1980

‘Same with a lot of folk.’

Moving fast now: ‘How did they meet?’

‘Bradford, when Dougie first started.’

‘Of course,’ I nod.

‘Wasn’t there long before he was transferred,’ she’s saying, staring off into the heavy gold curtains. ‘But then when he got shot and there was all that business and then they got the house over there, well I think they just had less chance to see each other.’

‘But they got on well?’

She frowns: ‘He wasn’t right was Dougie – not after the shooting.’

‘So I hear.’

‘But would you listen to me?’ she says, suddenly. ‘I’m as bad as them that talk about me, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Better off dead, kicking him out like that – that’s what they say about him; what Eric said. Better off dead – just like they say about me.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Better off dead, that’s what they say.’

I say: ‘Mrs Hall, I’m afraid Bob is dead.’

She tugs at the skin of her neck and says: ‘When?’

‘Last week. I thought you would have heard.’

She shakes her head: ‘No.’

‘He was murdered.’

Tugging at the skin of her neck, shaking her head: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking out at the road and the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me -

‘It was Eric’s worst nightmare that, you know?’ says Mrs Hall suddenly.

‘What was?’

‘Being kicked out like Dougie was. That and having to do time.’

‘Bob Douglas was hardly kicked out. Got a load of brass.’

‘Eric always said he’d kill himself rather than lose his job or go inside.’

‘That’s not an uncommon sentiment,’ I say.

‘Suppose that’s why they hate you so much. Call you what they do.’

Thinking, Saint Cunt -

Saying: ‘I suppose it is.’

‘Why Eric hated you.’

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I say: ‘It mightn’t have come to that.’

She smiles: ‘That’s not true, Mr Hunter. But thank you.’

I look at my watch -

When I look up, Mrs Hall says again: ‘What would you do?’

‘Pardon?’

‘If they threw you out?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about prison? Could you do that?’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Would you think about killing yourself? Suicide?’

‘No.’

Then she says quietly: ‘He was all right was Dougie. Caught that Myshkin bloke, didn’t he?’

‘He did,’ I say and stand up -

‘You’re going?’

‘I better had.’

She stands up.

I walk over to the door -

She comes up behind me and opens it.

I say: ‘She didn’t say where she was going I suppose, did she?’

‘Helen? No.’

‘Well, thank you for your time again,’ I say, then add: ‘And you’re absolutely certain no-one else’s been to see you or called you in connection with Eric and Janice Ryan?’

‘I’m certain.’

‘Looks like I’ll have to be giving the Sunday Times a call,’ I say, eyes on the night.

‘Does sound like someone’s been telling you lies.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ I sigh. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Doubt it’ll be the last either,’ she smiles.

I take the A644 down into Brighouse and then make my way through Kirklees and back into Batley, stopping for a look at the black shell of RD News, still smouldering in the white flurries of snow, car lights picking out the flakes as they pass, Pakistanis and Chinamen coming and going, in and out, the windows of the Chop Suey and the chemists all boarded over.

On the Ml again, outskirts of Leeds -

The radio on, when:

‘Police have still been unable to identify the body of a man discovered this afternoon in the burnt- out flat above a newsagents on the Bradford Road, Batley, which was destroyed by fire late last night. Police and fire investigators were not initially treating the blaze as suspicious, however police confirmed tonight that they were appealing for witnesses to come forward. A police spokesman refused to speculate on the cause of both the fire and the man’s death but did confirm that arson had not been ruled out.’

I’m on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on, screaming into the Yorkshire night:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

Millgarth, Leeds:

Looking for Marshall -

Looking for Murphy -

Looking for anyone, upstairs and down.

Ripper Room half empty; forty eyes on me in the door and then back down into their books and their papers, the files and the photographs, Christmas streamers strung from corner to corner across the ceiling.

I swipe a paper off an empty desk and head next door -

Dead:

The fuck were they?

The Evening Post headline:

Batley Blaze Body Found.

I skim it:

Firemen investigating the cause of last night’s fire at a Batley newsagents on the Bradford Road made a grim discovery late this morning when the body of an unidentified man was found in the first floor flat above the shop where the fire was thought to have started. The body was removed to Pinderfields Hospital for a post-mortem and identification.

Both the newsagents and flat were badly damaged in the fire which also caused extensive damage to adjoining properties and left nine people needing hospital treatment. Neighbours told the Evening Post that they heard three loud explosions at the time and believe the fire may have been caused by gas canisters which were stored on the premises. There was a shock among local people at the fatality and surprise that the flat had been occupied.

I reach for a phone and try to get through to Pinderfields, find out who’s doing the post-mortem, but they’ve all gone home or they’re lying.