Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two (11 page)

I try Ellis again.
He picks up.
‘Get your fucking finger out,’ I’m shouting. ‘He’s heading into Leeds.’
I cut him off before he can piss off Rudkin any further.
Fairclough turns right on to Roundhay Road.
I’m writing:
4/6/77 16.18 Harehills Lane, right on to Roundhay Road
.
Foot down, writing:
Bayswater Crescent
.
Bayswater Terrace
.
Bayswater Row
.
Bayswater Grove
.
Bayswater Mount
.
Bayswater Place
.
Bayswater Avenue
.
Bayswater Road
.
Then he’s right on to Barrack Road and we keep straight on.
‘Right on to Barrack Road,’ Rudkin’s shouting at me, me into the radio at Ellis.
I’ve got Ellis in the rearview, indicating right.
‘He’s on him,’ I say.
Ellis’s voice booms through the car: ‘He’s pulling up outside the clinic’
We go right and pull up past the junction on Chapeltown Road.
‘Just some fat Paki bitch with a ton of shopping,’ says Ellis. ‘Coming your way.’
We watch the Cortina pass us and turn back up the Roundhay Road.
‘Proceeding,’ I say into the radio and Rudkin pulls out.
‘Tell Ellis to pick him up again at the next lights,’ says Rudkin.
I do it.
And Rudkin pulls in.
We’re at the entrance to Spencer Place, to Janice.
I look at him.
‘You got some sorting out to do,’ he says and leans across me, opening my door.
‘What you going to say?’
‘Nowt. Be here at seven.’
‘What about Fairclough?’
‘We’ll manage.’
‘Thanks, Skip,’ I say and get out.
He pulls the door to and I watch him drive off up the Roundhay Road, radio in hand.
I check my watch.
Four-thirty.
Two and a half hours.
I knock on the door and wait.
Nothing.
I turn the handle.
It opens.
I step inside.
The window open, drawers out, bed stripped, radio on:
Hot Chocolate:
So You Win Again …
The cupboards bare.
I pick a letter off the dresser.
To Bob
.
I read it.
She’s gone.

