I turn away. I nod at Dick Alderman.
Dick takes two small steps from the wall. Dick smacks Jimmy Ashworth hard across the face.
The boy falls from his chair on to the floor.
Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says to Jimmy Ashworth: ‘Be this one next time, lad.’
Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor. He plonks him back down in his seat.
‘Are we ready now?’ I ask.
‘I told you,’ he says.
I turn away. I look at Dick Alderman -
‘No, no,’ Ashworth screams. ‘No, wait…’
We wait:
‘I told you, we were hanging about for Gaffer. But he never come and it was raining so we were just arsing about, you know, drinking tea and stuff. I went over Ditch to have a waz and that’s when I saw her.’
‘Where was she, Jimmy?’
‘Near top.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I just froze, didn’t I?’
‘That’s when Terry came over, is it?’
He nods.
‘When you was all frozen?’
Jimmy Ashworth sniffs. He says: ‘Yes.’
I turn away. I nod.
Dick takes two steps from the wall. Dick smacks Ashworth hard across the face.
Ashworth falls from his chair again on to the floor.
Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says: ‘That was last with left, lad. I promise you.’
Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor again. He plonks him back down in his seat.
‘The truth please, Jimmy?’
‘I must have gone back,’ he moans. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘You want that gentleman over there to help jog that memory of yours, do you, Jimmy?’
‘No, no,’ he screams again. ‘No, listen will you…’
We listen:
‘I went back to shed, you’re right. I was hoping Gaffer would be there because he’d know what to do. But it was just Terry, wasn’t it?’
‘What about the others?’
‘They were off in van somewhere.’
‘So you and Terry Jones, the two of you went back over to Ditch?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Terry telled me to phone you lot.’
‘So that was what you did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which phone you use?’
‘One on Dewsbury Road.’
‘We’ll check, you know that, don’t you?’
He nods.
‘Is that everything, Jimmy?’
Jimmy Ashworth nods again.
I look at Dick.
Dick shrugs.
I say: ‘Thank you, Jimmy.’
Dick takes the handcuffs off his knuckles. He steps out into the corridor.
Jim Prentice stands up. He says: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’
I wait until he’s out in the corridor with Dick. I lean across the table. I bring the lad’s head towards me. I whisper into Jimmy’s ear: ‘One last question.’
Ashworth looks at me from under his fringe, his face swelling beneath his eyes.
I ask him: ‘What’s your Gaffer’s name?’
‘Mr Marsh,’ he whispers back.
‘George Marsh?’
He nods -
He nods. My heart pounds -
My heart pounds. My fists clench -
My fists clench. There is blood in my mouth.
I brush his long lank hair out of his face. I touch his cheek. I hold his cheek. I say: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’
He nods.
‘Not a word,’ I tell him. ‘Not a word.’
He nods again.
I stand up. I step out into the corridor -
Dick and Jim are waiting.
I look at my watch -
It’s almost five:
They’ll be finishing the post-mortem -
The little thing cut to bits for a second time -
George Marsh sitting down for his tea.
I look up. I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor -
Familiar footsteps -
Bill Molloy coming towards me -
Retired Detective Chief Superintendent
The black hair gone grey, his skin a terrible yellow.
I close the door to Room 2. ‘Bill?’ I say. ‘What you doing here?’
Bill Molloy tries to see over my shoulder. He turns back to me. He winks: ‘Helping hand, that’s all.’
I lock the door. I dial
I listen to it ring. It stops -
‘Netherton 3657, who’s speaking please?’
‘Is your dad there?’
‘No, he’s -’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘Hospital? What’s wrong with him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Which hospital?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I speak to your mam?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to see me dad.’
‘When she gets back, will you -’
There’s a knock at the door. I hang up.
Back upstairs with the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass in their nice new suits and polished shoes with their nice new sheepskins hanging by their trophies and their tankards, the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass with their beer guts and their wallets
