1980

‘Yep,’ I say -

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

The memories neither cold nor lost:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

A pub robbery that went wrong -

Three dead at the scene, three wounded, one of them fatally -

Two of the wounded, coppers -

Suspects escaped, armed police and roadblocks on the streets of Yorkshire, possible links to Republican terrorists given the proximity to Wakefield Prison.

Twenty-four hours later and it was four dead, two wounded policemen -

Nothing adding up -

Inquiry ordered -

January 1975 and in we came -

A10:

Me and Clarkie -

Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark, a friend.

Four weeks in -

A frantic phone call, a two-hour drive across these damned Moors again, home to bloody sheets and another miscarriage.

Clarkie took over, Murphy stepping in as his deputy

Two weeks on -

Clarkie collapses: pains in the chest, brought on by exhaustion.

Murphy in charge, Hillman as deputy.

Two more weeks -

Clarkie dead: pains in the chest -

Everybody home -

Case closed.

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

Memories neither cold nor lost.

‘Been a while since you seen George then?’ says Murphy, back.

‘Can’t bloody wait,’ I spit.

‘Brought your phrasebook?’

‘Phrasebook? No bastard speaks over there.’

‘Bloody heathens,’ nods Murphy.

I stare out at the lanes of lorries, the Moors beyond, the black poles and the telephone wires -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.

Murder and lies, war -

My War:

Murder and lies, lies and murder.

‘What kind of reception you think we’re going to get?’

‘Cold,’ I say.

‘Bloody Yorkshire.’

His.

Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:

Friday 12 December 1980 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and bad memories of thwarted investigations, of the walls of silence, the black secrets and the paranoia -

Professional hells.

January 1975 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and terrible memories of the thwarted, of the walls of silence, the black blame and the guilt -

Personal hells.

January 1975 -

Impotent prayers and broken promises, reneged and returned -

December 1980:

Wakefield, barren Wakefield.

West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Laburnum Road, Wakefield.

We park our black Rovers amongst the other black Rovers and go inside out of the rain to be directed back out, across the road to the gymnasium of the Training College.

We are early.

But I can hear the press waiting on the other side of the building, waiting -

Early.

Another uniform sends us down another corridor to a small room beside a kitchen.

And here, in amongst the catering, we find the Yorkshire Brass:

Angus, Oldman, and Noble -

Hiding and already beaten, standing between their sandwiches and their better days, their Black Panthers and their M62 Coach Bombings, their Al Shootings and their Michael Myshkins, those better days a long time gone.

‘Chief Constable Angus?’

He turns around.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he sighs.

The room is silent, dead.

I say: ‘This is John Murphy’

‘Yes,’ he says, not taking Murphy’s hand. ‘We’ve met before.’

Some other men step forward from the back of the room, familiar faces from conferences and old Gazettes, Oldman and Noble dropping back out into the corridor.

Angus introduces Murphy and myself to Bill Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads, to Donald Lincoln, Sir John Reed’s Number Two at the Inspectorate, and to Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Services, a man I’ve met a number of times before.

Leonard Curtis, the Thames Valley DCC, has been unable to make the trip and Sir John himself left for the Caribbean early this morning.

‘Crisis, what crisis?’ smiles Murphy as we’re ushered out the door, towards the gymnasium, towards the waiting pack.

The Pack -

Yesterday’s shock has turned to anger, outright anger.

They are baying for us, smelling wet blood and wanting it fresh.

Lots of it.

A suit from Community Affairs shepherds us through the double doors and into the fray, a sea of hate.

We wade down to the long plastic tables at the front, eight of us, Murphy waiting by the exit.

We take our seats; the pack sitting before us, photographers and TV crews standing over us, everyone jostling for an angle.

Outside the large gymnasium windows it’s almost dark, a black ocean, the sheets of glass reflecting back the bodies of the press, their lights, their cameras, their actions.

Angus taps his microphone.

I am staring up at the ropes dangling from the ceiling.

‘Gentlemen,’ begins Angus. ‘As you are aware, last night I attended an emergency meeting of the West Yorkshire Police Committee which was called in light of the confirmation of Laureen Bell as the thirteenth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.