‘And you were both there the night Carol’s second husband murdered her?’
‘Yes.’
‘His name was Michael Williams?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was found to be insane and is now in Broadmoor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, at his trial, you were singled out for criticism by the judge, Mr Justice Caulfield, were you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And by Dr Eric Treacy, the Bishop of Wakefield?’
‘Yes.’
‘And didn’t Jack Whitehead, didn’t he hold you responsible for Carol’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think that Jack’s grief, the grief over the death of his wife, a death he blames on you, that this grief led to his suicide attempt in 1977?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Yes, yes, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘You still visit Jack? In Stanley Royd?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Laws,’ I say. ‘On these visits, has Jack ever given you anything?’
Laws pauses and then says: ‘No.’
‘Never given you any books, letters, or cassettes?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever given anything to him?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a bunch of grapes?’
‘It’s against the regulations.’
‘But people break regulations; that’s what they’re there for.’
‘The people or the regulations, Mr Hunter?’
‘Both.’
‘You’re a policeman. Not everyone else thinks like that.’
‘Know a lot about the police, do you Mr Laws?’
‘No.’
‘Know a lot about Helen Marshall though, don’t you?’
‘Is that what this is about? Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you? Privately?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Hunter, I can’t tell you that.’
‘She wants your help though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
I grab the sleeve of his raincoat, cold and wet, grab it and turn him to face me: ‘Tell me!’
He’s shaking his head, asking me: ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re going to try and fucking exorcise her or whatever it is you fucking do.’
‘Sticks and stones, Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘But this is my Father’s house, so please…’
‘Fuck off!’ I shout, standing up: ‘She’s not going to end up here like Libby Hall, not going to end up like Carol fucking Whitehead.’
‘Please…’
‘Leave her alone or I’ll kill you,’ I say, pulling him up by his coat.
‘You don’t believe in demons, Mr Hunter?’ Laws is laughing. ‘Don’t believe in them, do you?’
‘No!’
‘After all you’ve seen, all they’ve done to you?’
‘No!’
‘You still don’t believe in them?’
‘No!’
‘All those miscarriages, those…’
And I punch him once, hard -
Breaking his nose, dark blood across his pale skin -
My arm back and coming in again when -
When Murphy gets a hold of me, a hold of my arm, pulling me back, pulling me away, pulling me off, dragging me back, dragging me away, dragging me off -
Blood on my knuckles -
Tears on my face -
Tears and rage -
Raw.
Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound John Murphy asking me:
‘What the fuck was that all about?’
‘He’s an evil man and he’s got inside Marshall’s head, I know he has.’
‘Long as it’s only her head he’s inside.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say.
‘Pete, he’s just a dirty old priest. Probably a puff.’
‘No, he’s…’ I’m shaking my head, saying: ‘I don’t know what he is.’
‘I’ll tell you what he could be,’ says Murphy. ‘He’s a priest who could bloody well press charges, and then you’d be fucked – boat you’re in.’
I’m nodding: ‘I know, I know.’
‘Go home,’ says Murphy. ‘Please -’
‘Home?’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Joan’s folks or wherever, anywhere but bloody Yorkshire.’
‘Got an interview with Angus at two,’ I say, looking at my watch:
11:22:12 .
‘Where?’
‘Wakefield.’
Murphy furious: ‘You’re fucking joking?’
I shake my head.
‘Why there?’
‘They’re too busy to keep coming over to Manchester.’
‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it. The whole bloody thing.’
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you all be back at work?’
‘Monday week,’ he says. ‘If they let us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, there’s talk of another force coming in,’ he sighs. ‘And to be honest with you Pete, I don’t bloody
