HISS -
STOP .
HISS -
STOP .
HISS -
STOP .
Silence -
Nothing:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 -
Nine thirty.
Nothing but -
Twelve pale faces, some flabby and some gaunt, twelve faces and twenty-four eyes staring at me -
I stand up -
‘Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?’ I ask Clement Smith. ‘In private.’
He stands and says to Roger Hook: ‘My office.’
Hook and I walk towards the door, twenty-four eyes on me.
‘And bring that,’ says Smith, pointing at the tape recorder.
We follow him down the corridor.
In his office, Hook plugs in the recorder -
‘Can we hear it again?’ says Hook.
Smith nods -
Hook presses play:
HISS -
STOP .
HISS -
STOP .
HISS -
STOP .
HISS -
STOP .
Silence, again silence -
Just the rain black upon the window, running -
The city grey below, swimming -
Drowning.
Roger Hook says: ‘What’s that last line?’
‘That’s my name,’ I say, looking at the Chief.
Smith swallows, says nothing.
‘Those words,’ I say. ‘Whatever they are, I’ve heard them before.’
Smith: ‘Where?’
‘Yesterday I went to see a man called Jack Whitehead. He was a journalist on the
‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook.
‘He’s in Stanley Royd Hospital in Wakefield,’ I continue. ‘Anyway I went to see him because he was involved with Eric Hall. Eric Hall was Bradford Vice and was supposed to be pimping Janice Ryan who, as you know, was Ripper victim number six.’
Smith and Hook are staring at me, blank.
‘Ryan was also the girlfriend of a Sergeant Robert Fraser, who was Ripper Squad.’
‘He was the one who gassed himself?’ asks Hook.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Anyway, there seems to be a school of thought in the West Yorkshire force that some of these
