1980

He’s just sat there, waiting, watching the door.

Angus is on his way from Wakefield and again I’m wondering why the Chief Constable’s office is over there and not here in Leeds, not here in his biggest city, not closer to his second largest, Bradford.

Then the door opens and here he is -

No knock -

Noble standing to change places, Angus sitting down in his seat, me in the same chair -

Angus: ‘Gentlemen?’

Noble’s gushing: ‘There’s a couple of things we need to get straight…’

Angus isn’t listening, just looking at me.

‘… an office next to the Murder Room,’ Noble’s saying.

Angus stands up: ‘Let’s have a look then.’

We follow him out of the door and up the corridor, up towards the Murder Room, the Ripper Room, the telephones ringing and the typewriters clattering, up to a small windowless room next door.

A couple of uniforms are carrying boxes and bin-bags out.

Those are for you to use,’ says Noble, pointing at two grey metal filing cabinets on the other side of a brown table.

‘Do you have the keys?’

Noble sighs: ‘I’ll be sure to get them for you.’

‘And for the office itself?’

He nods once.

‘So this is OK?’ asks Angus.

‘Phone lines?’

‘How many do you need?’

‘Two. Minimum.’

‘OK. Tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. Now what about the files themselves?’

‘What about them?’

‘The procedure? How do we get access to them?’

‘Just ask me,’ says the Chief Constable.

Noble’s closed the door, the three of us standing around the table, the bare bulb almost at eye-level.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’d like access to copy each of the files that pertain to the Ripper Inquiry.’

Angus smiles: ‘You know how much bloody stuff that is?’

‘No, but I imagine it’d be a lot.’

‘It is.’

‘But I still need access to it all.’

‘This is an ongoing active investigation. These files are constantly being updated and reviewed.’

‘I would hope so. But the fact remains that I need access to them.’

‘To a large extent, without a guide, they’ll be meaningless.’

‘Then if you can supply a guide that would be a great help. But obviously, without ready access to the files I can’t do the job I have been asked to do by Sir John and the Home Office.’

Angus’s face has changed, benign and kindly Uncle Ron gone: ‘Obviously. And I appreciate that but, Mr Hunter, for your part you must also appreciate that I can’t have these files just wandering off here and there.’

‘Obviously’

‘And the copying alone’ll be a huge undertaking.’

‘Then just grant us the access we need.’

Noble’s staring at Angus, Angus at me, me at him -

Eventually Angus says: ‘We’ll put you another desk in here, a couple more chairs. I’ll provide you with a guide, a liaison officer. Your people ask him to get them the files they need; he’ll provide, log and replace them as required.’

‘Thank you.’

He looks at his watch: ‘One o’clock?’

Noble and I nod.

‘One o’clock,’ repeats Angus and opens the door for me.

It’s eleven by the time I get back to the Griffin.

They’re sat there, waiting.

I lay it out.

They mutter, roll their eyes, and take an early lunch.

Upstairs, I dial Whitby:

Philip Evans is away for the rest of the day.

I lie down on the bed, my thoughts scrambled messages, a migraine headache sparring with the pains in my back, jarring with the radio:

Old science fiction and future histories, the news from nowhere, the screams from somewhere -

Hoping for something more, I close my eyes.

When I open my eyes it’s 12:30, the pain still here -

In my back, behind my eyes.

I get up, wash my face, and take the lift downstairs.

Outside it’s stopped snowing but the sky is almost black with heavy cloud and premature night.

I walk through the sludge and the mud to the Kirkgate Market and Millgarth, freezing.

The rest of them are waiting for me by the desk.

I lead the way upstairs.

Noble is waiting outside the Ripper Room, waiting to introduce us.

‘I believe you’ve actually met?’

Bob Craven has his hand out, half the Ripper Room crowding out into the corridor.

‘What were you back then, Bob?’ laughs Noble.

‘Just a plain old Sergeant,’ Craven smiles.

‘Well, times change; Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter meet Detective Superintendent Robert Craven.’

We shake hands, the grip cold and tight:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

The pub robbery that went wrong.

Four dead, two wounded policemen -

Sergeant Robert Craven, wounded hero cop battles for life etc, etc, etc.

‘You look a little better than the last time we met,’ I say.

He laughs: ‘You don’t.’

‘Bob’s going to be the liaison,’ says Noble.

I say nothing.

‘Your guide.’

Nothing, waiting for Noble to keep on justifying it:

‘Bob’s been involved from day one. He’s worked a lot of the cases, worked Vice, probably forgotten more than most of us’ll ever know.’

‘That would be a shame,’ I say.

Noble stops: ‘You know what I mean, Mr Hunter.’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘The keys?’ I ask. ‘Did you get the keys?’