1977

stabbed.

Then, less than two weeks ago, 32-year-old Marie Watts of Francis Street, Chapeltown, was found dead on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay Park, with her throat cut and several stab wounds to her stomach. She had been depressed and was running away from her boyfriend.

Mrs Campbell was last seen trying to thumb a lift in Meanwood Road, Leeds, just after 1 a.m. on the morning of her death. She is known to have visited earlier the Room at the Top club in Sheepscar Street.

On the night Mrs Richards was murdered she had visited the Gaiety Public House, Roundhay Road, with her husband. She left him in the early evening and he never saw her again.

The Gaiety was also one of the last places Marie Watts was seen alive.

Yesterday, police again renewed their appeal for any member of the public with information to come forward.

The telephone numbers of the Murder HQ at Millgarth Police Station are Leeds 461212 and 461213.

‘Happy?’

I turned round, Bill Hadden in his Saturday sports jacket was looking over my shoulder.

‘Butchered. And I never used savagely and brutally so many times, did I?’

‘More.’

I handed him a folded piece of paper from my pocket. ‘You going to do the same to this?’

Millgarth, about ten-thirty.

Sergeant Wilson on the desk:

‘Here comes trouble.’

‘Samuel,’ I nodded.

‘And what can I do you for this fine and miserable June morning?’

‘Pete Noble in, is he?’

He looked down at the log on the counter.

‘No. Just missed him.’

‘Tuck. Maurice?’

‘Not these days. What was it about?’

‘I’d arranged with George Oldman to see some files. Clare Strachan?’

Wilson looked down at the book again. ‘Could try John Rudkin or DS Fraser?’

‘They about, are they?’

‘Hang on,’ he said and picked up the phone.

He came down the stairs to meet me, young, blond and from before.

He paused.

‘Jack Whitehead,’ I said.

He shook my hand. ‘Bob Fraser. We’ve met before.’

‘Barry Gannon,’ I said.

‘You remember?’

‘Hard to forget.’

‘Right,’ he nodded.

Detective Sergeant Fraser looked short of sleep, lost for words, old before his time, but mainly just plain lost.

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I said.

He looked surprised, frowning, ‘How do you mean?’

‘CID. Murder Squad.’

‘Suppose so,’ he said and glanced at his watch.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Clare Strachan, if you have time?’

Fraser looked at his watch again and repeated, ‘Clare Strachan?’

‘See, I spoke with George Oldman a couple of days ago and we arranged for Chief Superintendent Noble to show me the files, but…’

‘They’re all in Bradford.’

‘Right. So they said if John Rudkin or yourself wouldn’t mind…’

‘Yeah, OK. You better come up.’ I followed him up the stairs.

‘It’s all a bit chaotic,’ he was saying, holding open the door to a room of metallic filing cabinets.

‘I can imagine.’

‘If you want to wait here for a minute,’ he pointed at two chairs under a desk, ‘I’ll just go and get the files,’

‘Thanks.’

I sat down facing the cabinets, the letters and the numbers, and I wondered how many of the enclosed I’d written about, how many I’d filed away in my own drawer, how many I’d dreamt about.

Fraser came back kicking open the door with his foot, a large cardboard box in his arms.

He put it down on the table:

Preston, November 1975.

‘This is everything?’ I said.

‘From our end. Lancashire have the rest.’

‘I spoke with Alf Hill. He seems sceptical?’

‘About a link? Yeah, I think we all were.’

‘Were?’

‘Yeah, were,’ he said, knowing we both knew about the letters.

‘You’re convinced?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I see,’ I said.

He nodded at the box, ‘You don’t want me to talk you through all this, do you?’

‘No, but I was hoping you might know what these mean?’ and I handed him the two file references from Preston:

23/08/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/CTNSOL1A

22/12/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/MGRD-P/WSMT27C

He stared down at the letters and the numbers, pale, and said, ‘Where did you get these?’

‘From the Clare Strachan file in Preston.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘I’ve never seen them before.’

‘But you know what they refer to?’

‘No, not specifically. Just that they’re file references from Wakefield, to a C. Morrison.’

‘You don’t know any C. Morrison then?’

‘Not off the top of my head, no. Should I?’

‘Just that Clare Strachan sometimes went by the name Morrison.’

He stood there, staring down at me, cold blue eyes drowning in hurt pride.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, watching the walls come up, keys turn in the locks. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘Forget it,’ he muttered, like he never would.

‘I know I’m pushing it, but would it be possible for you to check on these?’

He pulled the other chair out from under the table, sat down and picked up the black phone.

‘Sam, it’s Bob Fraser. Can you put us through to Wood Street?’

He put the phone down and we sat in silence, waiting.