1980

while their

Chapter 8

Lit match, gone -

Dark Jack. Lit match, gone -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through his eyes: Winter, collapse -

Dark Jack. Winter, collapse -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through his eyes:

1980 -

Out, out, out.

Thursday 18 December 1980.

Stanley Royd Hospital, Wakefield.

I’m sitting in the car park, my back on fire -

In flames, waiting for Hook, striking matches -

The hum of pop times, Northern songs -

Listening to the news:

Civil Service strikes, air strikes, Ripper strikes,

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie -

Out, out, out.

No mention of Douglas and his daughter -

No mention of the war -

The murder and the lies, the lies and the murder.

Black and white, the sky and the snow -

Black and white, the photographs and news.

A tap on the window -

‘Morning,’ mouths Hook through the window.

I get out of the car -

It’s freezing -

The air grey, the trees black -

The nests still empty.

‘Nice place,’ says Hook, a black doctor’s bag in one hand.

‘Lovely,’ I smile and lead the way up the steps to the inside -

Again, the warm and sickly sweet smell of shit.

The woman in white puts down the black telephone and says: ‘Can I help you?’

Warrant cards out, Hook says: ‘We’re here to see Jack Whitehead.’

She nods.

I add: ‘Is Leonard about?’

She shakes her head: ‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Quit.’

‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it? He was here on Tuesday’

‘Called up yesterday, said he’d had enough.’

‘We’ll need an address,’ says Hook. ‘And a surname,’ I say.

She looks from Hook to me and back again -

‘Marsh,’ she frowns. ‘Lived up Netherton way, I’ll have to look out the address.’

‘If you would,’ smiles Hook.

There’s a pause -

‘Can you take us up?’ I ask.

She shakes her head: ‘I’ll have to call Mr Papps, he’s in charge. He can take you up.’

She picks up the phone and asks for Mr Papps.

‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white.

We wait, standing amongst the furniture, watching the skin and bones shuffling past, watch them coming to a stop, standing, watching us watch them, waiting.

‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white again.

I turn away from their stares, reading the etched tracts in the lower green half of the wall:

Here house hex’d.

‘What do you think?’ asks Hook.

‘About?’

‘This Leonard Marsh bloke?’

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘He was hardly a bloke. Twenty at most. I thought he was a trustee or something. Didn’t realise he was staff.’

‘He had access to Whitehead?’

‘Yep,’ I nod.

‘Gentlemen?’

We turn back from the green and cream wall -

‘Mr Papps?’ says Hook.

The small chubby man in the blue blazer with the gold buttons nods: ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

‘No problem,’ says Hook. ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of Greater Manchester and I’m Chief Inspector Roger Hook, also of Manchester.’

Mr Papps keeps on nodding, shaking our hands: ‘Yes, the call was a bit vague. I’m not sure really how I can…’

I tell him: ‘Unfortunately, at this stage, it’s difficult to be anything other than vague. So I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with us, if you don’t mind.’

He’s still nodding: ‘You were on the telly the other day, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I came here on Tuesday. I believe I spoke to you on the phone?’

‘My assistant,’ says Mr Papps. ‘Is this about the Yorkshire Ripper then?’

‘No,’ says Roger Hook. ‘It’s not.’

I say: ‘I spoke to one of your patients, Jack Whitehead.’

Mr Papps, still nodding, thinking too much: putting two and two together and getting four.

‘We’d just like to clarify a few things Mr Whitehead said and also get a bit more background on him,’ I half- lie.

‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’ asks Hook.

‘This way,’ says Mr Papps and he leads us into a big cold room with big cold windows, all big black shadows thanks to the big black trees outside -

We sit shivering in more second-hand furniture.

‘What do you want to know?’ asks Papps.

‘Everything,’ says Hook. ‘Starters, when was Mr Whitehead admitted?’

‘Here?’

We nod.