The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Sunday 5th June 1977

Chapter 8

‘There’s been another,’ Hadden had said.
But I’d just lain there, waiting, watching tiny black and white Scottish men on their knees, tearing chunks of turf out of the ground with their bare hands, the phone slipping in my own hand, thinking,
Carol, Carol, is this the way it will always be, forever and ever, oh Carol?
‘Press conference is tomorrow.’
‘Sunday?’
‘Monday’s a Bank Holiday.’
‘It’s going to play hell with your Jubilee coverage.’
‘She’s not dead.’
‘Really?’
‘She got lucky.’
‘You think so?’
‘Oldman reckons he was disturbed.’
‘Hats off to George.’
‘Oldman says you should get in touch the minute you receive anything.’
‘He took something then?’
‘Oldman’s not saying. And neither should you.’
Oh Carol, no wonders for the dead?
Jubelum …
There was another voice in the Bradford flat, there in the dark behind the heavy curtains.
Ka Su Peng looked up, lips moving, the words late:
‘In October last year I was a prostitute.’
She had travelled ten thousand miles to be here, sat across a dim divide of stained chipped furniture, her skin grey, hair blue, ten thousand miles to fuck Yorkshire men for dirty five pound notes squeezed into damp palms.
Ten thousand miles to end up thus:
‘I don’t know many of the others so I’m usually alone. I do the early time on Lumb Lane, before the pubs close. He picked me up outside the Perseverance. The Percy they call it. It was a dark car, clean. He was friendly, quiet but friendly. Said he hadn’t slept much, was tired. I said, me too. Tired eyes, he had such tired eyes. He drove us to the playing fields off White Abbey and he asked me how much and I said a fiver and he said he’d give it to me after but I said I wanted it first because he might not pay me after like happened before. He said OK but he wanted me to get into the back of the car. So I got out and so did he and that’s when he hit me on the head with the hammer. Three times he hit me and I fell down on to the grass and he tried to hit me again but I closed my eyes and put up my hand and he hit that and then he just stopped and I could hear him breathing near my ear and then the breathing stopped and he was gone and I lay there, everything black and white, cars passing, and then I got up and walked to a phone box and called the police and they came to the phone box and took me to hospital.’
She was wearing a cream blouse and matching trousers, feet together, bare toes touching.
‘Can you remember what he looked like?’
Ka Su Peng closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s OK. I don’t want to remember, I want to forget, but I can’t forget, only remember. That’s all I do, remember.’
‘If you don’t want to talk about it …’
‘No. He was white, about five feet six inches …’
I felt a hand on my knee and there he was again, as if by magic,
smiling through the gloom, meat between his teeth
.
‘Stocky build …’
He patted his paunch, burped
.
‘With dark wavy hair and one of them Jason King moustaches.’
He primped at his hair, stroking his moustache, that grin
.
‘Did he have a local accent?’
‘No, Liverpool perhaps.’
He arched an eyebrow
.
‘He said his name was Dave or Don, I’m not sure.’
He frowned and shook his head
.
‘He was wearing a yellow shirt and blue jeans.’
‘Anything else?’
She sighed, ‘That’s all I can remember.’
He winked once and was gone again
, as if by magic.
She said, ‘Is that enough?’
‘It’s too much,’ I whispered.
After the horror, tomorrow and the day after
.
Suddenly she asked, ‘You think he’ll ever come back?’
‘Has he ever gone away?’
‘Sometimes, sometimes I can hear his breathing on the pillow next to me,’ she said, her sad face hewn from violence with blunt tools, black and blue leaves of hair weeping across the damage.
I reached out across the dark, ‘May I?’
She leant forward, parting her hair.
In the back room she drew the curtains.
I placed a ten pound note under the clock on the bedside table and then we sat with our backs to each other on opposite sides of the same single bed, unbuttoning our clothes on a Sunday morning in Bradford.
I stood up and lowered my trousers.
When I turned round she was lying on the bed, naked.
I laid down on top of her, my penis limp.
She moved her hand between my legs until she stopped and pushed me on to my back and leant over to the bedside table and took out a johnny.
She placed it over my cock and then straddled me, me inside her.
She began to move up and down, her tits just nipples, up and down, her sallow body bones, up and down, eyes closed, up and down, mouth open, up and down, up and down, up, down, up, down, up.
I closed my eyes.
Down.
We dressed in silence.
At the door I said, ‘Can I come again?’
‘Now?’ she asked, and we both laughed, surprised.
Assistant Chief Superintendent George Oldman with a grave smile:
‘Gentlemen, as you are aware, at approximately three a.m. on Saturday morning, the 4th, Mrs Linda Clark, aged thirty-six, of Bierley, was subjected to a violent assault on wasteland behind the Sikh temple on Bowling Back Lane, Bradford. In the course of the attack, Mrs Clark sustained a fractured skull and stab wounds to her back and abdomen. On Saturday morning Mrs Clark underwent surgery and will have to undergo another operation later this week. However, despite the seriousness of her injuries, Mrs Clark has been able to provide us with a detailed account of the time leading up to her attack.’
He paused, sipped a glass of water and continued:
‘Mrs Clark spent Friday night at the Mecca ballroom in the centre of Bradford. She was wearing a long black velvet dress and a green cotton jacket. At approximately two o’clock Mrs Clark left the Mecca and made her way to Cheapside where she began to queue for a taxi. About fifteen minutes later she decided to start walking back towards Bierley. About thirty minutes later Mrs Clark accepted a lift from the driver of a white or yellow Ford Cortina Mark II with a black satin-look roof which pulled up on the Wakefield Road. Mrs Clark was then driven on to Bowling Back Lane where the assault took place. Mrs Clark has been able to provide a detailed description of the driver.’
He paused again.
‘The man we would like to speak to is white, approximately thirty-five years of age, about six feet and of a large build. He is described as having light brown shoulder-length hair with thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks. We would appeal for any member of the public who knows a man fitting this description and who drives a white or yellow Ford Cortina Mark II with a black roof, or who has access to such a vehicle, to please contact the Bradford Incident Room or their local police station as a matter of some urgency.’
Another sip of water, another pause.
‘I would like to add that forensic evidence gathered at the scene of the attack leads me to believe that the man responsible for the assault upon Mrs Clark is the same man who murdered Theresa Campbell, Clare Strachan, Joan Richards, and Marie Watts, the same man who we believe assaulted Joyce Jobson in Halifax in 1974, Anita Bird in Cleckheaton also in 1974, and Miss Ka Su Peng in Bradford last October.’
Pause.
The whole room:
The Yorkshire Ripper
.
I wrote:
Clare Strachan?
I circled her name.
Oldman was asking for questions:
‘Roger?’
‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to elaborate on the forensic evidence that points to this latest attack being the work of the, the work of the Yorkshire Ripper?’
‘At this point, no.’
He’s getting away …
‘Jack?’
‘The description given by Mrs Clark seems to contradict previous descriptions that have been issued. For example, both Anita Bird and Ka Su Peng said that their attacker had dark curly hair and a beard or moustache …’
George, his knife out:
‘Yes but Jack, the lady in Bradford, Miss Peng, she claimed her attacker also had a Scouse accent which contradicted Anita Bird and the description Miss Bird herself gave was based on the assumption that the man who passed her in the street was the same man who later attacked her.’
‘An assumption you previously supported.’
‘That was then, Jack. That was then.’

