Nineteen Seventy-Four (3 page)

Each time, Clare Kemplay smiling down from the dark ceiling.

I
was sitting in the Millgarth office of Detective Chief Super intendent George Oldman, feeling like dogshit. It was a bare room. No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.

The door opened. The black hair, the white face, the hand outstretched, the grip tight.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Dunford. How’s Jack Whitehead and that boss of yours?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, sitting back down.

No smile. “Sit down, son. Cup of tea?”

I swallowed and said, “Please. Thank you.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman sat down, flipped a switch on his desk and breathed into the intercom: “Julie, love. Two cups of tea when you’re ready.”

That face and that hair, up close and near, a melted black plastic bag dripped over a bowl of flour and lard.

I ground my back teeth down tight together.

Behind him, through the grey windows of Millgarth Police Station, a weak sun caught on the oil in his hair.

I felt sick.

“Sir,” I swallowed again. “Chief Superintendent…”

His tiny shark eyes were all over me. “Go on, son,” he winked.

“I was wondering if, well if there was any news?”

“Nothing,” he boomed. “Thirty-six hours and fuck all. Hundred bloody uniforms, relatives and locals. Nothing.”

“What’s your personal…”

“Dead, Mr Dunford. That poor little lass is dead.”

“I was wondering what you…”

“These are violent bloody times, son.”

“Yes,” I said weakly, thinking, so how come you only ever arrest gyppos, nutters, and Paddies.

“Best result now is to find the body quick.”

My guts coming back, “What do you think…”

“Can’t do bugger all without a body. Helps the family too, in long road.”

“So what will…”

“Check the bins, see who’s got themselves an early away day.” He was almost smiling, thinking about winking again.

I fought for my breath. “What about Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman half opened his mouth, running a fat, wet, purple and yellow tongue along his thin lower lip.

I thought I was going to shit myself right there and then in the middle of his office.

George Oldman reeled in his tongue and closed his mouth, the tiny black eyes staring into my own.

There was a soft knock at the door and Julie brought in two cups of tea on a cheap floral tray.

George Oldman, eyes on me, smiled and said, “Thank you, Julie love.”

Julie closed the door on her way out.

Unsure I still had the power of speech, I began to mutter, “Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard both went…”

“I know what bloody happened, Mr Dunston.”

“Well, I was just wondering, thinking back -to Cannock Chase…”

“What the fuck do you know about Cannock Chase?”

“The similarity…”

Oldman brought his fist down on to the desk. “Raymond Morris has been under lock and fucking key since nineteen bloody sixty-eight.”

I was staring at the two small white cups on the desjc, watching them rattle. As calmly and as evenly as I could, I said, “I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is that, in that case, three little girls were murdered and it turned out to be the work of one man.”

George Oldman leant forward, his arms on the desk, and sneered, “Those little lasses were raped and murdered, God help them. And their bodies were found.”

“But, you said…”

“I don’t have any bodies, Mr Dunfield.”

Again, I swallowed and said, “But Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard have been missing for over…”

“You think you’re the only cunt putting that together, you vain little twat,” said Oldman quietly, taking a mouthful of tea, eyes on me. “My senile bloody mother could.”

“I was only wondering what you thought…”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman slapped his thighs and sat back. “So what have we got, according to you?” he smiled. “Three missing girls. Same age, or near enough. No bodies. Castleford and…”

“Rochdale,” I whispered.

“Rochdale, and now Morley. About three years between each disappearance?” he said, raising a thin eyebrow my way.

I nodded.

Oldman picked up a typed sheet of paper from his desk. “Well, how about these?” he said and tossed the paper over the desk on to the floor by my feet, reciting by heart: “Helen Shore, Samantha Davis, Jackie Morris, Lisa Langley, Nichola Hale, Louise Walker, Karen Anderson.”

I picked up the list.

“Missing, the bloody lot of them. And that’s just since the start of ‘73,” said Oldman. “A little bit older, I’ll grant you. But they were all under fifteen when they went missing.”

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, holding out the paper across the desk.

“Keep it. Write a bloody story about them.”

A telephone buzzed on the desk, a light flashed. Oldman sighed and pushed one of the white cups across the desk towards me. “Drink up ‘fore it gets cold.”

I did as I was told and picked up the cup, drinking it down in one cold mouthful.

“To be blunt son, I don’t like inexactitudes and I don’t like newspapers. You’ve got your job to do…”

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, off the ropes with a second wind. “I don’t think you’re going to find a body.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman smiled. I looked down into my empty teacup.

Oldman stood up, laughing, “See that in your bleeding tea-leaves do you?”

I
put the cup and saucer on the desk, folded up the typed list of names.

The telephone buzzed again.

Oldman walked over to the door and opened it. “You do your digging and I’ll do mine.”

I was standing up, legs and stomach weak. “Thank you for your time.”

He gripped my shoulder hard at the door. “You know, Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunston.”

“Thank you,” I said with all the courage I could muster, thinking, at least then one of us would be.

Oldman suddenly tightened his grip, reading my thoughts. “Have we met before son?”

“A long time ago,” I said, loose with a struggle.

The telephone on the desk buzzed and flashed again, long and hard.

“Not a word,” said Oldman, ushering me through the door. “Not a bloody word.”

“They’d hacked the wings off. Fucking swan was still alive an’ all,” smiled Gilman from the
Manchester Evening News
as I took my seat downstairs.

“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford, leaning over from the row behind.

