1977

I bend down and kiss her forehead.

And then I go back to the door and when I open it they’re still stood there, peering past me.

I close the door and push between them, down the stairs and into the car.

I sit in the back, heavy duty sunlight in my face.

Rudkin drives.

Ellis keeps turning round, grinning, desperate to start up but this is Rudkin’s car and he’s in the driving seat and he’s saying nowt.

So I look out at Chapeltown, the trees and the sky, the shops and the people, and feel dull.

If it’s him, it feels different.

Blank, my mind blank:

The trees are green, not black.

The sky blue, not blood.

The shops open, not gutted.

The people on the streets living, not dead.

Noon in a different world.

And then I think of Janice:

The trees black.

The sky blood.

The shops gone.

The people dead.

And we’re back:

Millgarth, Leeds.

Saturday 4 June 1977.

Noon.

The gang’s all here:

Oldman, Noble, Alderman, Prentice, Gaskins, Evans, and all their squads.

And Craven.

I catch his eye.

He smiles, then winks.

I could kill him now, here, in the briefing room, before lunch.

He leans over to Alderman and whispers something, patting his breast pocket, and they both laugh.

Three seconds later Alderman looks at me.

I stare back.

He looks away, a slight smile.

Fuck.

They’re all whispering, I’m losing it:

Wasteground, a long black velvet dress on wasteground.

Oldman starts up:

‘At a quarter to seven this morning a paper boy heard cries for help coming from wasteland beside the Sikh temple on Bowling Back Lane in the Bowling area of Bradford. He discovered Linda Clark, aged thirty-six, lying seriously injured with a fractured skull and stab wounds to her abdomen and back. A preliminary investigation suggests that her head injuries were caused by hammer blows. She was rushed to hospital and is now in Pinderfields Hospital, Wakefield, under twenty-four-hour guard. Despite the seriousness of her injuries, Mrs Clark has been able to give us some information. Pete.’

She’s on her stomach on the wasteground, her bra up and her panties down, his trousers too.

Noble stands:

‘Mrs Clark spent Friday night at the Mecca in the centre of Bradford. Upon leaving the Mecca, Mrs Clark went to queue for a taxi to her home in Bierley. Because the queue was too long, Mrs Clark decided to start walking and flag down a taxi on the way. At some point later, a car pulled up and offered Mrs Clark a lift, which she accepted.’

Noble pauses, shades of George.

He comes in his hand and then he cuts her.

‘Gentlemen, we’re looking for a Ford Cortina Mark II saloon, white or yellow, with a black roof.’

We’re on our feet, practically out the door.

A triangle of skin, of flesh.

‘Driver is white, approximately thirty-five, large build, about six foot, with light brown shoulder-length hair, thick eyebrows and puffed cheeks. With very large hands.’

For later.

The whole room is on fire:

WE’VE GOT HIM, WE’VE FUCKING GOT HIM.

I look at Rudkin, on the edge, impassive, miles, years away.

But it’s not the same.

Alderman is saying, ‘SOCO are checking tyre-marks as we speak, Bradford going door-to-door.’

The knock on the door, the thousand knocks on a thousand doors, a thousand wives with sideways eyes at husbands white as sheets, a thousand sheets.

Noble again: ‘Forensics will be back within the hour, but Farley’s already saying this is our man. Our Ripper,’ he says, spitting the last words out.

Unending.

Oldman stands back up, pausing before his troops, his own private little army:

‘He’s fucked up lads. Let’s get the cunt.’

We’re all up, wired.

Noble’s shouting over the electricity:

‘Into your squads: DS Alderman and Prentice to Bradford, DI Rudkin upstairs, Vice and Admin here.’

I turn and see Detective Chief Superintendent Jobson at the door, the Owl, looking drained and old, eyes red under the thick frames.

I nod and he works upstream through the crowd in the doorway. ‘How’s Bill?’ he’s saying over the noise.

‘Not good,’ I say.

We’re standing off to one side.

Maurice Jobson’s got an arm on my elbow. ‘And Louise and the little one?’

‘OK, you know.’

‘I’ve been meaning to drop by, but with all this…’ he’s looking round the room, the squads heading out, Vice and Admin standing about, Craven watching us.

‘I know, I know.’

He looks at me. ‘Must be tough on you?’

‘Worse for Louise, with Bobby every day and having to go up to the hospital.’

‘Least she’s from a police family. Knows the score.’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘Give them my love, yeah? And I’ll try and get in to see Bill sometime this weekend. If I can,’ he adds.

‘Thanks.’

Then he looks at me again and says, ‘You need anything, you let me know, yeah?’

‘Thanks,’ and we’re gone; him over to George, me up the stairs thinking:

Uncle Maurice, the Owl, my guardian angel.

Rudkin and Ellis are sat in silence in Noble’s office, waiting.

Ellis starts up the minute I come in: ‘You think we’ll have to go back to Preston?’

‘Fuck knows,’ I say, sitting down.

He keeps going, ‘What you think Boss?’

Rudkin shrugs his shoulders and yawns.

Ellis: ‘I reckon we’ll have him by tomorrow.’