1977

Mr Oldman said that as well as forensic evidence, the details of which he was not prepared to discuss, other similarities included:

all the victims were ‘good time girls’ except Rachel Johnson, who could have been attacked by mistake as she made her way home late on Tuesday night.

no evidence of sexual assault or robbery on any of the victims apart from one.

all suffered horrific head injuries and other injuries to their bodies, including frenzied knife wounds.

Last night Rachel Johnson’s Chapeltown neighbours were collecting signatures on a petition calling on the Home Secretary Mr Merlyn Rees to restore the death penalty for murder.

One of the organisers, Mrs Rosemary Hamilton, said: ‘We’re going to go round every house in Leeds if necessary. This kid never did anyone any harm in her life and when they catch her killer he won’t get what he deserves.’

The Press Club.

Dead, but for George, Bet, and me.

‘Some of the things they say he does,’ Bet was saying.

George, nodding along, ‘Slices their tits off, right?’

‘Takes out their wombs, this copper was saying.’

‘Eats bits and all.’

‘Another?’

‘And keep them coming,’ I said, sick.

I staggered round the corner of my road and there he was, under the streetlight.

A tall man in a black raincoat, a hat, and a battered briefcase.

He was standing motionless, staring up at my flat, frozen.

‘Martin,’ I said, coming up behind him.

He turned, ‘Jack. I was getting worried.’

‘I told you, I’m fine.’

‘Been drinking?’

‘About forty years.’

‘You need some new jokes, Jack.’

‘Got any?’

‘Jack, you can’t keep running.’

‘You going to exorcise my demons, are you? Put me out of my fucking misery?’

‘I’d like to come up. To talk.’

‘Another time.’

‘Jack, there might not be another time. It’s running out.’

‘Good.’

‘Jack, please.’

‘Goodnight.’

The telephone was ringing on the other side.

I opened the door and answered it.

‘Hello.’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I’ve got some information concerning one of these Ripper murders.’

A man’s voice, young and local.

‘Go on.’

‘Not on the phone.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not important, but I can meet Saturday night.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘On Saturday. Variety Club.’

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah. Between ten and eleven.’

‘OK, but I need a name?’

‘No names.’

‘You want money I suppose?’

‘No money’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You just be there.’

At the window, the Reverend Laws still under the streetlight, a lynched East End Jew in his black hat and coat.

I sat down and tried to read, but I was thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her hair, thinking of her ears, thinking of her eyes, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her lips, thinking of her teeth, thinking of her tongue, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her neck, thinking of her collarbone, thinking of her shoulders, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her breasts, thinking of the skin, thinking of her nipples, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her stomach, thinking of her belly, thinking of her womb, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her thighs, thinking of the skin, thinking of the hair, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her piss, thinking of her shit, thinking of her hidden bits, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, and praying.

I stood up and turned to the bed, to be under the sheets, thinking of her, touching me.

I stood up, I turned, and there she was.

Ka Su Peng gone.

Carol home.

‘Did you miss me?’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 10th June 1977

Chapter 13

In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand.

And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up.

Someone’s tapping on my face.

I open my eyes.

It’s Bobby.

He smiles, eyes alive, teeth tiny and white.