‘He’s not had a change of heart about publishing the other half of the correspondence?’
Hadden shrugged, ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ve thought about it a lot actually, and I think he’s making a mistake. One that’ll come to haunt him. And us.’
‘In what way?’
‘The last one, it contained a warning right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, when he kills again and it comes out that we had a letter, a fucking warning letter, I don’t think the Great British Public’ll be too impressed that we didn’t see fit to share that warning with them.’
‘He’s got his reasons.’
‘Who? George? Well I hope they’re bloody good ones.’
Bill Hadden was staring at me, pulling at his beard. ‘What is it Jack?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is it?’
‘Just his fucking arrogance.’
‘No, it’s not. I know you too well. There’s something else.’
‘Just this whole business. Just the Ripper. The letters…’
‘Seeing Sergeant Fraser can’t have helped?’
‘No, it was good actually.’
‘Brings it all back though?’
‘It never goes away, Bill. Never goes away.’
It was night when I left the office and went for the car, a black wet summer’s night.
I drove over the Tingley Roundabout and down through Shawcross and Hanging Heaton, down to the Batley Variety Club.
It was Saturday night and the best they could come up with were the New Zombies, unable to compete with the shows on the piers.
I parked, wished I was drunk, and walked across the car park to the canopy that covered the entrance.
I paid and went inside.
It was half-empty and I stood at the bar with a double Scotch, watching the long dresses and cheap tuxs and checking the time.
Down the front a skinny woman in a low-cut pink dress that swept the floor was already drunk and arguing with a fat man and his moustache, leaning in to shout and show a bit of tit.
The man slapped her arse and she threw a drink and tipped a plate down him.
It was ten-thirty.
‘Enjoying the wildlife, Mr Whitehead?’
A young man in a black suit and skinhead was at my elbow, a carrier bag in his left hand.
‘You’re one up on me,’ I said.
I’d seen him before, but I was fucked if I knew where.
‘Sorry. No names.’
‘But we’ve met before, I think?’
‘No, we haven’t. You’d remember.’
‘OK, whatever you say. Do you want to sit down?’
‘Why not?’
I ordered a round and we went over to a booth near the back.
He lit a cigarette and tilted his head back, sending smoke up to the low ceiling tiles.
I sat there, watching the crowd until I asked him: ‘Why here?’
‘Police eyes can’t see me.’
‘They looking?’
‘Always.’
I took a big bite out of my Scotch and waited, watching him twisting his jewellery, making smoke rings, the carrier bag on his lap.
He leant forward, a smile wet on his thin lips, and hissed, ‘We can sit here all night. I’m in no hurry.’
‘So why are the police looking?’
‘What I got in here,’ he said, patting the plastic bag. ‘What I got here is big fucking news.’
‘Well, let’s have a look…’
He pressed the palm of his hand into his forehead, ‘No. And don’t fucking rush me.’
I sat back in my seat. ‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘I hope so, because when this thing breaks it’s going to rip the fucking lid off this whole place.’
‘You mind if I take some notes then?’
‘Yes, I do. I do fucking mind. Just listen.’
‘OK.’
He stubbed out his cigarette, shaking his head to himself. ‘I’ve had dealings with you people before and, believe me, I had some serious doubts about meeting you, about giving you this stuff. I still do.’
‘You want to talk money first?’
‘I don’t want any fucking money. That’s not why I’m here.’
‘OK,’ I said, sure he was lying, thinking
His eyes were moving through the people as they came in, saying, ‘When you listen to what I’m going to say, when you see what’s in here, then you’ll understand.’
I pointed to the empty glasses. ‘You want another?’
‘Why not?’ he nodded and I signalled to the barmaid.
We sat there, saying nothing, waiting.
The barmaid brought over the drinks.
The house lights dimmed.
He leant forward, glancing at his watch.
I leant in to meet him, like we were going to kiss.
He spoke quickly but clearly:
‘Clare Strachan, the woman they say the Ripper did in Preston, well I knew her. Used to live round here, called herself Morrison. She was mixed up with some people, not very nice people, people I am very fucking afraid of, people I never ever want to meet again. Understand?’
I sat there nodding, saying nothing, nodding, thinking lots:
The lights at the front changed from blue to red and back again.
His eyes danced across the room and back to me.
‘I made a lot of mistakes, got in way over my head, I think she must have done the same.’
I stared straight ahead, the band about to come on. He tipped his Scotch into his pint.
‘You say, she must have. Why?’ I said. ‘What makes you think that?’
He looked up from his pint, head on his lips, and smiled. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
From the front of the stage a man in a velvet dinner jacket bellowed into a loud microphone:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, they say we’re dying, say we’re dead and buried, well they said the same about these boys but here to prove them wrong, back from the dead, from beyond the grave, the living dead themselves, please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’
The blue curtain went up, the drums started, and the song began.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said.
He turned back to me. ‘Spot of late night reading,’ he said and passed the bag under the table.
I took it and started to open it.
