1983

BJ look down at carrier bag in BJ’s hand. BJ tip it out on to her bed -

Clothes, make-up, a photograph:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.

‘What is it?’ gropes Walter.

BJ pick photograph up -

‘It’s not her,’ BJ say.

‘Where is she?’ asks Walter.

‘I don’t know.’

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ he whispers, tears on his cheeks.

‘We all are,’ BJ say.

BJ run up hill, past other St Mary’s, up Church Street and on to French -

Fuck, fuck, fuck:

Police cars and an ambulance parked in front of garages -

Last door -

Last door banging in wind, in rain -

Two policemen in black cloaks holding it open as they carry out a body on a stretcher, wind raising a bloody sheet:

A light green three-quarter-length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it, dark brown trousers, brown suede calf-length boots:

A complete wreck of a human being.

A woman is weeping at side of road, her dog barking at first train out of here -

Just like Clare used to.

Then BJ see him, standing at top of street by open door of his car -

Looking at BJ.

He smiles.

BJ run.

Chapter 22

Thursday 17 July 1969:

Apollo 11 starts with a beautiful ride on the way to the moon -

I’m on an ugly ride out to Castleford:

The overture to a new era of civilisation -

The radio full of war songs and bad news:

London Wharf explosion kills five firemen, local girl still missing -

War songs, bad news, and the moon.

The site is visible for two or three miles before we reach it, the skeleton of an enormous bungalow on the top of a hill, its stark white bones rising out of the ground.

‘Must have some bloody brass,’ I say -

Bill smiles. Bill nods. Bill says nothing.

I turn off the main road.

It is raining as we park at the bottom of the hill.

‘He expecting us?’ I ask.

‘Looks that way,’ says Bill -

Two men are coming down the tracks from the top of the hill. They are walking under two large red golfing umbrellas. They are wearing Wellington boots.

Bill and I get out into the drizzle and the mud.

‘Long time no see, Don,’ says Bill to the big man with the Spanish tan -

Donald Foster, Yorkshire’s Construction King.

Donald Foster shakes Bill’s hand: ‘Too long, Bill.’

‘Didn’t expect to see you here today,’ says Bill. ‘Pleasant surprise.’

‘The bad penny,’ winks Foster. ‘That’s me.’

‘Fair few of them too, I hear,’ smiles Bill.

Donald Foster slaps Bill on the back. He laughs and gestures at the other man: ‘Bill, this is John Dawson; a good man and a very good friend of mine.’

Bill sticks out his hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dawson.’

Dawson takes it.

Foster says to Dawson: ‘John, this is Detective Superintendent Bill Molloy; also a good man and also a very good friend of mine.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Superintendent,’ replies the gaunt and paler man -

John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself.

Bill says: ‘Mr Dawson, Don; this is my colleague and friend, Maurice Jobson.’

Don Foster shakes my hand: ‘Bill’s told me a lot about you, Inspector.’

I say: ‘Only the good things, I hope.’

Foster still has my hand in his. He grins: ‘Now where would fun be in that.’

John Dawson has his hand out, waiting. He says: ‘John Dawson.’

Foster lets my hand go. I take Dawson’s. I nod. I say nothing.

Bill is looking up at the top of the rise, at the bones of the bungalow. He says: ‘Mind if we have a look?’

‘Be my guest,’ says Dawson.

‘We’ve buried bodies deep mind,’ laughs Foster.

‘I should bloody well hope so,’ says Bill.

John Dawson hands us his large umbrella.

‘Thank you,’ says Bill.

I say nothing.

We start up the track towards the site. Dawson and Foster are under one umbrella, Bill and I under the other, the umbrellas failing to keep us dry -

Our shoes and our socks sinking into the sod.

Foster strides ahead back up the hill, Dawson beside him. Foster stops. He turns round: ‘Keep you busy behind that desk, do they, Bill?’

‘Not busy enough,’ Bill shouts back.

They are waiting for us when we reach the top, waiting under their red umbrella among the stark white bones.

John Dawson asks: ‘Have either of you seen the film Lost Horizon?’

‘No,’ says Bill.

Dawson shrugs. He surveys the site. He says: ‘It’s my wife Marjorie’s favourite. In the film there’s a mythical city called Shangrila; that’s what I’m going to call this place – Shangrila. It’s going to be her present for our Silver Wedding next year.’

‘Does she know?’ Bill asks.

‘If she does, she’s not saying,’ he smiles.

The rain is falling fast on our red umbrellas, the four of us stood in the foundations, among the white scaffolding, looking out across Castleford and the Aire -

The silence and the grey sky.

‘I’ve designed it to reflect a swan,’ says Dawson.

‘John loves swans,’ nods Don Foster.