1977

The sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex.

The headache is intense, blinding.

There’s a bench, table, wooden crates, bottles, thousands of bottles, newspapers, scraps of this and that, blankets, odd bits of clothing.

‘They did go through this, yeah?’ says Ellis.

‘Mmm,’ mumbles Rudkin.

Trains pass, dogs bark.

I can taste blood.

I’ve slipped on to my knees and he’s come out of me. Now he’s angry. I try to turn but he’s got me by my hair, punching me casually, once, twice, and I’m telling him there’s no need for that, scrambling to give him his money back, and then he’s got it up my arse, but I’m thinking at least it’ll be over then, and he’s back kissing my shoulders, pulling my black bra off, smiling at this fat cow’s flabby arms, and taking a big, big bite out of the underside of my left tit, and I can’t not scream and I know I shouldn’t have because now he’s going to have to shut me up and I’m crying because I know it’s over, that they’ve found me, that this is how it ends, that I’ll never see my daughters again, not now, not ever.

I look up. Ellis is staring at me.

This is how it ends.

Rudkin has a pair of plastic gloves on, pulling a dirt-caked carrier bag out from under the bench.

Tesco’s.

He looks at me.

I squat down beside him.

He opens it up.

Porn mags, old and used.

He closes the bag and slings it back under the bench.

‘Enough?’ he says.

Not now, not ever.

I nod and we go back out into the light.

Frankie lights another cig and says, ‘Lunch?’

Staring into dark pints, thinking worse thoughts, fucked if there’s anything I can do about it.

Frankie brings over the Ploughmans, all withered and bleached.

‘Fuck’s that?’ says Rudkin, getting up off his stool and going back to the bar.

Ellis raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Rudkin comes back and tips a whisky into the top of his pint and sits back down. He smiles at Ellis, ‘Impressions?’

Ellis grins back, reading Rudkin wrong, ‘Do I look like Dick fucking Emery?’

‘Yeah, and you’re about as much fucking use.’ Detective Inspector Rudkin’s stopped smiling. He turns to me. ‘Teach him something, Bob?’

‘I’m with you. Different bloke.’

‘Why?’

‘She was attacked indoors. Raped. Sodomised. She did receive substantial head injuries from a blunt instrument, however none were fatal or immobilising.’

Frankie’s got his head to one side. ‘Meaning?’

‘The killer or killers of Theresa Campbell and Joan Richards attacked them out in the open with one blow to the back of their heads. They were either dead or comatose before they hit the ground. Early indications are that the same is true of the latest one, Marie Watts.’

‘And it couldn’t be the same bloke over here using a different m.o.?’

‘It doesn’t really add up. If anything, the resistance, the struggle, was what kept him going.’

‘Turned him on?’ asks Ellis.

‘Yeah. He’ll have raped before, probably since.’

‘So why kill her?’

I’ve only one answer:

‘Because he could.’

Rudkin wipes ale from his face. ‘What about the placing of the boot and the coat?’

‘Similar.’

‘Similar how?’ repeats Frankie.

Ellis is about to chime up, but Rudkin cuts him off dead, ‘Similar.’

Frankie smiles and looks at his watch, ‘Best be getting back.’

‘No offence, mate,’ says Rudkin, patting Frank’s back.

‘None taken.’

We sup up and pile into the car.

It’s almost three and I’m fucking tired, half-pissed.

We’re going to drop Frankie back at the station, say our goodbyes, and head home.

I’m thinking of Janice, half dozing.

Ellis is telling Frankie about Kenny D.

‘Dumb fucking monkey,’ he laughs.

I can see Kenny’s splayed legs, his cheap underpants and shrivelled dick, the pleas in his eyes.

Rudkin’s going on about how we’ll hold him until they bring Barton in.

I picture Kenny in his cell, sweating and shitting it.

They’re all laughing as we swing into the car park.

Detective Chief Superintendent Hill is waiting for us as we come through the front door.

‘Got a minute?’ he says to DI Rudkin.

‘What is it?’

‘Not here.’

Me and Ellis stand around at the desk as Alf Hill takes Rudkin upstairs.

We wait, Frankie hanging around, talking up Lancs/Yorks rivalry.

‘Fraser, up here now,’ yells Rudkin from the top of the stairs.

I start up the stairs, stomach hollow.

Ellis starts to follow.

‘Wait there,’ I snap.

Rudkin and Hill up in the Lancashire Murder Room.

No-one else.

Hill’s putting down the phone.

‘Get that fucking file,’ shouts Rudkin.

I pull it out from the cabinet.

‘The Inquest in there?’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘What was the blood group they got off her?’

‘B,’ I say from memory, flicking through for the report.

‘Check it.’

I do and nod.

‘Read it to me.’

I read: ‘Blood grouping from the semen taken from victim’s vagina and rectum, blood group B.’

‘Pass it here.’

I do it.

Rudkin stares at it, flat on his palms:

‘Fuck.’