Read Nineteen Seventy-Four Online
Authors: David Peace
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Police Procedurals
Nineteen Seventy-Four (24 page)
I picked up the paper and folded it in two, stuffing it into the carrier bag, winking, “Thanks, Jack.”
Jack Whitehead said nothing.
I gathered up the carrier bag and walked across the silent office.
George Greaves was looking out the window, Gaz from Sport was staring at the end of his pencil.
The telephone began to ring on my desk.
Jack Whitehead picked it up.
At the door, Fat Steph, with an armful of files, smiled and said, “I’m sorry, love.”
“It’s Sergeant Fraser,” shouted Jack from my desk.
“Tell him to fuck off. I’ve been sacked.”
“He’s been sacked,” said Jack, hanging up.
One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:
The Press Club, members only, going up to five.
At the bar, a member for now, a Scotch in one hand, the phone in the other.
“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”
Yesterday Once More
on the jukebox, my money.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Fuck The Carpenters, my eyes stinging from my own smoke.
“Can you tell her Edward Dunford called?”
I hung up, downed the Scotch, lit another cigarette.
“Same again please, love.”
“And one for me, Bet.”
I looked round.
Jack fucking Whitehead taking the next stool.
“You fucking fancy me or something?”
“No.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
“We should talk.”
“Why?”
The barmaid set two Scotches in front of us.
“Someone’s setting you up.”
“Yeah? Big fucking news, Jack.”
He offered me a cigarette. “Who is it then, Scoop?”
“How about we start with your mates, the Two Bobbies?”
Jack lit a cigarette for himself and whispered, “How’s that?”
I swung my right hand round, waving the bandages in his face, toppling forward and shouting, “How’s that? What the fuck do you think this is?”
Jack moved out of the way, catching my bandages in his own hand.
“They did that?” he said, pushing me back into my seat, eyes on the black wad at the end of my arm.
“Yeah, in between burning down gypsy camps, stealing post mortem photos, and beating confessions out of the retarded.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just the new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police going about their business, supported by the good old
Yorkshire Post
, the copper’s friend.”
“You’ve fucking lost it.”
I downed the Scotch. “So everyone keeps saying.”
“Fucking listen to them then.”
“Piss off, Jack.”
“Eddie?”
“What?”
“Think of your mother.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Hasn’t she been through enough? It’s barely been a week since you buried your father.”
I leant over and poked two fingers into his bony chest. “Don’t you ever fucking bring my family into this.”
I stood up and took out my car keys.
“You’re not fit to drive.”
“You’re not fit to write, but you do.”
He was stood up, holding me by the arms. “You’re being set up, just like Barry was.”
“Fucking let go.”
“Derek Box is as bad as it fucking gets.”
“Let go.”
He sat back down. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“Piss off,” I hissed, climbing the stairs, hating his lying guts and the stinking world in which he dwelt.
The M1 southbound out of Leeds, seven o’clock busy, the rain beginning to sleet in my headlights.
Always on My Mind
on the radio.
In the fast lane, glances in the rearview mirror, glances to the left, the gypsy camp gone.
Flicking through the radio stations, avoiding the news.
Suddenly the Castleford turn-off came out of the dark like a lorry, its lights on full.
I swerved across three lanes, horns screaming at me, the trapped faces of angry ghosts in their cars cursing me.
Inches from death, thinking bring it on.
Bring it on.
Bring it on.
Knock on the door of…
“You’re drunk.”
“I just want to talk,” I said on the step of Number 11, waiting for that big red door in my face.
“You’d better come in.”
The fat Scottish woman from two down was sat on the sofa in front of
Opportunity Knocks
, staring at me.
“He’s had a few,” said Paula, closing the door.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” laughed the Scottish woman.
“I’m sorry,” I said and sat down on the sofa next to her.
Paula said, “I’ll make a cup of tea.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want another, Clare?”
“No, I’ll get off,” she said, following Paula into the kitchen.
I sat on the sofa in front of the TV, listening to whispers from the next room, watching a young girl tapdance into the hearts and homes of millions. Just above her, on top of the TV, Jeanette smiled her handicapped grin across the room at me.
“See you later, Eddie,” said Scotch Clare at the door.
