He doesn’t -
He says: ‘No evidence or written statements have been provided to me, but I’m sure this investigation…’
‘Investigation?’
‘No, that’s too strong a word – this inquiry
‘How long?’
‘About a month, I should think.’
‘I have to be back in Leeds on Monday’
He coughs and sits forward slightly in his chair and says: ‘I have been authorised by your Police Committee to invite you to take extra leave. You will not be going back to Leeds and you can consider yourself off the Ripper Investigation.’
‘For now or forever?’
‘Forever.’
‘You’ve spoken to Philip Evans, Sir John Reed?’
‘Yes. It’s been agreed that Chief Superintendent Murphy will take over the investigation, using your team.’
I say: ‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘I cannot say.’
I look at Maurice Jobson -
He’s looking at the floor.
Angus says: ‘I can tell you that it has absolutely nothing to do with Leeds or the Ripper Investigation.’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Well, I’m telling you.’
‘Well, let me tell you something: I have no intention of accepting any free leave. If you have the grounds for a suspension, then suspend me. Otherwise, I will continue with my duties as an Assistant Chief Constable.’
Ronald Angus stands up: ‘Mr Hunter, it is now my intention to ask you to leave your office and these headquarters right away’
‘What?’
Maurice Jobson stands up next to him.
Me: ‘You’re joking?’
Angus shakes his head.
Jobson is looking past me, out of the window behind me.
Slowly I stand, looking around the office -
The Christmas cards and the unopened post in the tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, my whole office -
But it doesn’t feel like my office -
Because it isn’t my office -
I’m choking -
Trying not to sway as I stand there -
Trying to think -
I reach for my briefcase and I open it, sweeping the cards and the unopened post into it -
And I stare at the photographs and the certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations; their awards, their commendations, thinking:
And I walk to the door -
Trying not to stumble, briefcase under my arm -
And I open the door.
Angus says: Two o’clock tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘Meet us here at two o’clock tomorrow please.’
And I just nod and walk out into the corridor -
And I stand there, in the corridor, until Jobson comes up behind me.
This way,’ he says and leads me over to the lift.
He presses the button and we wait.
The lift arrives and the door opens -
He says: ‘Sorry about your house.’
I look at him -
He looks away.
Outside, outside in the car park -
Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:
14:36:04 -
Struggling with the car door and my briefcase -
Slumped behind the wheel:
Struggling, slumped and fucked -
In the reserved space that still says:
Someone’s tapping on the glass -
I open my eyes:
The policeman is saying:
‘I’m sorry, you can’t park here.’
‘It’s reserved.’
And I switch on the engine and the headlights in the reserved space that says:
No name -
Only:
I drive out of Manchester, through Wilmslow, and on to Alderley Edge.
I turn on to the Macclesfield Road.
There are no fire engines tonight.
And I pull up on the road and park there, the drive covered in the debris -
The house, what’s left of our house in silence -
Our home -
Gone -
Lit match, gone.
I get out of the car and pick my way up the drive through the debris until I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, again -
Tears in my eyes -
Unable to stop the tears, the fear -
Unable to stop the fear -
And I walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, and I keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room -
The War Room -
Everything gone -
Everything but the fear -
