1980

‘Go on, rim then,’ I spit -

‘Fuck off,’ he says, stepping outside. ‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with – you.’

Face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised in the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I shout -

‘You’re dead.’

In the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, the garage door banging in the wind, in the rain -

‘Dead.’

In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and weep -

Fucking weep -

Four black and white photographs -

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them me.

Four black and white photographs on the seat beside me -

Four black and white photographs and one piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

One piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

One piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

‘Clare Morrison,’ I say aloud. ‘Clare fucking Morrison.’

In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and dry my tears.

I get out and open the boot and when I’ve got the bag of Spunks and got the Exegesis, when I’ve got them from under the sea of socks and diaries, the handkerchiefs and the tie, I get back inside and start looking for Issue 3, but it’s not there -

One of the missing issues.

I stuff the Spunks back, thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head -

And I look back down at the piece of paper on the seat beside me -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head:

‘Why Clare Strachau?’ I asked. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’

‘Strachau?’ he was saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachau’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

Stop -

Rewind:

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

Stop:

Lying piece of shit -

I start the car, thinking:

‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with.’

Richard Dawson lives in West Didsbury in a large, white and detached bungalow which had been designed by the architect John Dawson as a wedding present for his younger brother and his bride Linda -

I park on the road at the bottom of their drive and walk up the gravel to the front door.

Little Cygnet says the sign on the gatepost.

I press the chimes and look out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, trying to remember the last time I was here.

I turn back to press the bell again and there’s Linda -

Linda in a blouse and skirt, looking like she hasn’t slept in a week.

‘Hello, love,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

But she’s already crying and I put my arms round her and lead her back inside, closing the door, back into the cold, quiet house -

We sit down on the cream leather sofa in the gloom of their all-white lounge, Kelly Monteith on the TV without the sound.

And when she’s stopped shaking in my arms, I stand up and walk over to the mirrored drinks cabinet and I pour two large Scotch and sodas -

I hand her one and she looks up from the sofa, her eyes red raw, and she says: ‘What’s going on Peter?’

And I shake my head and say: ‘I’ve no idea, love.’

‘How’s Joan?’

‘You heard about the house?’

She nods: ‘You staying with her parents?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘What about you? Where are the kids?’

‘With my parents.’

‘What have you told them?’

‘That their Daddy’s gone away’

‘Linda,’ I say. ‘You got any idea where he’s gone?’

She shakes her head, the tears coming again: ‘Something’s happened to him, I just know it has.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I say.

‘He would have called me, I know he would have.’

‘What about the house in France?’

‘That’s what everyone says, but he wouldn’t – not without saying anything.’

‘Has anyone been in touch with the local police in France?’

‘That Roger Hook, he said they would.’

I sit down and take her hand: ‘When did you last see Richard?’

‘It’s been a week now.’

‘Last Sunday?’

She nods.

I squeeze her hand: ‘He tell you where he was going?’

‘He said he was going to sort things out.’

‘Sort things out?’

She nods again: ‘I thought he might mean he was going to see you.’

I shake my head: ‘He did call me.’

‘When?’

‘Would have been Saturday night.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Said he was worried about Monday, about going back to see Roger Hook.’

She looks up: ‘You think he was worried enough to run off?’

‘I don’t know, love. Do you?’

She looks back down at the drink in her hand and says quietly: ‘I don’t know anymore.’

‘Linda, love,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘How much did he talk to you about work?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he usually talk to you about his day at the office?’

She nods: ‘A bit.’

‘Did he mention people’s names? Sound off if he was upset?’