I thought about getting up, but stayed put and mumbled, “Yeah, goodnight.”
“Aye. Be nice,” she said as she closed the big red door behind her.
There was applause on the screen.
Paula handed me a mug of tea. “Here you go.”
I said, “I’m sorry about this. And last night.”
She sat down next to me on the sofa. “Forget it.”
“Always turning up like this and then all that shit I said last night, I didn’t mean any of it.”
“It’s all right, forget it. You don’t have to say anything.”
Some robot aliens were eating instant mashed potato on the TV.
“I do care.”
“I know.”
I wanted to ask about Johnny but I put down the tea and leant over, bringing her face closer to my own with my left hand.
“How’s your hand?” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” I said, kissing her lips, her chin, and her cheeks.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“I want to.”
“Why?”
A monkey in a flat cap was drinking a cup of tea on TV.
“Because I love you.”
“Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“So say it again.”
“I love you.”
Paula pushed me away and took my hand, switching off the TV and leading me up the steep, steep stairs.
Mummy and Daddy’s Room, the bedroom so cold I could see my breath.
Paula sat down on the bed and began to undo her blouse, her bare skin all covered in goose-bumps.
I pushed her back on to the eiderdown, kicking off my shoes with two loud thuds.
She squirmed beneath me, trying to wriggle free of her trousers.
I pushed up her blouse and black bra and began sucking at her pale brown nipples, biting her ever so slightly.
She was pulling off my jacket and pushing down my trousers.
“You’re filthy,” she giggled.
“Thanks,” I smiled, feeling the laughter in her belly.
“I love you,” she said and pulled her hands through my hair, pushing my head gently down.
I went where I was told, tugging down the zip of her trousers and pulling off her pale blue cotton knickers with them.
Paula Garland pushed my head into her cunt, wrapping her legs across my back.
My chin became wet, stinging as it dried.
She pushed me back.
I went.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” I mumbled, a face full of cunt.
She pulled me back up, over her tits.
I kissed her as I went, hitting her lips with the taste of herself.
Her tongue on mine, both tasting of cunt.
I pulled myself up, pain in my arm, and pushed her over on to her belly.
Paula lay on the eiderdown, her face in the pillow, wearing only her bra.
I looked down at my cock.
Paula raised her arse slightly and then back down.
I pushed her hair up and kissed her neck and the backs of her ears, working myself between her legs.
She raised her arse again, juices and sweat making it wet.
I sat back and began rubbing my cock on the lips of her cunt, bandages in her hair, my left palm flat on the small of her back.
She raised her arse higher, backing her cunt on to my cock.
My cock touched her arse.
She reached her hand round to my cock, guiding it away from her arse and into her cunt.
Inside and out, inside and out.
Paula, opening and closing her fist on the bed.
Inside and out, inside and out.
Paula, face down, fists closed.
I slipped out hard.
Paula, fists open, sighing.
My cock touched her arse.
Paula, trying to look round.
A bandaged hand on the back of her neck.
Paula, a hand flailing after my cock.
My cock on the edge of her arsehole.
Paula, shouting into the pillow.
In tight.
Paula Garland, screaming and screaming into the pillow. A bandaged hand pinning down her face, another round her belly.
Paula Garland, trying to break free from my cock. Me, fucking her hard up the arse. Paula, limp and shaking with tears. Inside and out, inside and out. Paula, blood on her arse.
Inside and out, inside and out, blood on my cock. Paula Garland, crying. Coming and coming and coming again. Paula, calling out for Jeanette. Me, coming again.
Dead dogs and monsters and rats with little wings.
There was someone walking around in my head, shining a torch and wearing big boots.
She was outside in the street, pulling a red cardigan tight around herself, and smiling at me.
Suddenly a big black bird swooped down from the sky and into her hair, chasing her down the street, taking out huge clumps of blonde hair all bloody at the roots.
She was lying in the road with her pale blue cotton knickers showing, like a dead dog hit by a lorry.
I awoke and went back to sleep, thinking I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.
Dead dogs and monsters and rats with little wings.
There was someone walking around in my head, shining a torch and wearing big boots.
I was sitting in a wooden cabin gazing at a Christmas tree, the smell of good cooking filling the house.
I took a big box, gift-wrapped in newspaper, from under the tree and pulled the red ribbon loose.