I walked back through the deserted Kirkgate Market, through the quiet Sunday city streets, through the bunting, all red, white, and blue, under the three o’clock sun.
I turned into a cobbled alley out of the heat, searching for the wall and a word written in red.
But the word was gone or the alley wrong and the only words were
Hate
and
Leeds
.
So I walked up Briggate and on to the Headrow, up to the Cathedral and went inside.
I sat down at the back, in the cold quiet black, sweating from the stroll, panting like a dog.
There was an old woman with a walking stick trying to stand up in the front pew, a child reading a prayer book, dark low lights at the altar, the statues and the paintings, their eyes on me.
I looked up, my sweat dry, my breathing slow.
And there I was before Him, before the cross, thinking about fucking and murders with hammers, seeing the nails in his hands, thinking about fucking and murders with screwdrivers, seeing the nails in his feet, the tears in their eyes, the tears in His, the tears in mine.
And then the child led the old woman by the hand down the aisle and when they reached my pew they paused under the statues and the paintings, the shadows against the altar, and the child held out his open prayer book and I took it from him and watched them walk away.
And I looked down and I read aloud the words I found:

Psalm 88

For my soul is full of troubles,
and my life draws near to Sheol.
I am counted among those who go down to the Pit;
I am like those who have no help,
like those forsaken among the dead,
like the slain that lie in the grave,
like those whom you remember no more,
for they are cut off from your hand.
You have put me in the depths of the Pit,
in the regions dark and deep.
Your wrath lies heavy upon me,
and you overwhelm with all your waves.
You have caused my companions to shun me;
you have made me a thing of horror to them.
I am shut in so that I cannot escape;
my eyes grow dim through sorrow.
Every day I call on you, O Lord;
I spread out my hands to you.
Do you work wonders for the dead?
Do the shades rise up to praise you?
Is your steadfast love declared in the grave,
or your faithfulness in Abaddon?
Are your wonders known in the darkness,
Or your saving help in the land of forgetfulness?
But I, O Lord, cry out to you;
in the morning my prayer comes before you.
O Lord, why do you cast me off?
Why do you hide your face from me?
Wretched and close to death from my youth up,
I suffer your terrors; I am desperate.
Your wrath has swept over me;
your dread assaults destroy me.
They surround me like a flood all day long;
from all sides they close in on me.
You have caused friend and neighbour to shun me;
my companions are in darkness.
Fucking and murders with hammers, the nails in His hand, fucking and murders with screwdrivers, the nails in His feet, fucking and murders, the tears in their eyes, fucking, the tears in His, murders, tears in mine.
‘We can go upstairs right now and it’ll all be over.’
And I ran from the Cathedral, through the double wooden doors, running from the hammer, through the hot black streets, running from Him, through the red bunting, the white and blue all gone, running from them all, through 5 June 1977, running.
Oh Carol
.
And then finally I stood before the Griffin, my clothes in flames, hands and eyes to the sky, shouting:
‘Carol, Carol there’s got to be another way.’
The office was dead.
I sat down at my desk and I typed: