1983

The policeman on the desk says: ‘I’m afraid the officer in question is on holiday at present.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘Could you give me his name then?’

The policeman shakes his head: ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Regulations?’

He nods.

‘Then maybe you can help me?’

The policeman stops nodding.

‘You see, I represent Mrs Mary Ashworth, whom I’m sure you know is the mother of the unfortunate James Ashworth who hung himself in one of your cells. At seven fifty-five on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May to be exact. You did hear about this, I take it?’

The policeman says: ‘How might I be able to help you, sir?’

‘Mrs Ashworth would very much like to have her Jimmy’s clothes back and any other stuff that he might have had on him when he was arrested. Not to mention his rather expensive motorbike. You know how sentimental some folks get.’

The policeman looks you up and down. He takes the end of his pen from out of his mouth. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’

You turn and walk back over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights again, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

Not Christmas.

The policeman on the desk making more calls.

You look down again at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of pine disinfectant strong.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand up and go back over.

‘I’m afraid everyone’s over in Rochdale today, so you’ll have to make an appointment for another day.’

‘When?’

He looks down at the big book on the desk in front of him. He starts to turn the pages. He stops. He looks up. He says: ‘Wednesday?’

You shrug your shoulders.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘What time?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Thank you,’ you say.

You walk through the empty market to the Duck and Drake. You go inside. You order a pint. You go to the phone. You take out your little red book. You dial.

The phone on the other end starts ringing -

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

You look at your watch -

Six.

You hang up. You leave your pint on top of the phone. You walk back out into the empty market and the rain.

It’s a Bank Holiday -

Bank Holiday Monday -

Everywhere dead.

On the drive back to Wakefield you stay in the slow lane and keep the radio off.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard has a black eye and a bandage over his left ear. His young daughter is not here. He does not speak. You look at the bottles. You look at the cans. You look at the papers. You buy a Yorkshire Evening Post. You go back outside. You get in the car. You lock the doors. You open the paper. You read:

HAZEL POLICE CROSS PENNINES

Kathryn Williams, Chief Reporter

The detective leading the hunt for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins today denied reports that police were investigating links between the disappearance of Hazel and that of the Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard in 1972.

Susan Ridyard was ten years old when she went missing in March 1972. Her disappearance was at one time linked to the 1974 abduction and murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay for which Michael Myshkin was later convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment in 1975.

Although Myshkin initially confessed to taking Susan and also Jeanette Garland from Castleford in 1969, Myshkin subsequently denied any involvement and was never formally charged in connection with either disappearance. Michael Myshkin has recently begun an appeal against his conviction and life sentence for the Kemplay murder.

However, this lunchtime, Mr Maurice Jobson, the man leading the search for Hazel, described the continued presence of West Yorkshire detectives in Rochdale as ‘merely routine’ and denied any connection between the two disappearances, branding recent press reports as ‘ultimately harmful to police inquiries’.

James Ashworth, a Fitzwilliam man who had been helping police with their inquiries, was found hanged in his cell at Millgarth police station last week.

You put the paper on the passenger seat. You start the car. You head up the road and on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go into the building. You go up the stairs. You take your key out. You stop -

The door ajar.

You look at it. You have your key in your hand. You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You push the door -

It swings open.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You say: ‘Hello?’

There’s no answer.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You say: ‘Hello?’

No answer.

You step forward. You go inside. You walk slowly down the hall. You say: ‘Hello?’

No-one.

You look in the bedroom. The bathroom. The living room. The kitchen -

You shit, shit, shit, shit, shit yourself:

The whole place has been ransacked -

Everything smashed. Everything broken -

Every single thing -

Every single thing except the bathroom mirror:

You put your fingers to the glass -

To the lipstick:

D-10 .