slowly and clearly, his face still to the wall, Walter says, ‘I remember the Wednesday night, Thursday morning, I woke to terrible screams coming from Clare’s room. Real bellowing cries. I got out of bed and ran down the corridor. She was in the room at the top of the stairs. The door was locked and I banged on it for a good five minutes before it opened. She was alone in the room, drenched in sweat and tears. I asked her what had happened, was she all right. She said it was just a dream. A dream, I said. What kind of dream? She said she’d dreamt there was a tremendous weight upon her chest, forcing the air from her lungs, pushing the very life from her, and all she could think was she’d never see her daughters again. I said it must have been something she’d eaten, nonsense I didn’t even mean, but what can you say? Clare just smiled and said she’d had the same dream every night for almost a year.’
Outside a train rattles past, shaking the room.
‘She asked me to stay the night with her and I lay on top of the covers, stroking her hair and asking her to marry me like I often had before, but she just laughed and said she’d only bring me trouble. I said, what did I care about trouble, but she didn’t want me. Not like that.’
My mouth’s dry, the room baking.
‘She knew she was going to die, Sergeant Fraser. Knew they’d find her one day. Find her and kill her.’
‘Who? What do you mean, kill her?’
‘First day I met her, she was drunk and I didn’t think much of it. I mean, you hear so many tall stories in a place like this. But she was persistent, insistent:
‘I’m sorry Mr Kendall, but I’m not clear. She say who exactly was going to kill her or why?’
‘The police.’
‘The police? She said the police were going to kill her?’
‘The Special Police. That’s what she said.’
‘Because of something she’d seen, something she knew, or something they thought she’d seen or knew.’
‘Did she elaborate?’
‘No. Wouldn’t. Said it just meant others would be in the same boat as her.’
‘Don’t suppose you told this to the investigating officers at the time, did you?’
‘As if they’d listen. They didn’t take any notice of me anyway, especially after what happened to me.’
I say, ‘Why? What happened to you Mr Kendall?’
Walter Kendall rolls over in his bed and smiles: his eyes white, the colour gone, the man blind.
‘How did it happen?’ I ask.
‘Friday 21 November 1975. I woke up and I was blind.’
I look over at Colin Minton, who shrugs his shoulders.
‘I could see, but now I’m blind,’ laughs Kendall.
I stand up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Kendall. If you think of anything else, please…’
Kendall suddenly reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Anything else? I think of nothing else.’
I pull away. ‘Call us.’
‘Be careful, Sergeant. It can strike anyone, anytime.’
I walk away, down the narrow corridor, pausing by the door to the room at the top of the stairs.
It’s cold here, out of the sun.
Colin Minton raises his eyes and starts to say how sorry he is.
‘Special Police? What fucking bollocks next?’ laughs Detective Inspector Rudkin.
We’re walking up Church Street, towards the garages.
‘These fucking people. They just never accept that the fucking mess they’re in is because they’re junkies and alcoholics. Has to be someone else or something else.’
Frankie’s laughing along. ‘Cunt went blind because he drank industrial-strength paint-stripper.’
‘See?’ says Rudkin.
‘Yeah,’ laughs Ellis. ‘Unlike Bob’s mate.’
‘If wit were shit,’ says Rudkin, shaking his head.
We turn the corner into Frenchwood Street.
On the left are the lock-ups, the garages.
Preston seems suddenly quiet.
That silence again.
‘It was that one,’ whispers Frankie, pointing to the one furthest from us, the one closest to the multi-storey car park at the end of the road.
‘Locked?’ asks Ellis.
‘Doubt it.’
We keep walking towards it.
My chest starts to constrict, ache.
Rudkin’s saying nowt.
Three Pakistani women in black cross in front of us.
The sun goes behind a cloud and I can feel the night, the endless fucking night I’ve always felt.
‘Take notes,’ I tell Ellis.
‘Like what?’
‘Feelings, man. Impressions.’
‘Bollocks. It’s been two years,’ he whines.
‘Do it,’ says Rudkin.
I can’t stop it:
We get to the garage and Frankie tries the door.
It opens.
I’m freezing.
Frankie lights a cig and stands out in the road.
I step inside.
Black, bloody, bleak.
Full of flies, fat fucking flies.
Ellis and Rudkin follow.
The room has the air of the sea bed, the weight of an evil ocean hanging over our heads.
Rudkin is swallowing hard.
I struggle.
I’ve felt this before, but not often: Wakefield, December ’74.
Theresa Campbell, Joan Richards, and Marie Watts.
Today on the Moors.
Too often.
