‘Look in long run, it doesn’t bloody matter who -’
‘Long run?’ I laugh. ‘I’m the fucking long run, George. Not you.’
He sighs. He rubs his eyes. He looks at me across my old desk -
His eyes empty. His hands shaking. He says: ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
He picks up a file off the desk. He flings it across at me. It lands on the floor. ‘There you go,’ he says.
I pick it up. I open it. I look at the photograph -
‘Was there anything else?’ he sighs.
I look up at him sat behind my desk. I tell him: ‘I want in.’
‘Talk to Angus,’ he says. ‘His call, not mine.’
‘George -’
He stands up. ‘I’ve got a fucking press conference in five minutes.’
The Conference Room, Millgarth Police Station, Leeds.
I stand at the back. I wait. I watch the faces -
Looking for the man who’d been upstairs with George.
There’s a nudge to my ribs. I turn around -
‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Just the man I wanted.’
‘That’s what all the girls say,’ grins Jack, fresh whiskey on his breath.
‘Thought it was someone else from the
Jack laughs. He points down the front: ‘You mean him?’
The young man from upstairs is talking and laughing with the rest of the pack -
Hounds, the lot of them.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Scoop,’ laughs Jack.
‘Very funny, Jack,’ I sigh. ‘His fucking name please?’
‘Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.’
‘Thought that were you?’
Jack rolls his red eyes. ‘Crime Reporter of the Year, if you don’t mind.’
‘And I can see why,’ I say. I look at my watch:
Down the front the side door opens:
Everyone quiet as Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, and Oldman troop out.
‘Here,’ whispers Jack. ‘Your Mandy got any messages for us, has she?’
‘Fuck off,’ I hiss and leave him to it -
The whole bloody lot of them.
I go up the stairs and along the corridor -
Lots of nods and handshakes and pats on the back as I go.
In the Leeds half of the Incident Room, a familiar face:
John Rudkin in a bright orange tie -
‘Boss,’ he says. ‘They let you out then?’
‘Day release.’
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Who can say?’
He nods -
Both staring across at the enlarged photograph of another missing schoolgirl -
Tacked up on the far wall between a map of Morley dotted with pins and flags and a blackboard covered in chalk letters and numbers, her physical measurements and a description of her clothing -
A telephone is ringing:
Somewhere on the other side of the room someone picks it up. They shout something to Rudkin. John picks up the one on his desk. He listens. He looks up at me -
His face full of shadow -
He hands me the phone.
I swallow. I say: ‘This is Maurice Jobson speaking.’
Mandy says: ‘Maurice -’
The telephones all ringing at once, every single fucking one -
‘
People picking them up -
‘
People shouting to Rudkin -
‘
Rudkin picking them up one after another -
‘
Rudkin listening -
‘
Rudkin looking at me -
‘Maurice,’ she’s crying. ‘Maurice -’
I drop the receiver -
‘
The room, the building, the whole fucking place full of shadow:
100 miles an hour back down the motorway -
Lights and sirens -
Into Wakefield -
My new patch -
Patch of sheer fucking, bloody hell.
Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield -
In the shadow of the prison:
The wasteland beside the Dewsbury Road -
Across from St Michael’s.
Drive straight on to the rough ground, two police cars already here -
More on their way;
Door open before the car’s stopped -
Boots in the mud;
George barking at the uniforms -
My uniforms.
I’m out the car, my hand on his shoulder -
‘You don’t work round here any more,’ I tell him. ‘I do.’
‘Fuck off, Maurice!’ he shouts -
But I’m past him, waving at the gallery, telling my lads: ‘Get them out of here.’
Barking my orders to my boys -
360° as I cross the ground;
