Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two (15 page)

Noble looks up and says, ‘What about Fairclough?’
‘We lost him,’ says Rudkin.
‘You lost him?’
Ellis is burning a hole into the side of my face.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my fault, sir,’ I say.
Noble has his hand up, ‘Whatever. Where is he now?’
Ellis says, ‘At home. Asleep.’
‘Then you’d better go and fucking wake him up, hadn’t you.’
He’s on his knees, on the floor, in the corner, hands up, nose bloody.
My body weak.
‘Come on,’ shouts Rudkin. ‘Where the fuck were you?’
I was battering down doors, battering down people, kicking in doors, kicking in people
.
‘Working,’ he screams.
Ellis, fists into the wall, ‘Liar!’
I was raping whores, fucking them up the arse
.
‘I was.’
‘You murdering bastard. You tell me now!’
I was breaking into houses, stealing cars, beating up cunts like Eric Hall
.
‘I was working.’
‘The fucking truth!’
I was searching for a whore
.
‘Working, I was fucking working.’
Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and sits him in it, nodding at the door.
‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock this morning and what you were bloody doing?’
I
was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears
.
We’re standing outside the Belly, Noble staring through the peephole into the cell.
‘What’s the cunt doing?’ asks Ellis.
‘Not much,’ says Noble.
Rudkin looks up from the end of his cigarette, asks, ‘What next?’
Noble comes away from the hole, the four of us in a prayer circle. He looks up at the low ceiling, eyes wide like he’s trying not to cry, and says:
‘Fairclough’s the best we got for now. Bob Craven’s out pulling in witnesses, Alderman’s door-to-door, Prentice is down the cab firm. Just keep at him.’
Rudkin nods and stamps out his cigarette, ‘Right then. Back to work.’
Rudkin and I sit down across the table from Donny Fairclough, Ellis leaning against the door.
I sit forward, elbows on the table: ‘OK, Don. We all want to go home, right?’
Nothing, head down.
‘You do want to go home, don’t you?’
A nod.
‘That makes four of us. So help us out, will you?’
Head still down.
‘What time did you clock on yesterday?’
He looks up, sniffs, and says: ‘Just after lunch. One-ish.’
‘And what time did you finish?’
‘Like I said, about one in morning.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I went to a party.’
‘Where? Whose?’
‘Chapeltown, one of them kind. I don’t know whose it was.’
‘You remember where?’
‘Off Leopold Street.’
‘And this was?’
‘About half-one.’
‘Till?’
‘Two-thirty, three o’clock.’
‘See anyone you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
Rudkin looks up, ‘That’s unfortunate that is, Donald.’
I say, ‘Would you know them again, if you saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Men or women?’
‘A couple of the black lads, couple of the girls.’
‘The girls?’
‘You know?’
‘No, I don’t. Be more specific’
‘Prostitutes.’
‘Whores, you mean?’ says Rudkin.
He nods.
I ask, ‘You go with whores, do you Donny?’
‘No.’
‘So how come you know they’re prostitutes?’
‘I pick them up, don’t I? Get talking.’
‘They offer you discounts, do they? For cheap lifts?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so you’re at the party. What did you?’
‘Had a drink.’
‘You always go to a party after work?’
‘No, but it’s Jubilee, isn’t it?’
Rudkin smiles, ‘Bit of a patriot are you, Don?’
‘Yeah I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Fuck you drink with wogs and whores for then?’
‘I told you, I just wanted a drink.’
I say, ‘So you just sat there in the corner, sipping a half you?’
‘Yeah, that was about it.’
‘Didn’t have a dance or a bit of a cuddle?’
‘No.’
‘Smoke a bit of the old wog weed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘So then you just went home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what time was that then?’
‘Must have been about three-ish.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘Pudsey.’
‘Nice place, Pudsey’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Live alone do you Donny?’
‘No, with my mum.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Light sleeper is she, your mum?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did she hear you come in?’
‘Doubt it.’
