1980

‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.

‘Helen.’

‘That’s a nice name,’ I say. ‘My favourite.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiles.

‘Bye,’ I say.

‘Bye.’

Back in the office, I call Philip Evans:

‘Hello, this is Peter Hunter. Could I speak to Mr Evans please?’

‘I’m afraid Mr Evans is not at work today.’

‘OK. I’ll call back on Monday then.’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re not expecting Mr Evans back until after Christmas.’

‘Really? OK. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Bye.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back. I flick through my address book, looking for Evans’ home number -

It’s not there.

I pick up the phone and call his office again but the line’s engaged.

After a few minutes I try again but it’s still engaged, so I go back to the cards and the letters in my tray.

*

At about three, I call Leeds:

‘Can you put me through to Chief Superintendent Murphy, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Hang on.’

I hang on -

‘Chief Superintendent Murphy’s not here.’

‘Thank you.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back.

I pick up the phone and call Philip Evans’ office again:

No-one’s answering.

I go back to the cards and letters in my tray.

At about half-four, I call Wakefield:

‘Can you put me through to the Chief Constable, please?’

‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Just a moment, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

I wait -

‘This is Chief Constable Angus speaking.’

‘Sorry to bother you, sir. This is Peter Hunter.’

‘What can I do for you Mr Hunter?’

‘I’d like to arrange to have some time with a couple of your senior detectives, ones who’ve been involved in the inquiry.’

‘I see.’

‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, provided we can spare them.’

‘Of course.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.’

‘OK. When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘I know, but we’re going to be into Christmas soon. It won’t take long.’

‘I’ll give Pete Noble a call and see what we can do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Til have him call you. You at Millgarth?’

‘No, sir. I’m in Manchester.’

‘Manchester? Any progress with Bob Douglas?’

‘No, sir.’

A pause, then: ‘I see, so when will you next be deigning us with your presence over here?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘OK, then I’ll either have the lads waiting for you or a message.’

‘I can call back later?’

‘No, you get off home Mr Hunter.’

‘Thank you,’ I’m saying, but the line’s already dead.

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, listening to the radio:

The football scores coming in:

Thirteen-nil.

After a few minutes I get up, take my coat from the back of the door, switch out the light and leave, locking the door behind me -

Back a minute later to check, then gone again.

The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -

The scene of the crime:

It’s dark as I park on the empty wasteland, just a police car sitting in the gloom, here to watch:

DEATH -

All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -

Trains pass, a dog barks, a man screams words I can’t catch.

I stumble across craters still filled with dead water, torch in hand, nodding at the officers in the car -

Before me, the building looms – dark and towering, eyes dead, here to stare:

DEATH -

A figure walks, dreadful -

Trains pass, a dog screams, a man barks words I can’t catch -

I turn, but there’s no-one.

In the doorway I switch off the tapes in my head, here to listen:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

I step inside -

The workbenches, the chains and the tools; the machines silent.

I step forward, listening: DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -