1983

Oldman, Alderman, Prentice, Rudkin -

Everyone else in my wake;

Rain in our faces -

Cold and black.

180° I see it -

Big bold letters flapping in the piss:

Foster’s Construction -

Cold and fucking black.

Another 180° and I’m there -

The edge of the ditch;

I stop -

Stop dead:

The air that I breathe, choking me -

The rain;

I look away -

Look up at the bloody grey sky;

I’m crying -

Tears, cold and fucking black;

The air that I breathe, killing me -

I drop to my knees, my hands together:

I see her -

I SEE HER NOW;

On my knees, hands together -

Praying:

In the shadow of his Horns -

Sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.

Dark times -

No darker day -

This Third Day:

Eleven in the morning -

Saturday 14 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

Down the long, long corridor -

Room 1:

Terry Jones, thirty-one, in his black wet donkey jacket at our table -

Terry Jones of Foster’s Construction -

Terry Jones who was working on Brunt Street, Castleford, in July 1969 -

Terry Jones, working where we just found Clare Kemplay in December 1974.

I ask Terry Jones: ‘So tell us again, Terry, what happened?’

And Terry Jones tells me again: ‘Ask Jimmy.’

Back upstairs they’re shitting fucking bricks, already talk of bringing in outside Brass, the fucking Yard even, like we’re some gang of monkeys can’t find our arses without a bloody map, and I’m wishing to Christ there’d been no amalgamation, no West Yorkshire fucking Metropolitan Police and -

‘Maurice?’

Ronald Angus is looking at me -

Chief Constable Ronald Angus -

My Chief Constable.

I say: ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, George will do the Press Conference if you’ve no objections.’

I stand up. I say: ‘None.’

‘Where you going?’ asks Angus.

‘Well, if you’ve no objections,’ I smile. ‘I thought someone ought to try and catch the fucking cunt. If that is, you’ve no objections.’

Long dark times -

Endless dark day -

The Third Day:

Three-thirty in the afternoon -

Saturday 14 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

Down the long, long corridor -

Room 2:

We open the door. We step inside:

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice -

One with a long moustache, the other one with fine sandy hair:

Moustache and Sandy.

And me:

Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -

Thick lenses and black frames -

The Owl.

And him:

James Ashworth, fifteen, in police issue grey shirt and trousers, long lank hair everywhere, slouched in his chair at our table, dirty black nails, dirty yellow fingers -

Jimmy James Ashworth of Foster’s Construction -

Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.

‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.

Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.

Prentice sits down at an angle to Ashworth. He takes a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passes them to Dick Alderman.

Dick Alderman walks around the room. He plays with the handcuffs.

I close the door to Room 2.

Dick Alderman puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist. He leans against one of the walls.

I sit down next to Jim Prentice, opposite Ashworth, watching his face -

In the silence:

Room 2 quiet -

Jimmy Ashworth looks up. He sniffs. He says: ‘You talk to Terry, did you?’

I nod.

‘He tell you same, did he?’

I shake my head. I say: ‘One more time, Jimmy.’

He slouches back in his chair. He sighs. He picks at his dirty black nails.

‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.

Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.

I push an open pack of fags his way. I say again: ‘One last time, Jimmy.’

He sniffs. He flicks his fringe out of his face. He takes a cigarette.

Jim Prentice holds out a lighter.

Ashworth leans in for a light. He looks up across the table at me. He smiles.