In her cunt.
In her mouth.
In her eyes.
In her belly.
Circles and secrets, secrets and circles.
I ask: ‘MJM Publishing? You checked it out?’
‘I was over there yesterday,’ says Whitehead.
‘And?’
‘Your run-of-the-mill porn publisher. Slipped a disgruntled employee twenty quid for the names and addresses.’
John Piggott asks, ‘How did you find out about it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘An anonymous tip.’
‘How anonymous?’
‘Young lad. Skinhead. Said he’d known Clare Strachan when she was calling herself Morrison and living over here.’
I say, ‘You got a name?’
‘For him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Barry James Anderson, and I’d seen him before. Local. He’ll be in the files.’
I swallow;
‘What files?’ asks Piggott, playing catch-up, years behind.
‘Can’t you have a word with Maurice Jobson,’ presses Whitehead, ignoring Piggott. ‘The Owl’s taken you under his wing, hasn’t he?’
I shake my head. ‘Doubt it now.’
‘You told him anything about any of this?’
‘After that last time we spoke, I went to him to get the files.’
‘And?’
‘Gone.’
‘Fuck.’
‘A Detective Inspector John Rudkin, my bloody boss, he checked them out in April 1975.’
‘April ’75? Strachan wasn’t even dead then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And he never brought them back?’
‘No.’
‘Not even after she did die?’
‘Never even fucking mentioned them.’
‘And you told Maurice Jobson all this?’
‘He worked it out for himself when he tried to pull the files.’
‘Which files?’ asks Piggott again.
Whitehead, foot down, ignoring him again: ‘What did Maurice do?’
‘Told me he’d deal with it. Next time I saw Rudkin it was when they came and picked me up.’
‘He say anything?’
‘Rudkin? No, just took a fucking swing.’
‘And he’s suspended?’
‘Yes,’ says Piggott, a question he can answer.
‘You spoken to him?’
‘He can’t,’ says Piggott. ‘It was one of the stipulations of his release. No contact with DI Rudkin or DC Ellis.’
‘What about Maurice?’
‘That’s OK.’
‘You should show him these,’ says Whitehead, pointing at the carpet of pornography before us.
‘I can’t,’ I say.
‘Why not?’
‘Louise,’ I say.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The Badger’s daughter,’ smiles Whitehead.
Piggott: ‘You going to tell me which fucking files you’re talking about. I think I should know
Mechanically I say, ‘Clare Strachan was arrested in Wakefield under the name Morrison in 1974 for soliciting, and was a witness in a murder inquiry.’
‘Which murder inquiry?’
Jack Whitehead looks up at the walls of Room 27, at the pictures of the dead, at the pictures of the dead little girls and says: ‘Paula Garland.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Yeah,’ we both say.
Jack Whitehead comes back with three teas.
‘I’m going to go see Rudkin,’ he says.
‘There’s someone else,’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Eric Hall.’
‘Bradford Vice?’
I nod, ‘You know him?’
‘Heard of him. Suspended, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about him?’
‘Turns out he was pimping Janice.’
‘And that’s why he’s suspended?’
‘No. Peter Hunter’s mob.’
‘And you think I should pay him a visit?’
‘He must know something about these,’ I say, pointing at the magazines again.
‘You got home addresses for them?’
‘Rudkin and Hall?’
He nods and I write them out on a piece of paper.
‘You should talk to Chief Superintendent Jobson,’ Piggott is telling me.
‘No,’ I say.
‘But why? You said you need all the friends you can get.’
‘Let me talk to Louise first.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jack Whitehead suddenly. ‘You should be with your wife. Your family’
‘You married?’ I ask him.
‘Was,’ he says. ‘A long time ago.’
I stand in the lobby, under the on/off strip lighting, and I die:
‘Louise?’
‘Sorry, it’s Tina. Is that Bob?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s at the hospital, love. He’s almost gone.’
In the lobby, under the on/off lighting, I wait, everything gone.
‘Bob? Bob?’