Rudkin, big fat fucking grin: ‘So you don’t sleep in the same fucking bed or anything daft like that?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Here,’ spits Rudkin, the hard stare in Fairclough’s face. ‘The shit you’re in, you’ll wish you had been fucking your mum. Understand?’
Fairclough’s eyes drop, nails up to his mouth.
‘So,’ I say, ‘what we got is this: you knocked off work about one, went down to a party on Leopold Street, had a couple of drinks, drove home to Pudsey for about three. Right?’
‘Right,’ he’s nodding. ‘Right.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘And?’
‘And anyone who was at that party.’
‘Whose names you don’t know?’
‘Just ask anyone who was there. They’ll pick me out, I swear.’
‘Let’s hope so. For your fucking sake.’
Upstairs, out of the Belly.
No sleep.
Just coffee.
No dreams.
Just this:
Shirtsleeves and smoke, grey skins with big black rings crayoned across our faces:
Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, Rudkin, and me.
On every wall, names:
Jobson
.
Bird
.
Campbell
.
Strachan
.
Richards
.
Peng
.
Watts
.
Clark
.
Johnson
.
On every wall, words:
Screwdriver
.
Abdomen
.
Boots
.
Chest
.
Hammer
.
Skull
.
Bottle
.
Rectum
.
Knife
.
On every wall, numbers:
1.3?
1974
.
32
.
1975
.
239 + 584
.
1976
.
X3
1977
.
3.5
.
And Noble is saying:
‘We got a witness, this Mark Lancaster, who says he saw a white Ford Cortina, black roof, on Reginald Street about two this morning. Fairclough’s motor. No question.’
We’re listening, waiting.
‘Right, Farley is saying that this is definitely the same man. No question. And Bob Craven’s lads have turned up another witness who saw this guy, this
Dave
, the night Joan Richards was murdered. Description’s a ringer for Fairclough. No question.’
Listening, waiting.
‘I say we stick the cunt in a line-up, see if this witness’ll pick him out.’
Waiting.
‘No alibi, motor spotted at the time of death, witness has him for Joan Richards, same blood group, what you reckon?’
Oldman:
‘Cunt’s going down.’
The magnificent seven.
We’re standing there, in the line-up, in the room we use for press conferences, the chairs all folded up at the back, Ellis and me either side of Fairclough, two guys from Vice and a couple of civilians making up the numbers and a fiver each.
The coppers, we all look alike.
The civilians are both over forty.
No-one looks like Donny.
And there we stand, in the line-up, numbers three, four, and five. Number four shaking, stinking, smelling like FEAR, HATE, and DIRTY THOUGHTS.
‘This isn’t right,’ he’s moaning. ‘I should have a lawyer.’
‘But you haven’t done anything, Donny,’ says Ellis. ‘Or so you keep saying.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘We’ll see,’ I say. ‘We’ll see who’s not done anything.’
Rudkin sticks his head in, ‘Right, quiet now ladies. Eyes front.’
He opens the door wider and Oldman, Noble, and Craven lead in Karen Burns.
Karen fucking Burns.
Fuck.
She looks down the line, looks at Craven, who nods, and steps towards us.
Noble puts a hand on her arm to hold her back.
He turns to Rudkin, ‘Where are the bloody numbers?’
‘Shit.’
Noble rolls his eyes and turns to Karen Burns and says in a low voice, ‘When you see the man you saw last year on the night of 6th February please stand before him and touch his right shoulder.’
She nods, swallows, and steps towards the first man.
She doesn’t even look at him.
Past the second, straight to us.
She stands before Ellis, and I’m wondering if he’s ever fucked her, if there’s a man in this room who hasn’t.
Ellis is almost smiling.
She glances down the line at me.
I fix on the wall ahead, the white patches where the pictures were.
She moves on.
Fairclough coughs.
She’s standing in front of him.
He’s staring at her.
‘Eyes front,’ hisses Rudkin.
She’s staring back.
He’s smiling.
She moves her hand.
The whole row turns.
