1980

‘If we do get him, we’ll probably find he’s had too long on the left breast and not enough on the right. But I don’t regard him as evil. The voice is almost sad, a man fed up with what he’s done, fed up with himself. To me he’s like a bad angel on a mistaken journey and, while I could never condone his methods, I can sympathise with his feelings.’

Warren presses stop.

‘You know who that was?’

‘George Oldman?’ I say.

Philip Evans is nodding: ‘That was Assistant Chief Constable Oldman talking to the Yorkshire Post last week.’

Warren: ‘Thank Christ they called us.’

Silence.

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

Sir John Reed says: ‘Sixteen hours a day, six – sometimes seven – days a week.’

I shrug: ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.’

‘What do you know?’

‘About?’

‘About the whole bloody farce?’

‘Not much more than I’ve read in the papers.’

‘I think you’re being modest, Mr Hunter. I think you know a lot more,’ winks Reed.

I start to speak, but he raises his hand: ‘I think like most senior detectives in this country, I think you feel West Yorkshire have lost the plot, that the Ripper Tape is bollocks, that he’s laughing at us, the British Police, and that you’d like nothing more than to have a crack.’

I return his stare: ‘So is it bollocks? The tape?’

He smiles and turns to Philip Evans, nodding.

There’s a pause before Evans says: ‘There’ll be a press conference later today and Chief Constable Angus will tell them that Oldman’s out.’

I say nothing now, waiting.

‘Peter Noble’s been made Temporary Assistant Chief Constable with sole responsibility for the hunt.’

Again I say nothing, waiting.

Michael Warren coughs and leans forward: ‘Noble’s a good man.’

Nothing, just waiting.

‘But there are already calls for outside help, a fresh perspective etc., so Angus is also going to announce the formation of a brains trust, a Super Squad if you like, to advise Noble’s team,’ continues Warren.

Nothing, waiting.

‘This Super Squad will be Leonard Curtis, Deputy Chief Constable, Thames Valley; William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads; Commander Donald Lincoln, Sir John’s Deputy; Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Science Service; and yourself.’

Waiting.

Sir John Reed lights a cigarette, exhales and says: ‘So what do you think now?’

I swallow: ‘We are to advise?’

‘Yes.’

‘For how long?’

Michael Warren says: Two or three weeks.’

Reed is staring at the end of his cigarette.

I say: ‘May I speak frankly?’

‘Of course,’ says Philip Evans.

‘As a public relations exercise I think we might have some success in diffusing the undoubted criticism the Yorkshire force is going to face over the next week but, as for any practical use we might have, I think we’ll be distinctly limited.’

The whole room is smiling, grey skins and red eyes shining.

‘Bravo,’ claps Sir John Reed.

‘We called you here today,’ says Evans, handing me a thick red ringbinder. ‘Because we would like you to head up a covert Home Office inquiry into these murders, working tinder the guise of this Super Squad. You’ll be able to handpick up to seven officers to work with you; based in Leeds, you will be reporting only to myself here in Whitby. Your brief is to review the case in its entirety, to highlight areas of concern, should any arise, to determine strategies, to pursue all avenues.’

‘And to catch the cunt,’ spits Reed.

I wait, eyes on the prize.

Philip Evans says: ‘Questions?’

Quietly: ‘Why covert?’

Evans is nodding: ‘The public is unlikely to accept two simultaneous investigations. Secondly, nor will the West Yorkshire lads. Thirdly, we don’t want to wash our dirty linen in public etc., should there be any. Morale being what it is these days.’

I look around the room.

Sir John Reed says: ‘So go on, ask?’

‘Ask what, sir?’

‘Why me? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? That’s what I’d want to know.’

‘OK. Why me?’

Reed nods at Michael Warren.

‘Primarily your work with A10,’ says Warren. ‘And the fact that you’ve previously been involved with investigations into the West Yorkshire force.’

‘With all due respect, one investigation was over five years ago and failed to reach any conclusion, aside from making me possibly the most unpopular copper in the North. And the second one was over before it began.’

‘Eric Hall,’ Evans says to the other two.

I look down at the cup of cold instant coffee on the table before me, the light reflecting in its black surface.

‘Hunter the Cunt, they call you,’ laughs Sir John Reed.

I look up at him.

‘That bother you, does it?’ Reed asks.

‘No,’ I say.

‘So there’s your answer.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I make spies of them despite themselves,’ he smiles.

‘General Napier,’ I say.

Sir John Reed has stopped smiling: ‘You know your history.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know my history.’

Outside it’s snowing.

There is blood on my windscreen, a dead gull on the lawn.

I switch on the windscreen wipers and drive back alone across the M62, alone between the articulated lorries crawling slowly along, the weather stark, the landscape empty -

Just murder and lies, lies and murder:

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

It’s after 8:00 when I get home.

Joan is watching TV Eye.

‘They’re repeating that Mind of the Ripper,’ she says.

I sit in front of the TV, watching the faces swim by.

I am forty years old, Joan thirty-eight.