Nineteen Seventy-Four (12 page)

“
He could tie it all together…
”

Angels as devils, devils as angels.

The bones of the thing:

ACT LIKE NOTHING’S WRONG.

I watched my mother sleeping in her chair and tried to tie it all together.

Not here.

Up the stairs, emptying carrier bags and envelopes, scattering files and photographs across my bed.

Not here.

I scooped the whole bloody lot into one big black bin-sack, stuffing my pockets with my father’s pins and needles.

Not here.

Back down the stairs, a kiss upon my mother’s brow, and out the door.

Not here.—

Foot down, screaming through the Ossett dawn.

Not here.

Chapter 5

Dawn at the Redbeck Cafe and Motel, Tuesday 17 December 1974.

I
’d driven all night and then come back here, as though it all came back here.

I paid two weeks up front and got what I paid for:

Room 27 was round the back, two bikers on one side and a woman and her four kids on the other. There was no phone, toilet, or TV. But two quid a night got me a view of the car park, a double bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a sink, and no questions.

I double-locked the door and drew the damp curtains. I stripped the bed and tacked the heaviest sheet over the curtains and then propped the mattress up against the sheet. I picked up a used johnny and stuffed it inside a half-eaten packet of crisps.

I went back out to the car, stopping for a piss in
those
toilets where I’d bought my ticket to this death trip.

I stood there pissing, not sure if it was Tuesday or Wed nesday, knowing this was as close as I could get. I shook it off and kicked open the cubicle door, knowing there’d be nothing but a melting yellow turd and puffter graffiti.

I went round the front to the cafe and bought two large black coffees with loads of sugar in dirty styrofoam cups. I opened the boot of the Viva and took the black bin-sack and the black coffees back to Room 27.

I double-locked the door again, drank down one of the coffees, emptied the bin-sack over the wooden base of the bed and went to work.

Barry Cannon’s files and envelopes were by name. I laid them out alphabetically on one half of the bed and then went through Hadden’s thick manila envelope, stuffing the sheets of paper into Barry’s relevant files.

Some names had titles, some ranks, most just plain mister. Some names I knew, some rang bells, most meant nothing.

On the other half of the bed, I spread out my files in three thin piles and one big one: Jeanette, Susan, Clare and, to the right, Graham Goldthorpe, Ratcatcher.

In the back of the wardrobe I found a roll of wallpaper. Taking a handful of my father’s pins, I turned over the wallpaper and tacked it to the wall above the desk. With a big red felt-tip pen I divided the back of the paper into five big columns. At the top of each column, in red block capitals, I wrote five names:

JEANETTE, SUSAN,
CLARE, GRAHAM, and BARRY.

Next to the wallpaper chart I pinned a map of West Yorkshire from the Viva. With my red pen, I marked four red crosses and a red arrow straight out Rochdale way.

Drinking down the second cup of coffee, I steeled myself.

With trembling hands, I took an envelope from the top of Clare’s pile. Asking for forgiveness, I ripped open the envelope and took out three large black and white photographs. My stomach hollow, my mouth full of pins, I walked back over to my wallpaper chart and carefully pinned the three photographs above three of the names.

I stood back, tears on my cheeks, and gazed upon my new wallpaper, upon skin so pale, hair so fair, and wings so white.

An angel in black and white.

Three hours later, my eyes red with tears from the things I’d read, I got up from the floor of Room 27.

Barry’s story: 3 rich men: John Dawson, Donald Foster, and a third who Barry couldn’t or wouldn’t name.

My story: 3 dead girls: Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.

My story, his story—two stories: Same times, same places, different names, different faces.

Mystery, History:

One Link?

I had a small stack of coins on top of the payphone inside the lobby of the Redbeck.

“Sergeant Fraser please?”

The lobby was all yellows and browns and stank of smoke. Through the double glass doors I watched some kids playing pool and smoking.

“This is Sergeant Eraser.”

“It’s Edward Dunford speaking. I’ve received some infor mation about Sunday night, about Barry…”

“What kind of information?”

I cradled the phone between my chin and my neck and struck a match. “It was an anonymous call to the effect that Mr Cannon had gone to Morley in connection with Clare Kemplay,” I said with a cigarette between my teeth.

“Anything else?”

