1983

bulging in those nice new suits, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Brass plus one ex-Brass:

Badger Bill Molloy -

The helping hand.

Plus one guest Brass:

Detective Superintendent Peter Noble -

The man who nicked Raymond Morris.

Ronald Angus, fingers in a church beneath his chin: ‘The Hunslet gypsy camp -’

Fuck, I’m thinking -

‘George,’ says Angus. ‘Would you care to brief the troops on the latest.’

Here we fucking go again:

‘Witness has given us a positive sighting of a white Ford Transit in Morley last Thursday night. This witness has been shown photos taken by surveillance at the Hunslet camp of a similarly described van and we now have a positive ID. I’ve got officers over in Rochdale picking up the Lamberts who also made a statement about a white van and some gypsies spotted around the time of Susan Ridyard’s disappearance,’ pants Oldman.

‘When we going to hit the bastards?’ asks Dick.

‘Midnight,’ says Oldman.

Prentice: ‘Bring the cunts back here?’

Oldman: ‘Split them between here and Queen’s.’

‘Briefing will be downstairs at ten,’ nods Angus. ‘Anything else?’

Bill Molloy looks across the table. He says: ‘You’re very quiet, Maurice.’

‘Not like you,’ smiles Oldman.

‘Not a crime, is it?’ I say.

Bill looks at me. He says: ‘It’s a coincidence, Maurice.’

‘What else could it be?’ I nod -

In my nice new suit and polished shoes with my nice new sheepskin on the wall, my beer gut and my wallet bulging in that nice new suit -

I nod because there’s nothing more to say -

They’re going to die in this hell -

We all are.

I drive out of Wakefield -

Up to Netherton.

I park at the end of Maple Well Drive -

The night here now.

All the bungalows but one have their lights on -

All the bungalows but number 16.

I get out -

I walk along the road.

Their house dark -

No van parked outside.

I go up the path -

Fucking bird table on the small lawn;

I ring the doorbell:

No answer.

I try again -

No answer.

I go round the back -

The curtains not drawn;

No fire left on -

Nothing.

I go back down the path -

Back to the car.

I get in and I wait -

I wait and I watch;

Wait and watch -

Nothing.

It’s gone nine when I turn into Blenheim -

Hearts cut, leaves lost;

I park in the drive. I open the car door. I spit -

That taste in my mouth;

I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water -

Ugly moonlight and black rain;

The bottoms of my trousers, my socks and shoes, muddy -

Devil’s Ditch.

I open the downstairs door. I go up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5 -

‘Maurice?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me, love.’

The door opens without the chain and there she is -

So truly fucking beautiful.

‘I saw her,’ she says.

I nod.

She takes my hand. She pulls me towards her -

‘I can’t,’ I say.

She looks at me -

‘I have to go back.’

‘She had wings, Maurice. Bloody wings -’

I nod.

‘I saw her.’

‘I know.’

She squeezes my hand -

‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say.

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

She squeezes my hand again -

‘Lock the door,’ I tell her.

There are three envelopes on my desk. I sit down with an unlit cig. I open the top envelope. I pull out two sheets of typed A4 and three enlarged black and white photographs:

The post-mortem.

I wipe my eyes. I look at my watch:

Eleven-thirty -

Saturday 14 December 1974.

I reach for the phone book. I turn the pages. I find the number I want. I pull the telephone closer. I dial, a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

The number rings. And rings -

‘Ossett 256199. Who’s speaking please?’ a woman asks.

‘Is Edward there?’

‘Just a minute, please.’

There’s a pause -

Beethoven down the other end of the line.