Pause -
Thirteen seconds, count them:
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen seconds of hiss, then -
And then -
Stop.
Silence -
Seconds, minutes of silence in the dark room -
Minutes of silence until -
Until I say: ‘This was received June 20, last year. I’m sure you’re all probably as sick to death of the sound of that voice as I am, – but I want to spend some time on this today because it has had such a bloody bearing on the investigation, both in what came next and what it meant for all that had gone before.’
Murphy, McDonald and Hillman, the three of them nodding along -
Craven in the corner -
No Marshall.
‘Right, as you know, they’d had the letters; four in all: the first three were all in June 77, two addressed to the
No reaction.
‘The third one was to George Oldman, but sent to the
Murphy: ‘That’s where they got the call last night?’
I nod: ‘Right, but that call aside for now, the tape and all four letters are without any real doubt the work of the same man. All five items share the same handwriting, blood groupings from saliva tests, and the same traces of oil and minerals. The first three letters and the tape make specific reference to the murder of Clare Strachan in Preston, while the fourth letter talks about the murder of Doreen Pickles in Manchester.’
‘May I?’ interrupts Hillman.
‘Go on.’
‘That fourth letter was also postmarked Preston.’
I nod: ‘And that is?’
‘Scene of the Strachan and Livingston murders.’
‘Good point, Mike,’ I say. ‘So the amount of publicity the recording, the letters generated, the sheer number of leads as you’ve all seen – it’s staggering.’
‘Overwhelming,’ says Alec McDonald.
‘But let’s remember,’ says Murphy. ‘It was a bloody leak that got them into this.’
‘That’s right,’ I say, again with a glance at Craven. ‘They’d made no decision on whether to go public with the tape. In fact, word is George was dead against it, especially since he’d always claimed the June 77 letter to the
‘Bad time for them,’ Murphy continues. ‘They were leaking like a bloody sieve, all them stories about faked overtime, dubious expenses, it was all coming out.’
Craven in the corner has his eyes closed, head forward.
‘And three months later,’ I say, quietly. ‘It got even worse.’
I open the notebook and read:
‘On the morning of Sunday 9 September last year, the body of Dawn Williams was found hidden in a pile of rubbish behind an empty terrace house in Ash Lane, behind the Bradford University at which the deceased was a student.
‘She had been killed by a single blow to the back of her skull. Her clothing had then once again been repositioned and she had been stabbed nine times in the trunk, mostly in the abdominal area.’
I stop and hand them the copies I’ve made of the lists of witnesses, the lists of police officers, the lists of vehicles, lists of the possible tyre widths and so on -
Twenty-three pages of lists.
I continue: ‘It was after this murder that Oldman issued the following information and instructions to all police forces in the North of England -
‘Taken from the introduction to the revised and updated