I say: ‘You remember we were talking about Eric Hall?’
He nods.
‘His widow came to the hotel last night.’
‘You’re joking?’
I shake my head: ‘With a priest.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Reckons Eric was up to his neck in the Ripper.’
‘Yeah so? Bradford Vice wasn’t he? Bound to be.’
‘Yeah, but above and beyond the call of duty.’
‘Ah, fuck.’
‘He was involved somehow with Janice Ryan.’
‘Fucking never-ending this shit,’ he sighs: ‘Go on.’
‘Says her Eric was even a suspect at one point.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘So was another copper, one from Millgarth; the one that killed himself?’
‘Bob Fraser?’
‘Yep.’
Murphy lights a cigarette: ‘Load of old bollocks though, yeah?’
I nod: ‘Perhaps.’
‘And that was it? That was all she said?’
‘She spelt it out; says that Eric Hall was killed because he knew it wasn’t the Ripper who did Ryan.’
Murphy’s smiling: ‘I might agree with her that there’s a fair chance the Ripper didn’t do Ryan, but she can piss right off about Eric. He was as bent as a two-bob fucking note. We were bleeding going to nick him.’
‘Yep,’ I say, nodding.
Murphy leans forward: ‘I thought he was supposed to be into something with a gang of blacks who were knocking off post offices. Remember that?’
I keep nodding.
‘It went belly up, so they took it out on Eric. And his wife. That’s what we heard, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I feel sorry for her, the poor cow. But I still reckon Eric brought it all on himself.’
‘And her.’
‘And her.’
‘Maurice Jobson was in charge;
‘They never got anyone then?’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘What? That Yorkshire never got anyone? Get away, these blokes haven’t nicked anyone since Michael bloody Myshkin.’
‘No, no – odd Maurice heading up the investigation?’
‘Why?’
‘Well he’s what? Wakefield?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And where was Eric Hall done?’
‘His house?’
‘Yeah, which is Denholme. Bradford.’
‘But Eric was out of Jacob’s Well. They’re hardly going to hand it over to his own mob are they?’
I shrug: ‘Suppose not. But why Maurice?’
‘Fuck knows and, to be honest, who the fuck cares.’
‘Something does bother me, John – but I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘I can: the same old Yorkshire horse-shit we get every time we come over here,’ he yawns. ‘But if you want me to add this to the list, after your mate Tricky Dicky Dawson, then I’ll ask around.’
I can’t tell if he’s pissed off with me, or trying to piss me off -
I push away the cold tea: ‘She said Eric had notes, copies of stuff, some tapes. She gave them to Maurice Jobson, but never heard anything back. She reckons they prove that the Ripper didn’t kill Ryan, and back up a lot of other stuff too.’
Murphy upright, interested: ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I was thinking, you’re doing Janice Ryan right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Eric Hall’s name is bound to be in there somewhere, bound to come up. And Bob Fraser.’
He’s nodding.
‘So why don’t you ask Craven to let you see the file on Eric and the one on Fraser? See if Eric’s tapes and stuff is in there.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Eric’s notes. Anything?’
‘Right. And if it’s not?’
‘She’s got copies.’
‘Yeah, suppose so,’ he says, staring away over my shoulder and out the window.
‘You OK?’
‘Ah, you know,’ he says, standing up. ‘It’s fucking Liz McQueen next, isn’t it?’
The room upstairs -
Smaller and darker than ever -
Another call for the dead, reverse charges:
I say: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’
‘This is me,’ says Murphy. ‘And I’ll keep it brief.’
The room is hushed, Craven a notepad out for the first time, waiting for John to begin:
‘On Monday 28 November 1977, the naked body of a woman was found in Southern Cemetery, Manchester. She was later identified as Elizabeth McQueen, born on October 31 1946 in Edinburgh. McQueen was married with two children and had two cautions for soliciting. Death had resulted from brain damage caused by several blows to the head from either a hammer or an axe. The lower body had a number of lacerations, which had been inflicted after death by a sharp instrument. An attempt had also been made to sever her head. No weapons have ever been recovered.
‘McQueen had been last seen on Saturday 19 November 1977 when she’d left her home in Kippax Street, Rusholme. It has always been the belief that she met her death shortly afterwards.
‘When she left her home she was carrying a handbag which was initially not recovered. A workman found the bag on December 5. Hidden in the lining of the bag was a brand new five-pound note.
‘I was in charge of this Inquiry.’
Murphy pauses, stops dead, then says: ‘And I fucked it up.’
Silence -
‘As I say, our initial search of the crime scene failed to recover the missing handbag. We lost time and we never got it back.’
Another pause, another stop, another silence -
‘Before the bag turned up, I’d come over to Wakefield and met with George Oldman. We’d decided that while there were similarities, there were also several dissimilarities.’
I’m staring down at George’s press release before me:
‘Then we found the bag and the fiver, and the rest you know.’