“Not over the phone.” To the side of the phone, etched in biro, were the words
Young Cock
and six telephone numbers.

“We better meet before the inquest,” said Sergeant Eraser.

Outside it had started to rain again and the lorry drivers were all pulling coats over their heads as they ran for the cafe and the bogs.

I said, “Where?”

“Angelo’s Cafe in an hour? It’s opposite Morley Town Hall.”

“OK. But I need a favour?” I looked for an ashtray but had to use the wall.

Eraser whispered down the line, “What?”

The pips went and I put in another coin. “I need the names and addresses of the workmen who found the body.”

“What body?”

“Clare Kemplay’s.” I began to count the love-hearts scribbled here and there around the phone.

“I don’t know…”

“Please,” I said.

Someone had written
4eva Igeva
inside one of the hearts in red.

Eraser said, “Why me?”

“Because I think you’re a decent bloke and I need a favour and don’t know anybody else to ask.”

Silence, then, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“One hour then,” I said, hanging up.

I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.

Des Shags Convicts Wives
.

“Yeah?”

“Tell BJ, Eddie called and give him this number, 276578. Tell him to ask for Ronald Cannon, Room 27.”

Fuck You Wakey Ken
.

I
replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.

True Love Never Dies
.

“Peter Taylor speaking?”

“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”

“She’s still asleep.”

I looked at my father’s watch.

I said, “When she wakes up, can you tell her Edward called.”

“All right,” said her father, like it was some fucking enormous favour.

“Bye.” I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in my last coin, and dialled.

An old woman came into the lobby from the cafe smelling of bacon.

“Ossett 256199.”

“It’s me, Mum.”

“Are you all right, love? Where are you?”

One of the kids was chasing another around the pool table, brandishing a pool cue.

I said, “I’m fine. I’m at work.”

The old woman had sat down in one of the brown lobby chairs opposite the payphone and was staring out at the lorries and the rain.

“I might have to go away for a couple of days.”

“Where?”

The kid with the pool cue had the other one pinned down on the baize.

“Down South,” I said.

“You’ll phone, won’t you?”

The old woman farted loudly and the kids in the pool room stopped fighting and came running out into the lobby.

“Of course…”

“I love you, Edward.”

The kids rolled up their sleeves, put their lips to their arms, and began blowing raspberries.

“Me too.”

The old woman was staring out at the lorries and the rain, the kids dancing round her.

I replaced the receiver.

4 LUV
.

Angelo’s Cafe, opposite Morley Town Hall, breakfast busy.

I was on my second cup of coffee, way past tired.

“Can I get you anything?” Sergeant Fraser was at the counter.

“Cup of coffee, please. Black, two sugars.”

I stared around the cafe at the wall of headlines guarding every breakfast:

534 Million Trade Deficit, Gas Up 12%, IRA Xmas Truce, a picture of the new Dr Who, and Clare.

“Morning,” said Fraser, setting down a cup of coffee in front of me.

“Thanks.” I drained my cold cup and took a sip from the hot one.

“I spoke with the coroner first thing. He says they’re going to have to adjourn.”

“They were pushing it a bit anyway.”

A waitress brought over a full breakfast and set it down in front of the Sergeant.

“Yeah, but what with Christmas and the family, it would’ve been nice.”

“Shit, yeah. The family.”

Fraser heaped half the plate on to his fork. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“Lovely people,” sighed Fraser, mopping up the juice of the eggs and the tomatoes with a piece of toast.

“Yeah?” I said and wondered how old Fraser was.

“They’ll release the body though, so they’ll be able to have the funeral.”

“Get it out the way.”

Fraser put down his knife and fork and pushed the spotless plate to one side. “Thursday, I think they said.”

“Right. Thursday.” I couldn’t remember if we’d cremated my father last Thursday or Friday.

Sergeant Fraser sat back in his chair. “What about this anony mous call then?”

I leant forward, my voice low. “Like I said. Middle of the bleeding night…”

“Come on Eddie?”

I looked up at Sergeant Eraser, his blond hair, watery blue eyes and puffy red face, the trace of a Scouse accent and the simple wedding ring. He looked like the boy I had sat next to in chemistry.

“Can I level with you?”

“I think you’d better,” said Eraser, offering me a cigarette.

