All the children missing.
You drive out of Morley -
Down Elland Road and into Leeds -
They are playing that record about ghosts again.
You change stations but all you get is -
Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher.
No Hazel -
At the
‘Jack Whitehead?’ she repeats. ‘Who was he?’
‘A journalist,’ you say. ‘Crime.’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him,’ she frowns. ‘Do you know when he last worked for us?’
‘Saturday 18 July 1977.’
She shakes her head again. She picks up the phone: ‘Hi, it’s Lisa at reception. I’ve got a gentleman here asking about a Jack Whitehead who he says was a journalist here up until July 1977.’
She listens. She waits. She says: ‘Thank you.’
You watch her hang up. Her roots need doing.
She looks up. She smiles: ‘Someone will be down in a minute.’
The woman is in her mid-thirties and good-looking. She has a confident walk and a look of Marilyn Webb.
You stand up.
‘Kathryn Williams,’ she says, hand out.
‘John Piggott,’ you reply, holding her hand for as long as you dare.
‘You’re here about Jack Whitehead, I believe?’
You nod: ‘I’m a solicitor and I’ve become involved in an appeal and I know from memory and the microfilms that Jack Whitehead covered the original case.’
She tries to smile. She’s already bored. She says: ‘How can I help?’
‘To be honest,’ you mumble, ‘I don’t know if you can. I know that Jack Whitehead had some sort of accident in 1977 and that he no longer -’
‘Terrible,’ she says. She looks at her watch.
‘But I was hoping somebody might have an address, so I could maybe contact -’
She shakes her head: ‘Last I heard, he was still in hospital.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know which one by any chance?’
‘Stanley Royd.’
You can see red brake-lights through the glass walls of the building, headlights and rain against the revolving doors.
‘I suppose he could be dead,’ you say.
‘Doubt it,’ she says. ‘We’d have heard.’
You nod again. And again.
‘Well,’ she smiles. ‘If there was nothing else…’
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘Thank you very much.’
She walks you to the doors. She says: ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Parrot.’
‘Piggott,’ you smile.
She laughs and squeezes your arm: ‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ you say. ‘Thank you for your time.’
She has her hand out again: ‘Which case was it?’
‘Clare Kemplay.’
She starts to let go of your hand: ‘Whose appeal? Not -’
‘Michael Myshkin,’ you nod.
She drops it.
Chapter 21
BJ awake:
It is morning and there are sirens -
Police sirens.
BJ get up off bench, eyes blinking in grey light -
Heavy smell of diesel -
BJ go into bogs and puke in sink.
Preston Bus Station -
Friday 21 November 1975:
BJ run up hill from centre, back to hostel.
There is no-one in office -
Just fluorescent light flickering on and off.
BJ go upstairs and bang on her door: ‘Clare!’
But there’s no-one, nothing.
BJ try door and it opens. BJ step inside.
Room is trashed and smashed, more than usual -
More than what BJ did last night -
Someone else was here:
BJ turn to leave her room and there he is, standing in doorway.
‘Who is it?’ he asks.
‘It’s me,’ BJ say. ‘Who fuck you think it is?’
He steps out of shadow, arms out: ‘Look!’
‘Fuck,’ BJ say -
‘Look at me!’
His eyes white, his eyes blind.
‘What happened?’
‘They were here,’ he says.
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘What did they want?’
‘You and Clare,’ he says. ‘They turned both your rooms upside down.’
