1977

Oldman nodded and pointed at another man.

I sat back in my chair, drained, relieved, the questions and answers still flying around me.

I closed my eyes, just for a bit, and let myself go under.

The dream is strong, black and blinding at first, then slowly settling, hovering quietly behind my lids.

Open my eyes and she’ll still be there:

A white Marks & Spencer’s nightie, soaked black with blood from the holes he’s left.

It’s January 1975, just a month after Eddie.

The fires behind my eyes, I can feel the fires behind my eyes and I know she’s back there, playing with matches behind my eyes, lighting her own beacons.

Full of holes, for all these heads so full of holes. Full of holes, all these people so full of holes. Full of holes, Carol so full of holes.

‘Jack?’

There was a hand on my shoulder and I was back.

1977.

It was George, a copper holding the door for him, the room now empty.

‘Lost you for a minute back there?’

I stood up, my mouth dirty with old air and spit.

‘George,’ I said, reaching for his hand.

‘Good to see you again,’ he smiled. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’

‘You know.’

‘Aye,’ he nodded, because he knew exactly how I’d been keeping. ‘Hope you’re taking it easy?’

‘You know me, George.’

‘Well, you tell Bill from me that he better be taking good care of you.’

‘I will.’

‘Good to see you again,’ he said again, walking over to the door.

‘Thanks.’

‘Give us a call if you need anything,’ he shouted over from the door, saying to the younger officer, ‘Finest journalist I ever met, that man.’

I sat back down, the finest journalist Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman ever met, alone in the empty room.

I walked back through the heart of Leeds, a tour of a baked, bone-dry hell.

My watch had stopped again and I strained to hear the Cathedral bells beneath the noise; the deafening music from each shop I passed, the car horns punched in anger, hot angry words on every corner.

I looked for the spire in the sky, but there was only fire up there; the midday sun high and black across my brow.

I put my hand to my eyes just as someone walked straight into me, banging right through me, hard; I turned and watched a black shadow disappear down an alley.

I chased into the alley after it but heard horse’s hooves fast upon the cobbles behind me but then, when I turned, there was only a lorryload of beer trying to edge up the narrow street.

I pressed my face into the wall to let it pass and came away with red paint down the front of my suit, all over my hands.

I stepped back and stared at the ancient wall and the word written in red:

Tophet.

I stood in the alley in the shadows of the sun, watching the word dry, knowing I’d been here before, knowing I’d seen that shadow before, somewhere before.

‘It’s not a right good day to be walking around covered in blood,’ laughed Gaz Williams, the Sports Editor.

Stephanie, one of the typists, wasn’t laughing; she looked at me sadly and said, ‘What happened?’

‘Wet bloody paint,’ I smiled.

‘So you say,’ said Gaz.

The banter was light, same as it always was. George Greaves, the only one who’d been here longer than me or Bill, he’d got his head down on his desk, snoring his lunch off. There was local radio on somewhere, typewriters and telephones ringing, and a hundred ghosts waiting for me at my desk.

I sat down and took the cover off the typewriter and got a blank sheet and brought it up ready for business, back at my roots.

I typed:

POLICE HUNT FOR SADISTIC KILLER OF WOMAN

Detectives are hunting a killer who murdered Mrs Marie Watts, aged thirty-two, and dumped her body on playing fields not far from Leeds city centre. The body of Mrs Watts, of Francis Street, Leeds, was discovered by a jogger early yesterday morning.

It was lying on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, near Roundhay High School and the Roundhay Hall Hospital. Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, head of Leeds CID, said she had severe head injuries and other injuries, on which he did not wish to elaborate. The killer was sadistic and possibly a sexual pervert.

Sensationally, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman confirmed that police are investigating possible links to two other unsolved murders of Leeds women:

It is believed that the latest victim, Mrs Watts, had moved to Leeds from London in October last year. The police would like to speak to anyone who has any information about Marie Watts, who was also known as Marie Owens. The police would also like to speak to Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, a friend of Mrs Watts. It is believed that Mr Barton could have vital information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life. It was stressed, however, that Mr Barton is not a suspect.

Assistant Chief Constable Oldman also appealed for any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field last Saturday night to come forward. The police are particularly interested in the drivers of a white Ford Capri, a dark red Ford Corsair, and a Landrover. Mr Oldman stressed that they were attempting to trace these drivers for elimination purposes only and any information would be treated in the strictest confidence.

Anyone with information should contact their nearest police station or the Murder Room direct on Leeds 461212.

I pulled the paper and read it back.

Just a pile of rusty little words, all linked up to make a chain of horror.

I wanted a drink and a cig and not here.

‘You finished already?’ said Bill Hadden over my shoulder.

I nodded and handed him the sheet, like it was something I’d found. ‘What do you think?’

Out of the window there were clouds coming, turning the afternoon grey, spreading a sudden sort of quiet over the city and the office, and I sat there, waiting for Bill to finish reading, feeling as lonely as I’d ever felt.

‘Excellent,’ grinned Bill, his wager paying out.

‘Thanks,’ I said, expecting the orchestra to start up, the credits and the tears to roll.

But then the moment was gone, lost. ‘What are you going to do now?’

I leant back in my chair and smiled. ‘I quite fancy a drink. And yourself?’

This big man, with his red face and grey beard, sighed and shook his head. ‘Bit early for me,’ he said.

‘It’s never too early, only too late.’