“Barry had a source, you know.” I lit the cigarette.

“A grass, you mean?”

“A source.”

Eraser shrugged, “Go on.”

“I got a call at the office last night. No name, just be at the Gaiety on Roundhay Road. You know it, yeah?”

“No,” laughed Eraser. “‘Course I bloody do. How did you know this was straight up?”

“Barry had a lot of contacts. He knew a lot of people.”

“What time was this?”

“About ten. Anyway, I went along and met this lad…”

Eraser had his sleeves on the table, leaning forward, smiling. “Who was he then?”

“Black lad, no name. Said he’d been with Barry on the Sunday night.”

“What did he look like?”

“Black, you know.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took another one from my own pack.

“Young? Old? Short? Tall?”

“Black. Curly hair, big nose, thick lips. What do you want me to say?”

Sergeant Eraser smiled. “He say if Barry Cannon was drinking?”

“I asked him and he said Barry had had a few but he wasn’t smashed or anything.”

“Where was this?”

I paused, thinking this was where I’d fuck up, then said, “The Gaiety.”

“Be some witnesses then?” Eraser had taken out his notebook and was writing in it.

“Gaiety witnesses, yeah.”

“I don’t suppose you tried to persuade our dark friend to relate any of this information to a member of his local con stabulary?”

“No.”

“So then?”

“About eleven or so, he said Barry said he was going over to Morley. That it was something to do with the Clare Kemplay murder.”

Sergeant Eraser was staring over my shoulder at the rain and the Town Hall opposite, “Like what?”

“He didn’t know.”

“You believe him?”

“Why not?”

“Fuck off, he’s having you on. Eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, after a skinful in the Gaiety?”

“That’s what he said.”

“All right. What do you reckon Gannon knew that could have made him come all the way over here, at that time on a Sunday night?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what this lad told me.”

“And that’s it?” Sergeant Fraser was laughing. “Bollocks. You’re supposed to be a journalist. You must have asked him more questions than that.”

I lit another bloody cigarette. “Yeah. But I’m telling you, the lad knew fuck all.”

“All right, so what do you think Gannon found out?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know. But it does explain why he was in Morley.”

“Brass’11 love this,” sighed Fraser.

A waitress came over and took away the cups and the plate. The man on the next table was listening to us, looking at a photofit of the Cambridge Rapist that could have been anyone.

I said, “Did you get the names?”

Sergeant Fraser lit another cigarette and leant forward. “This is between us?”

“Of course,” I said and took out a pen and a piece of paper from my jacket.

“Two builders, Terry Jones and James Ashworth. They’re working on the new houses behind Wakefield Prison. It’s Foster’s Construction, I think.”

“Foster’s Construction,” I echoed, thinking Donald Foster, Barry Gannon, link.

“I don’t have their addresses and I wouldn’t give you them even if I did. So that’s your lot.”

“Thank you. Just one more thing?”

Fraser stood up. “What?”

“Who has access to the Clare Kemplay post-mortem report and photographs?”

Fraser sat back down. “Why?”

“I’m just curious. I mean, can any copper working the case get to see it?”

“It’s available, yeah.”

“Have you seen it?”

“I’m not on the case.”

“But you must have been part of the search party?”

Fraser looked at his watch. “Yeah, but the Murder Room’s out of Wakefield.”

“So you wouldn’t know when it first became available?”

“Why?”

“I just want to know about the procedure. I’m just curious.”

Fraser stood back up. “They’re not good questions to be asking, Eddie.” Then he smiled and winked and said, “I best be off. See you across the road.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Sergeant Fraser opened the cafe door and then turned back. “Keep in touch, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“And not a bloody word right?” He was half laughing.

“Not a word,” I muttered, folding up my piece of paper.

Gaz from Sport was coming up the Town Hall steps.

I was having a last cigarette, sat on the steps. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“That’s right bloody charming that is,” said Gaz, giving me his toothless grin. “I’m a witness I am.”

“Yeah?”

The grin was gone. “Yeah, straight up. I was supposed to meet Baz on Sunday night but he didn’t show up.”

“It’s going to be adjourned, you know?”

“You’re fucking joking? Why?”

“Police still don’t know what he was doing on Sunday night.” I offered Gaz a cigarette and lit another one for myself.