‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he says, eyes fixed on Bob Craven coming in late, sitting down next to me.
‘Bradford prostitute, moved to Leeds, but wound up dead under a sofa on waste ground off White Abbey, back in Bradford. Time of death has never been conclusively proven, but must have occurred sometime in the seven days preceding the discovery of the body on Sunday 12 June, 1977.’
‘Furthermore, following the initial discovery, Ryan was not immediately connected to the Ripper. Reasons for this would appear to have been two-fold: scene of crime being Bradford not Leeds, despite the inclusion of Clare Strachan in Preston only the week previously’
‘The second reason was the type of injuries; so while Ryan suffered head injuries, she had actually died from internal abdominal injuries caused by someone jumping up and down on her, which again linked her only to Strachan.’
‘Ryan got herself included thanks to the letter that arrived at the
John Murphy looks up: ‘So, to my mind, that means one of two things: either it was the Ripper or it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t, then neither was Clare Strachan. And that would mean one thing and one thing only: we’d have got ourselves two Jacks, not one.’
At ten-thirty we’re sitting in their over-lit canteen, spread over two tables and six plates of uneaten food, the brightness boring into tired eyes.
There is little talk, DCI McDonald and DS Marshall still poring over their notebooks, the rest of us ordering, indexing and referencing; rationalising the things we’ve read.
‘We should call it a night,’ I say.
There are nods and yawns, Hillman stretching, some talk of a nightcap.
I walk downstairs with Murphy, neither of us saying much.
At the desk, I say: ‘I’m going to walk.’
‘Not fancy a quick one?’
‘Not tonight, John. Thanks.’
‘See you at breakfast then?’ he smiles.
‘If I don’t get a better offer,’ I laugh and say goodnight.
Outside it’s raining and black, the streets empty.
And as I wait to cross at the traffic lights, I watch the cars, the white faces behind the wheels, wondering, making deals, idle threats -
Beneath the Christmas lights on Boar Lane, I walk without direction, suddenly overwhelmed by immense regret and pain, the terrible and familiar sensation of more to come and the impotence that goes with it.
At the door to the Griffin, I have tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, terrible, cold tears.
I take my key from the desk and am walking across the lobby when he rises from his seat -
‘Mr Hunter?’ asks a tall emaciated man with long thin grey hair and features.
I nod.
‘My name is Martin Laws and I’d like to talk with you if you could spare me five minutes?’
The man is wearing black, carrying a hat and a bag -
‘Are you a priest, Mr Laws?’ I ask him.
‘Yes,’ he nods.
‘OK,’ I say, glancing at my watch and pointing at the nearest pair of high-backed lobby seats.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
We sit down opposite each other, him with his hat between his fingers.
‘What can I do for you, Father?’
‘I’m actually here on behalf of Elizabeth Hall.’
‘Yes?’ I say, looking at the black bag at his feet.
‘Eric Hall’s wife? Libby Hall?’
I nod.
‘Mrs Hall saw you on the news, at the press conference. She’s very anxious to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘The murder of her husband.’
I sit back in the chair: ‘Father, with all due respect, I think that falls somewhat outside the perimeters of this present investigation. If Mrs Hall has information about her husband’s death, I’m sure the -’
Mr Laws has his hand raised -
I stop talking.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he says softly, handing me an envelope from his pocket. ‘From what Libby has confided to me, the murder of her husband falls very much inside the perimeters of your investigation.’
I look at the envelope in my hands, reluctant.
‘Please?’ says Laws. ‘I…’
‘Mr Hunter -’
I open the envelope, take out the letter, and read:
I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope -
‘How is she?’ I ask Laws.
‘Not well, but she is very determined to see you.’
‘I can send round one of my team?’
‘She is insistent on speaking to you. Only you.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
Mr Laws nods but says: ‘Now? She’s outside in my car.’
‘It would mean a lot,’ he adds.
I sigh and stand up: ‘OK. Let’s go.’
I follow Martin Laws out of the Griffin and back into the night and the rain, follow him round the back of the hotel, past the Scarborough Public House, down the dark arches and under the railway tracks until we come to an old green Viva parked in the gloom.
Mr Laws taps gently on the passenger window and a frightened white face suddenly springs from the black to the glass -
I jump back, my heart racing.
He unlocks the door.
‘You can talk inside,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait over here till you’re done.’
