1983

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah,’ BJ say. ‘Between ten and eleven.’

‘OK,’ Whitehead says. ‘But I need a name?’

‘No names.’

‘You want money, I suppose?’

‘No money.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You just be there.’

Chapter 28

Tuesday 21 March 1972 -

I’m listening to the radio and this is what it’s saying:

‘The two policemen were standing next to a yellow saloon car in Donegall Street when a 100lb gelignite bomb hidden inside exploded, killing them and four civilians instantly and driving broken glass into the faces and legs of dozens of office workers as every window in the street caved in. Limbs were flung into an estate agent’s premises and on to the road while nearly 100 people, most of them young girls, lay in the street covered in the shattered glass and screaming with pain and shock…’

The telephone is ringing.

I switch off the radio. I pick up the receiver: ‘Jobson speaking.’

‘You on fucking strike and all?’ says the voice on the other end -

Badger Bill Molloy -

Chief Superintendent Bill Molloy.

I say: ‘Had a bit of a late one last night.’

‘I heard.’

‘Who’s been blabbing?’

‘Sod them,’ he snaps. ‘We’ll have other things to celebrate tonight.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like fifty fucking grand and a new business partner, that’s what.’

‘He agreed then?’

‘Not quite,’ he laughs. ‘But with a bit of friendly persuasion, he will.’

‘When and where?’

‘Ten o’clock tonight, back of Redbeck.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You about today?’

‘Doubt it, got to go over bloody Rochdale with George.’

‘Rochdale? What the hell for?’

He pauses. He says: ‘You know George, be something and nothing.’

‘What -’

‘Forget it,’ he laughs. ‘See you tonight.’

I start to speak but the line’s already dead.

I switch the radio back on and it says:

‘… In his summing up, the Judge said he believed undoubtedly that the time these two detectives had spent trudging through the slime and the sludge of the underworld, dredging for the truth, had taken its toll and led these highly decorated officers to conspire and corruptly accept money…’

I switch it off again.

The wife comes in. She starts to dust. She says: ‘Who was that?’

‘Who was what?’

‘On the telephone?’

‘Bill.’

‘That’s nice,’ she smiles. ‘About work?’

I stand up. I say: ‘The wedding.’

She stops dusting. She says: ‘Thought it might have been about that little girl.’

‘What little girl?’

‘The one in Rochdale.’

‘What one in Rochdale?’

She nods, the Valium not quite biting: ‘Been missing since yesterday tea-time.’

Into Leeds, one hand on the steering wheel -

The other on the radio dial, searching:

‘… While local police remain optimistic about finding Susan safe and well, senior detectives from both Leeds City and the West Yorkshire Constabulary are expected in Rochdale later today, although police sources refused to confirm or comment on these reports…’

Park off Westgate, up the steps and into Brotherton House -

Everyone talking Northern bloody Ireland.

Up the stairs to top floor and the Boss -

Julie looks up from her typing. She shakes her head.

‘Five minutes,’ I say. ‘That’s all I ask.’

She steps inside. She’s out again within a minute. She’s all smiles: ‘Come back in half an hour.’

I look at my watch. I say: ‘Eleven?’

She nods. She goes back to her typing.

Downstairs in my own office with a cold cup of tea and an unlit cig. I reach down to unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. I take out a file -

A thick file, bound with string and marked with one word.

I know what Bill’s going to say and I don’t give a shit -

Behind his back or not.

I light the cig. I cut the knot. I open the file -

The thick file, marked with one word -

One name -

Her name:

Jeanette.

*

‘Just go straight in,’ smiles Julie.

I knock once. I open the door. I step inside.

Walter Heywood, Chief Constable of the Leeds City Police, is sat behind his desk with his back to the window and the Law Courts. The desk is strewn with papers and files, cigarettes and cups, photographs and trophies.

‘Maurice,’ he smiles. ‘Sit yourself down.’

I sit down across from the Chief Constable -

The short, deaf, blind man for whom it took three cracks and a World War to get in; the short, deaf, blind man who hears and sees everything -

The short, deaf, blind man who asks me: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’

‘Susan Ridyard.’

Walter Heywood puts his hands together under his chin. He says: ‘Go on.’

‘Chief Superintendent Molloy has gone over to Rochdale and…’