Nineteen Eighty by David Peace

cunt.’
‘She doesn’t think she is doing; doesn’t see him for what he is,’ I say, then: ‘But neither do we.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘No, half that Ripper Room are looking for a hunchbacked Geordie with hairy bloodstained hands, flesh between his teeth and a hammer in his pocket.’
Noble, a face full of fear and sneer: ‘Yeah? So who should we be looking for, Pete?’
I tell him what he already knows – knows in his heart, knows in his head: ‘He’s mobile, has his own vehicle. It must have come up numerous times in the sweeps, so he has to have a reason to be where he shouldn’t be – taxi driver, lorry driver, sales rep …’
Noble: ‘Copper?’
‘Copper…’
‘Fuck off,’ snorts Alderman.
I shrug: ‘He’ll have a good local knowledge as a result of his work and because he’s from round here – lives and works round here.’
Alderman: ‘You can’t say that? If he’s a lorry driver, he could be living any-bloody-where?’
‘No,’ I say quietly, shaking my head and wiping the side-window clean. ‘He’s from round here because he hates it, hates it enough to kill it – so he has to have been around here long enough to hate it, to want to kill it.’
Noble: ‘Go on.’
‘He’ll have a record, however minor.’
Alderman: ‘Why?’
‘Because when he was younger, he couldn’t control the hate like he can now. He’ll have made mistakes …’
‘We’d know,’ says Alderman.
‘Not if you’re not looking.’
‘We’re fucking looking,’ spits Alderman, almost over the seat and at me.
Me, hands up: ‘But for what? An unmarried hunchbacked Geordie with hairy bloodstained hands, flesh between his teeth and a hammer in his pocket?’
‘Fuck off, Pete,’ says Noble.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You should go back over every statement where the bloke’s been covered by his wife.’
‘Fuck off,’ says Alderman.
‘Start with your top ten.’
‘Impossible,’ says Noble.
‘You’ve had him, you know you have.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘But somehow you’ve let him go.’
Silence –
Just the rain on the roof.
Noble leans forward and taps on the driver’s window –
The driver opens the door, shakes the rain from his umbrella and gets in, the smell of cigarettes and damp with him.
‘Millgarth,’ says Noble.
As the car pulls into the underground car park, I turn to Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble and ask: ‘How did you catch Morris?’
‘Luck,’ he says. ‘Bloody luck.’
‘Bollocks, Pete,’ I say. ‘Bollocks.’
Alderman looks around in the front seat again, but Noble’s gone.
Back in our room, the one next to theirs, next to his, I close the door behind me.
They’re all there, plus Bob Craven, looking up from their work, waiting, expectant:
‘I should have said this before, but when you’re taking down all these names, can you denote the married ones.’
John Murphy smiles: ‘We have been.’
‘Thank you,’ I smile back, nodding: ‘Then let’s move on.’
Another Millgarth afternoon –
Dark outside, darker still in:
Another séance –
Same ritual –
Round the table, hands and knees touching, more calls to the dead –
John Murphy this time, sheet-white with black-rings, calling them:
‘What a fucking year it was, 1977:
‘First up, Marie Watts, formerly Owens, thirty-two years of age, found dead Sunday 29 May on Soldiers Field, Roundhay; extensive head injuries, stab wounds to the abdomen, and a cut throat. Watts was a known prostitute and the connection with Campbell and Richards was obvious, leading to the formation of what was then known as the Prostitute Murder Squad. This was headed up by ACC Oldman, with Pete Noble the effective day-to-day gaffer.’
Murphy pauses, looking at Bob Craven, then continues:
‘As Bob said yesterday, it was the Watts murder where the press coined the Yorkshire Ripper moniker. Also when the first letter arrived. Plus the B type blood grouping taken from semen stains off Watts’ coat – it was them stains that linked in Clare Strachan in Preston and the letters, using saliva tests and the content of the letters and later the tape.’
Long pause, a