She adjusts the strap of her bag and turns to me.
I can see the teeth of Fairclough’s grin out the corner of my eye, in my face.
He’s laughing.
I swallow.
She’s before me, smiling.
I pull her from the bed, across the floor
.
My eyes dead ahead.
Just a pair of pink knickers, tits out
.
Staring me up and down.
And she’s under me, hands across her face because I’m slapping the shit out of her
.
I can feel myself start to rock, a mouth full of sand.
And I slap her again and then I look down at her bleeding lips and nose
.
She won’t stop staring.
The bloody smears on her chin and neck, her tits and arms
.
I’ve got sweat running down my face, down my neck, down my back, down my legs, rivers of salt.
And I pull off her pink knickers and drag her back to the bed and pull open my trousers and push it into her
.
She doesn’t move.
And I slap her again and turn her over
.
Rudkin’s next to her, Ellis turning sideways back down the line.
And she starts struggling, saying we don’t need to do it like this
.
She moves her arm, her hand coming up.
But I push her face down into the dirty sheets and bring my cock up
.
I step back.
And stick it in her arse and she’s screaming
.
She sniffs, wipes her nose, and she smiles.
And she’s lying there on the bed, semen and blood running down her thighs
.
I look down.
And I get up and do it again and this time it doesn’t hurt
.
‘He’s not here,’ she says, not even looking at six and seven.
I look up.
‘Would you like to go through them one more time? Just to be sure,’ says Noble.
‘He’s not here.’
‘I think you should take one more …’
‘He’s not here. I want to go home.’
‘The fuck was that?’ Noble’s shouting at Craven. ‘You said you could fucking deliver her …’
‘Ask fucking Fraser.’
‘Tuck off,’ says Rudkin. ‘Nowt to do with us.’
Craven’s spewing, spit in his beard, the lot of us jammed into Noble’s office, Oldman wedged behind the desk, pitch black outside, same inside:
‘She grasses for you, doesn’t she?’
‘So fucking what,’ says Ellis and I know then he’s been shagging her.
And so does Craven: ‘You fucking her Mike? Taking a leaf out of his book,’ he yells, pointing my way.
Me with a feeble: ‘Fuck off.’
Noble’s shaking his head, staring round the room at us, ‘Right fucking balls-up.’
‘OK. Now what?’ asks Rudkin, looking from Noble to Oldman.
‘Total fucking cock-up.’
‘We can’t let the cunt just walk. He’s our man, I know it,’ says Ellis.
‘He’s not going anywhere but down,’ says Noble.
‘Fucking know it,’ Ellis is saying.
Rudkin looking to George, ‘So what then?’
Oldman:
‘Do it the hard way’
He’s naked on his knees, on the floor, in the corner, holding his balls, body bloody.
My arms are weak.
‘Come on,’ Rudkin is screaming, over and over, again and again, screaming, ‘Where the fuck were you?’
I
was searching for a whore
.
He’s crying.
Ellis, fists into Fairclough’s face, ‘Tell us!’
I
was searching for a whore
.
He’s crying.
‘You murdering fucking cunt. She wasn’t a slag. She was a good girl. Sixteen fucking years old. From a good Christian family. Never even had a bloody fuck! A child, a bloody child.’
I was searching for a whore
.
He just keeps crying, face like Bobby, no noise, just tears, mouth open, crying, like a child, a baby.
‘The truth. Give us the fucking truth!’
I was searching for a whore
.
Just crying.
Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and ties him to it with our belts, taking out his cigarette lighter.
‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock yesterday morning and what you were bloody doing.’
I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears
.
Crying.
Rudkin flicks the lighter open and Ellis and me, we take a leg each and keep his knees apart as Rudkin puts the flame to Donny’s tiny little balls.
I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears
.
Screaming.
The door flies open.
Oldman and Noble.
Noble: ‘Let him go!’
Us: ‘What?’
Oldman: ‘It’s not him. Let him fucking go.’

The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Thursday 9th June 1977