‘Right.’
In the lobby, under the on and the off, I hang up.
I open the door, Piggott awake, bringing a bucket of rain in with me.
‘Where you been?’
‘Phone.’
‘Louise?’
‘No,’ and know I should have.
‘Who did you call?’
‘Jack Whitehead.’
‘From the
‘Yeah. You know him?’
‘Of him.’
‘And?’
‘The jury’s still out.’
‘I need a friend, John.’
‘Bob, Bob, you got me.’
‘I need all the bloody ones I can get.’
‘Well, watch him. That’s all.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Just watch him.’
There’s a knock.
Piggott tenses.
I go to the door, say: ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Jack Whitehead.’
I open the door and there he is, standing in the rain and the lorry lights, a dirty mac and a carrier bag.
‘You going to let me in?’
I open the door wider.
Jack Whitehead steps into Room 27, clocking Piggott and then the walls:
‘Fuck,’ he whistles.
John Piggott sticks out his hand and says, ‘John Piggott. I’m Bob’s solicitor. You’re Jack Whitehead, from the
‘Right,’ says Whitehead.
‘Have a seat,’ I say, pointing at the mattress.
‘Thanks,’ says Jack Whitehead and we all squat down like a gang of bloody Red Indians.
‘I didn’t do it,’ I say, but Jack’s having trouble keeping his eyes off the wall.
‘Right,’ he nods, then adds: ‘Didn’t think you did.’
‘What have you heard?’ asks Piggott.
Jack Whitehead nods my way, ‘About him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not much.’
‘Like?’
‘First we heard was there’d been another murder, in Bradford, everyone over there saying it was a Ripper job, his lot saying nothing, next news they’d suspended three officers. That was it.’
‘Then?’
‘Then this?’ says Whitehead, taking a folded newspaper out of his coat and spreading it over the floor.
I stare down at the headline:
RIPPER LETTER TO OLDMAN?
At the letter.
‘We’ve seen it,’ says Piggott.
‘Bet you have,’ smiles Whitehead.
‘A surprise in Bradford,’ I whisper.
‘Kind of puts you in the clear.’
‘You’d think so, yeah,’ nods Piggott.
Whitehead says, ‘You think it was the Ripper?’
‘Who killed her?’ asks Piggott.
Whitehead nods and they both look at me.
I can’t think of anything, except she was pregnant and now she’s dead.
Both of them.
Dead.
Eventually I say, ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Well, I’ve got something else. Another hat for the ring,’ says Whitehead and tips a pile of magazines out of his plastic carrier bag.
‘Fuck’s all this?’ says Piggott, picking up a porno mag.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘How?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Well, you need to,’ he says and hands me a magazine open at a bleached blonde with her legs spread, mouth open, eyes closed, and fat fingers up her cunt and arse.
I look up.
‘Look familiar?’
I nod.
‘Who is it?’ asks Piggott, straining at the upside-down magazine.
I say, ‘Clare Strachan.’
‘Also known as Morrison,’ adds Jack Whitehead.
Me: ‘Murdered Preston, 1975.’
‘What about her? You know her?’ he asks and hands me another woman, Oriental, black hair with her legs spread, mouth open, eyes closed, and thin fingers up her cunt and arse.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Sue Penn, Ka Su Peng?’
Me: ‘Assaulted Bradford, October 1976,’
‘Give the boy a prize,’ says Whitehead quietly and hands me another magazine.
I open it.
‘Page 7,’ he says.
I turn to page 7, to the dark-haired girl with her legs spread, her mouth open, her eyes closed, a dick in her face and come on her lips.
‘Who is it?’ Piggott’s asking.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Jack Whitehead.
Piggott still asking: ‘Who is it?’
But the rain outside, it’s loud, deafening, like the lorry doors as they slam shut, one after another, in the car park, endlessly.
No food, no sleep, just circles:
Her cunt.
Her mouth.
Her eyes.
Her belly.
No food, no sleep, just secrets:
