1980

‘Not well, no.’

‘But you have met him?’

I nod.

‘In what capacity?’

‘How do you mean in what capacity? In the capacity of watching a football match at Old Trafford, that was the usual capacity.’

‘So you would say you know him socially?’

I nod: ‘To say hello to, yes.’

‘Has he ever been to your house?’

I shake my head.

‘Have you been to his?’

I shake my head again.

‘Did you ever suspect he was a homosexual?’

I look at him, head down in his notes, and I say to the top of his grey head: ‘I had my hopes.’

Angus looks up from his notes: ‘Pardon?’

Smiling, I say: ‘A man can dream can’t he?’

Jobson is smiling behind his pen, watching the face of his boss.

‘Mr Hunter, these are serious questions.’

I shake my head: ‘Whether or not Mr Hamilton is a puff is not what I’d describe as a serious question.’

‘No-one is asking you to describe the questions, Mr Hunter. Just to answer them.’

I look down at my right knee, crossed and over the left, and I say: ‘Go on.’

‘Peter McCardell?’

I nod: ‘Arrested by Manchester Vice, got ten years for various things under Obscene Publications etc. I think he was also involved with prostitutes and some dubious clubs.’

‘You knew him then?’

‘Interviewed him once or twice down the years.’

‘When was he banged up?’

I shake my head: ‘I can’t remember off the top of my head; five, maybe six years ago?’

But I do remember, remember now:

‘I said we have a mutual friend.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Helen.’

‘Helen who?’

‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’

Jobson is watching me, waiting for something -

I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’

‘I asked if he was still inside?’

‘Who?’

‘McCardell.’

‘You tell me.’

‘OK,’ says Angus. ‘How about Roger Muir?’

I nod: ‘Journalist. Don’t know him socially.’

Angus: ‘Donald Ryder?’

I shake my head.

‘Martin Sharpe?’

I nod: ‘Local solicitor. Never met him outside of work.’

‘Michael Taylor?’

I shake my head.

‘Alan Wright?’

I nod: ‘Local businessman. Not socially’

‘What exactly does not socially mean to you, Mr Hunter?’

Voice raised, I say: ‘It means I didn’t know him socially’

Angus looks across the desk at Jobson and then opens a folder on the desk and takes out four photographs -

And I’m thinking of four other photographs, praying they’re not the same -

Four photographs of two people in a park:

Piatt Fields Park, in wintertime.

Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:

A cold grey pond, a dog.

Two people in a park -

One of them me.

Jobson is watching me again, waiting for something -

I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’

‘Will you take a look at these?’ he asks and hands me the four photographs -

I sit back in my chair and look at them.

They’re not the same -

They’re colour, full colour.

‘Look pretty social to me,’ says Angus.

‘Pardon?’

‘Every name I’ve read to you today is present in these photographs. Every name except McCardell, who was in Strangeways.’

‘So? What’s your point?’

‘Look at the photographs, Mr Hunter,’ he sighs. ‘Every person I’ve asked you about is sitting round that table with you, glasses raised.’

‘It was Richard Dawson’s fortieth birthday party,’ I say. ‘It was held at the Midland Hotel and half of bloody Manchester was there.’

‘That’s obvious from the photos, Mr Hunter,’ he smiles. ‘The question is which half? By the looks of these photographs it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, pornographers, and you.’

I start counting, letting him smile – letting that smile get bigger and bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger and bigger – bigger and bigger and bigger until I lean forward and spread the photos across his desk, fingers to the faces, and tell him -

‘Actually sir, I don’t think it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, and pornographers; not unless you’re implying that Chief Constable Smith or Chief Inspector Hook fall into any of those categories.’

Silence -

Silence while Chief Constable Ronald Angus decides whether or not to reach forward and take a magnifying glass to the photos, to the faces under my fingers, silence until -

Until he coughs and looks at Jobson and says: ‘Well we’ve obviously been given erroneous information, Mr Hunter.’

I nod, careful not to gloat, waiting.

‘And I am grateful to you for shedding light on the nature of these photographs,’ says Angus.

‘My pleasure,’ I tell him, unable to resist.

‘However,’ continues the Chief Constable. ‘I’m afraid we’re still going to have to ask you to make yourself available tomorrow afternoon in the hope that you’ll be able to shed similar light on your relationship with Richard Dawson and some of his associates.’

Fuck -

‘Where?’

Fuck, fuck -

‘Here.’