Another release, John’s:
‘We have a line of enquiry which is directly connected with the murder of a woman in Manchester and we are following that line of enquiry in the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police area. There is a team of detectives from Greater Manchester who are working with detectives from West Yorkshire. We will be visiting factories in the Bingley, Shipley and Bradford areas and are interviewing all male employees. As to any links with the unsolved murders in West Yorkshire, it is far too early to draw any conclusion and Mr Oldman and myself are keeping an open mind.’
Murphy staring at the tabletop, silent -
An open mind -
I say: ‘Any questions?’
Silence -
‘Break then.’
On the bright stair, John Murphy his head in his hands -
I put a hand on his shoulder -
He looks up, eyes red.
I say: ‘I’m going to head over to Wakefield for the press conference; try and get a word with Maurice as well.’
He nods.
‘You OK to hold the fort here?’
He nods again.
‘I reckon this is a good place to pause, take stock. Also we could do with a recap on the ones that got away: Jobson, Bird, Peng, Clark, and Kelly, yeah?’
‘Right.’
I look at my watch:
Eleven -
I say: ‘I’ll meet you back at the Griffin about sixish?’
‘Fine.’
I stand up.
He looks back down at the stair again.
‘John?’ I say.
He looks up.
‘You’re too hard on yourself.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he says. ‘That’s just it.’
The Road to Wakey Fear -
Rain, rain, and a bucket load of pain:
The Four Horsemen riding on the radio waves, the Ripper laughing at their heels, whip in hand:
2,133,000 record jobless, Helen Smith, the Yorkshire Ripper; all hostages alive and well.
Abba and the football, winter:
The wet lanes, the dark tires, the wet trees, the dark skies, and here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, banging on my head with a piece of rock -
The Wakey turning, braking hard:
Never let her slip away -
And then it was Nineteen Seventy Five again, war across the UK:
Wood Street -
Wakefield, January 1975:
Me and Clarkie sat across from Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:
The Owl.
The Strafford, always the bloody Strafford.
Four dead:
Derek Box.
Paul Booker.
William ‘Billy’ Bell.
And the barmaid, Grace Morrison.
Box, Bell, and Morrison: D.O.A. Christmas Eve 1974.
Booker never going to make it, dead on Christmas Day.
Craven and Douglas: ‘hero cops on the mend’ with a visit and a handshake from the Home Secretary.
January 1975 -
Maurice Jobson, legend, said: ‘Some bloody Christmas that was, eh?’
‘Anything new?’
‘No.’
‘What about Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas?’
‘Doing OK, like the papers say.’
‘Anything more from them?’
‘No. Dougie still can’t remember a thing. Bob, nothing new.’
‘But he’s…’
‘The ranting’s stopped, aye.’
I opened up my notebook and said: ‘So there’s not a lot more than shots fired at the Strafford, they respond, up the stairs, bodies, smoke, four blokes in hoods with shotguns, more shots, beaten, left for dead. That’s it?’
‘That’s your lot,’ nodded Maurice.
‘I’d still like to speak to them.’
Maurice all smiles: ‘And you will, Pete. You will’
But I didn’t.
Two hours later the call from home -
On the dark stair, we miss our step -
There are corridors and passages, some lit and some not, there were doors and there were locks, some will open, some would not.
And that was that, until now -
1980 -
On the dark stair:
I knock twice.
‘Pete,’ he says, on his feet, hand out.
‘This a bad time?’
‘Not at all. Good to see you, Pete.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and sit down across from Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:
The Owl.
‘You’re looking well,’ he says.
‘Really? Thank you,’ I smile. ‘You know why I’m here?’
‘The short straw?’
I laugh: ‘You could say that.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘Slowly,’ I say.
Maurice nods, a sympathetic smile: ‘That’s war for you.’