“No. Took the wings clean off and left the poor bastard just lying there.”

“Fuck,” whistled Tom from Bradford.

I glanced round the Conference Room, boxing thoughts hitting me all over again, but this time no TV, no radio. The hot lights were off, allcomers welcome.

Only the Paper Lads here.

I felt a nudge to the ribs. It was Gilman again.

“How was yesterday?”

“Oh, you know…”

“Fuck, yeah.”

I looked at my father’s watch/thinking about Henry Cooper and my Aunty Anne’s husband Dave, who looked like Henry, and how Uncle Dave hadn’t been there yesterday, thinking about the great smell of Brut.

“You see that piece Barry did on that kid from Dewsbury?” It was Tom from Bradford, Scotch breath in my ear, hoping my own wasn’t as bad.

Me, all ears, “What kid?”

“Thalidomide Kid?” laughed Gilman.

“The one that got into bloody Oxford. Eight years old or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed.

“Sounded a right little cow.”

“Barry said her father was worse.” Still laughing, everyone laughing with me.

“Father’s going down with her an’ all, isn’t he?” said Gilman.

A New Face behind us, next to Tom, laughing along, “Lucky bastard. All them student birds.”

“Don’t reckon so,” I whispered. “Barry said father had only got eyes for one little lady. His Ruthie.”

“If it’s young enough to bleed,” said two of us at once.

Everybody laughed.

“You’re bloody joking?” Tom from Bradford, not laughing very much. “He’s a dirty git, Barry.”

“Dirty Barry,” I laughed.

New Face said, “Barry who?”

“Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff,” spat Gilman.

“Barry Gannon. He’s at the
Post
with Eddie here,” said Tom from Bradford to New Face. “He’s the bloke I was telling you about.”

“The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.

“Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”

“Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.

“Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.

“Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”

I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”

“Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”

“Be some bird
again
,” said Gilman from the
Manchester Evening News
, not interested.

“Here we go,” whispered New Face.

Round Two:

The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.

No relatives.

The Pack smelling Clare dead.

The Pack thinking no body.

The Pack thinking no news.

The Pack smelling a story dead.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.

Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.

The first spits of a hard rain.

Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of dark factories and silent mills:

Election posters, mush and glue.

A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.

Big Brother watching you.

Fear eats the soul
.

I
switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, playing back the press conference as I drove, searching for details.

It had been a waste of everybody’s time but mine, no news being good news for Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, playing hunches.

“
Concern is obviously mounting…
”

Oldman had stuck to his story: bugger all despite all the best efforts of all his best men.

The Public had come forward with information and possible sightings but, as yet, all the best men had nothing substantial to go on.

“
We’d like to stress that any member of the public who may have any information, no matter how trivial, should contact their nearest Police Station as a matter of some urgency, or telephone…
”

Then there had been a spot of fruitless Q&A.

I kept it shut,
not a bloody word
.

Oldman, each of his answers straight back to me, eyes locked, never blinking.

“
Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all for now…
”

And, as he stood up, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman winked the Big Wink my way.

Oilman’s voice at the end of the tape: “
What the fuck’s with you two?
”

Foot down with Leeds behind me, I switched off the tape, turned on the heater and the radio, and listened in as fears continued to grow on the local stations and a story grew on the nationals.

Every fucker biting, the story refusing to lie down and die.

I gave them one more day without a body before it went inside to Page Two, then a police reconstruction next Friday marking the one week anniversary and a brief return to the Front Page.

Then it was Saturday afternoon sport all the way.

One arm on the wheel, I killed the radio as I flipped through Kathryn’s precise typed A4 on my lap. I pressed record on the Pocket Memo, and began to chant:

“Susan Louise Ridyard. Missing since 20 March 1972, aged ten years old. Last seen outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale, 3.55
PM
”

“Extensive police search and nationwide publicity spelling zero, nothing, nowt. George Oldman headed the inquiry, despite being a Lancashire job. Asked for it.”

“
Castleford and…?
”

“
Rochdale
.”

Lying bastard.

“Investigation still officially open. Parents solid, two other kids. Parents continue to regularly put up fresh posters across the country. Re-mortgaged house to cover the cost.”

I switched off the tape, smiling a big Fuck You to Barry Cannon, knowing the Ridyards would be right back there and I’d be bringing them nothing new but fresh publicity.

I pulled up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a freshly painted bright red phonebox.

Fifteen minutes later I was reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a quiet part of Rochdale.

It was pissing down.

Mr Ridyard was standing in the doorway.

I got out of the car and said, “Good morning.”

“Nice weather for ducks,” said Mr Ridyard.

We shook hands and he led me through a tiny hall into the dark front room.

Mrs Ridyard was sitting on the sofa wearing slippers, a teenage girl and boy on either side of her. She had her arms round them both.

She glanced at me and whispered, “Go and tidy your rooms,” squeezing them tight before releasing them.

The children left the room looking at the carpet.

“Please sit down,” said Mr Ridyard. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Love?” he said, turning to his wife as he left the room.

Mrs Ridyard was miles away.

I sat down opposite the sofa and said, “Nice house.”

Mrs Ridyard blinked through the gloom, pulling at the skin on her cheeks.

“Looks like a nice area,” I added, the words dying but not quick enough.

Mrs Ridyard sat on the edge of the sofa, staring across the room at a school photograph of a little girl poking out between two Christmas cards on top of the TV. “There was a lovely view before they put them new houses up.”