Door opens behind BJ. BJ turn around -
‘SALT!’ screams a man, a vile man in black rags -
‘To preserve the meat.’
BJ push him over and out way. BJ out door and into road. BJ dodging a car and its horns.
‘SALT!’
Blackest night, blackest rain -
Back down hill -
Back into St Mary’s -
Back into Saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.
Big woman silent, other room dead.
‘You just missed her again, love.’
‘Shit.’
‘You tell her BJ was looking for her?’
She nods.
‘About bus station?’
She nods again.
‘Fuck.’
‘If you want.’
Bus station -
Almost midnight:
No-one.
BJ sit down. BJ wait -
She is late:
It is midnight -
It is late:
Thursday 20 November 1975 -
Chapter 19
Dark night past -
Day 5:
One in the morning -
Wednesday 16 July 1969:
Yorkshire -
Leeds -
Brotherton House Police Station:
The Basement -
Room 4, always Room 4:
George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.
George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.
George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -
The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.
I ask George Marsh: ‘For the thousandth fucking time, George, what were you doing on Saturday?’
And for the thousandth fucking time he tells me: ‘Nothing.’
Long dark night past -
Day 5:
Three in the morning -
Wednesday 16 July 1969:
Yorkshire -
Leeds -
Brotherton House Police Station:
The Basement -
Room 4, always Room 4.
We open the door. We step inside:
Bill Molloy and me -
Him with a wide streak of grey in his thick black hair, me with my thick lenses and black frames -
And him:
George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.
George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.
George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -
The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.
I say: ‘Put your palms flat upon the desk.’
George Marsh puts his palms flat upon the desk.
I sit down at an angle to George Marsh. I take a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of my sports jacket. I hand them to Bill.
Bill walks around the room. Bill plays with the handcuffs. Bill sits down opposite Marsh. Bill puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist.
Silence -
Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -
The Station silent, the Headrow silent -
Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.
Bill jumps up. Bill brings his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Marsh’s right hand -
Marsh screams -
Screams -
But not much, not much at all.
I say: ‘Put your hands back.’
Marsh puts them back on the table.
‘Flat.’
He lies them down flat.
‘Nasty,’ says Bill.
‘You should get that seen to,’ I say.
We are both smiling at him -
