1980

it.’

After a few minutes I say: ‘I’ve got to go to Whitby.’

‘It was him then?’ she asks, face still away.

‘Yes,’ I say, thinking -

Everyone gets everything they want.

I drive alone from Alderley Edge across the Moors, alone between the articulated lorries crawling slowly along the M62, the weather stark and grey, the landscape empty but for telegraph poles.

At 7:00 the radio breaks the news to the rest of the world:

‘The Yorkshire Ripper has claimed his thirteenth victim, as police confirmed that Laureen Bell, aged twenty, was killed by the man responsible…’

I switch off the radio, thinking -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

War:

It is Thursday 11 December 1980.

I arrive in Whitby at 11:00 and park in the drive of the large new bungalow, alongside three expensive cars.

There’s sleet in the sea-spray, freezing gulls wheeling overhead, the wind screaming through a thousand empty shells.

I ring the doorbell.

A tall middle-aged woman opens the door.

‘Peter Hunter,’ I say.

‘Come in.’

I step into the bungalow.

‘Can I take your coat?’

‘Thanks.’

‘This way,’ she says, leading me down the hall to the back of the house.

She knocks on a door, opens it, and gestures for me to go inside.

Three men are sat on the sofa and chairs, grey skin and red eyes, silent.

Philip Evans stands up: ‘Peter? How was the drive?’

‘Not so bad.’

‘What would you like to drink?’ asks his wife from the doorway.

‘Coffee would be nice.’

‘Have to be instant, I’m afraid.’

‘Prefer it,’ I say.

‘Ever the diplomat,’ laughs Evans.

‘Everyone else OK?’

The other two men nod and she closes the door behind her.

‘Let’s get the introductions out of the way and then we can get on,’ smiles Philip Evans, the Regional Inspector of Constabulary for Yorkshire and the North East.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester force. Peter, this is Sir John Reed, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary.’

‘We’ve met before,’ I say, shaking his hand.

‘A long time ago,’ says Sir John, sitting back down on the sofa.

‘Of course,’ nods Philip Evans. ‘And this is Michael Warren, from the Home Office.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking the thin man’s hand.

Evans points to a big chair with wide arms: ‘Sit down, Pete.’

There is a soft knock on the door and Mrs Evans brings in a tray, setting it down on the low table between us.

‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she says.

‘Thank you.’

There’s a pause, just the wind and Mrs Evans talking to a dog as she retreats back into the kitchen.

Philip Evans says: ‘We’ve got a small problem.’

I stop stirring my coffee and look up.

‘As I mentioned on the phone, there’s been another murder. A nurse, twenty years old, outside her halls of residence. Leeds again.’

I nod: ‘It was on the radio.’

‘Couldn’t even give us a day,’ sighs Evans. ‘Well anyway, enough is enough.’

Michael Warren sits forward on the sofa and places a small portable cassette recorder beside the plastic tray on the coffee table.

‘Enough is enough,’ he echoes and presses play:

A long pause, tape hiss, and then:

‘I’m Jack. I see you are still having no luck catching me. I have the greatest respect for you George, but Lord! You are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when I started. I reckon your boys are letting you down, George. They can’t be much good can they?

‘The only time they came near catching me was a few months back in Chapeltown when I was disturbed. Even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective.

‘I warned you in March that I’d strike again. Sorry it wasn’t Bradford. I did promise that but I couldn’t get there. I’m not quite sure where I’ll strike again but it will be definitely some time this year, maybe September, October, even sooner if I get the chance. I am not sure where, maybe Manchester, I like it there, there’s plenty of them knocking about. They never learn do they George? I bet you’ve warned them, but they never listen.’

Thirteen seconds of hiss, then:

‘Take her in Preston, and I did, didn’t I George? Dirty cow. Come my load up that.

‘At the rate I’m going I should be in the book of records. I think it’s eleven up to now isn’t it? Well, I’ll keep on going for quite a while yet. I can’t see myself being nicked just yet. Even if you do get near I’ll probably top myself first. Well it’s been nice chatting to you George. Yours, Jack the Ripper.

‘No use looking for fingerprints. You should know by now it’s as clean as a whistle. See you soon. Bye.

‘Hope you like the catchy tune at the end. Ha. Ha.’

Reed leans forward and switches off the cassette just as Thank You for Being a Friend starts.

‘As you know that was June last year,’ says Warren. ‘What you won’t know is that Home Secretary Whitelaw immediately approved the use of the Police National Computer to back up covert surveillance operations of vehicles in the West Yorkshire area, to use birth and school registers to cross-reference these against all males born in Wearside since 1920. He also secretly approved the release of DHSS records to trace all males who have lived or worked in Wearside in the past fifty years. So far they’ve interviewed and eliminated 200,000 people, done over 30,000 house to house searches, taken over 25,000 statements, and spent the best part of four million pounds.’

‘And most of it on bloody publicity,’ says Sir John Reed.

‘Flush out the Ripper,’ whispers Philip Evans.

Sir John snorts: ‘Some bloody plan that was. 17,000 fucking suspects.’

‘Some bloody plan,’ repeats Michael Warren, putting in another cassette tape, pressing play again:

‘Every time the phone rings I wonder if it’s him. If I get up in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about him. I feel after all this time, I feel that I really know him.’

I look across at Reed, the grey skin and red eyes.

He’s shaking his head.