uniform who bags it and takes it away -
Richard Hall looks round, confused.
‘You’ll get it back Richard. Don’t worry,’ says Noble.
He takes a big swig from the glass, swallows and says: ‘This bloody house.’
I nod, thinking the same, thinking about Joan.
‘Have you got anywhere you can go?’ asks Noble. ‘Anyone we should call?’
‘I’ll be right,’ says Richard Hall.
‘Let’s take you down the hospital, get everything out of the way.’
We all stand up and turn to the door -
Helen Marshall is stood in the doorway.
She moves to one side as Noble and a uniform take Richard Hall outside, Noble turning and asking me: ‘You going to be OK to get back?’
I nod.
‘See you later then,’ he says, looking at Marshall.
I nod again and walk back into the front room, Marshall following.
I sit back down on the sofa -
She sits down next to me.
The clock’s ticking.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I had to go home.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was worried.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, swallowing.
‘How did you hear about this?’
‘Martin Laws.’
‘Laws? Reverend Laws?’
She nods.
‘He called you at home? At the hotel?’
‘At home.’
‘What’s he got your home number for?’
‘Leave it, Peter. Please?’
‘And how did he know?’
‘Said the son had called him.’
‘Fucking hell,’ I say, standing up and going into the kitchen.
A uniform is stood in the back door, smoking a cigarette.
I stand there, under the clothes rack, in front of the washing machine.
She comes up behind me and puts a hand on my arm: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What a mess,’ I say. ‘What a fucking mess.’
She drives me back through the night, through the dark towns and villages, the snow then sleet then rain, down the deserted streets and roads, the empty hills and fields, the rain then sleet then snow, everywhere dead, everyone dead, everything dead, and I’m wondering how long it’s been like this:
Night -
Dark, deserted, and empty night -
Thinking about October 1965 and Brady and Hindley and all that came after, me a Detective Sergeant back then, twenty-five and freshly wed, that dark, deserted, and empty night David Smith called Hyde Police Station -
Digging ever since -
Thinking,
‘Joan?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the bed all covered with pages from the
‘Peter? What’s happening?’
‘Nothing. Someone’s there with you?’
‘There’s a car outside, yes.’
‘Anyone call?’
‘Clement Smith.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, just to see everything was all right. Asked if you were there.’
‘Good of him to call.’
‘You know Roger Hook stopped by as well?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘Just after the first car came.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes, just to check everything was OK.’ I say: ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Wish you were here though.’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I tell her, looking at my watch:
Wednesday 24 December 1980.
There’s a knock at the door -
‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘There’s someone at the door.’
‘Drive carefully,’ she says.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and go to the door -
It’s John Murphy.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘All things considered,’ I smile.
‘What a night, eh?’ he sighs.
‘Yeah.’
‘You coming down, going over to Millgarth, what you doing?’
‘I don’t know. Got a million things to get sorted before tonight. What about you lot?’
‘We’ve gone about as far as we can, for now.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘When we going to be back over here?’
‘Monday’
‘They’ll be happy about that,’ he nods.
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Let’s all meet at Millgarth at two. Tell you lot what’s been going on, then we can all head home.’
‘That’d be nice,’ says Murphy.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ I say. ‘I did try and get hold of you.’
‘I know,’ he shrugs. ‘Just kept missing each other.’
‘Didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop or anything like that.’
‘I know.’