Carefully I opened the paper so I might read it later.
I stared at the small wooden box on my knee, resting on the newspaper and the red length of ribbon.
I closed my eyes and opened the box, the dull thud of my heart filling the house.
“What is it?” she said, coming up behind me and touching my shoulder.
I covered the box with my bandaged hand, burying my head in her red gingham folds.
She took the box from my hands and looked inside.
The box fell to the floor, the house full of good cooking, the thud of my heart, and her bloody screams.
I watched as it slid out of the box and across the floor, writing spidery messages with its bloody cord as it went.
“Get rid of it,” she screamed. “Get rid of it now!”
It flipped on to its back and smiled at me.
I awoke and went back to sleep, thinking I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.
Dead dogs and monsters and rats with little wings.
There was someone walking around in my head, shining a torch and wearing big boots.
I was awake, lying underground on a door, freezing.
Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a television,
Opportunity Knocks
.
I stared up into the dark, tiny specks of light coming closer.
Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a telephone ringing and wings beating.
I saw through the dark, rats with little wings that looked more like squirrels with their furry faces and kind words.
Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a record playing,
The Little Drummer Boy
.
The rats were at my ear, whispering harsh words, calling me names, breaking my bones worse than any sticks or stones.
Beside me, the muffled sounds of children crying.
I jumped up to put on the light but it was already on.
I was awake, lying on the carpet, freezing.
Chapter 9
Saturday 21 December 1974.
W
hat the fuck is this?” A newspaper full across the face woke me.
“You tell me you love me, tell me you care, and then you fuck me up the arse and write this shit.”
I sat up in the bed, rubbing the side of my face with a bandaged hand.
Yeah, Saturday 21 December 1974.
Mrs Paula Garland, in blue flared jeans and a red wool sweater, stood over the bed.
The
Yorkshire Post
headline stared up from the eiderdown:
11 DAY IRA XMAS TRUCE.
“What?”
“Don’t give me that, you lying piece of shit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She picked up the paper, opened it, and started to read:
A Mother’s Plea by Edward Dunford.
Mrs Paula Garland, sister of the Rugby League star Johnny Kelly, wept as she told of her life since the disappearance of her daughter, Jeanette, just over five years ago.
“I’ve lost everything since that day,” said Mrs Garland, referring to her husband Geoff’s suicide in 1971, following the fruitless police investigation into the whereabouts of their missing daughter.
“I just want it all to end,” wept Mrs Garland. “And maybe now it can.”
Paula stopped reading. “Do you want me to go on?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, a sheet around my balls, staring at a patch of bright white sunlight on the thin flowered carpet.
“I didn’t write that.”
“By Edward Dunford.”
“I didn’t write it.”
The arrest of a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the disappear ance and murder of Clare Kemplay has brought a tragic hope of sorts to Mrs Garland
.
“
I never thought I’d say it but, after all this time, I just want to know what happened,” cried Mrs Garland. “And if that means knowing the worst, I’ll just have to try and live with it
.”
“I didn’t write it.”
“By Edward Dunford,” she repeated.
“I didn’t write it.”
“You liar!” screamed Paula Garland, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me off the bed.
I fell naked on to the thin flowered carpet, repeating, “I didn’t write it.”
“Get out!”
“Please, Paula,” I said, reaching for my trousers.
She pushed me over as I tried to stand, screaming and screaming, “Get out! Get out!”
“Fuck off, Paula, and listen to me.”
“No!” she screamed again, taking a piece out of my ear with her nails.
“Fuck off,” I shouted and pushed her away, gathering up my clothes.
She collapsed into a corner by the wardrobe, curling into a ball and sobbing, “I fucking hate you.”
I put on my trousers and shirt, blood dripping from my ear, and picked up my jacket.
“I never want to see you again,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” I spat back, down the stairs and out the door.
Bitch.
The clock in the car coming up to nine, bright white winter light half blinding me as I drove.
Fucking bitch.
The A655 morning clear, flat brown fields as far as the eye could see.
Bloody fucking bitch.
The radio on, Lulu’s
Little Drummer Boy
, the back seat full of carrier bags.
Stupid bloody fucking bitch.
Pips on the hour, my ear still smarting, here comes the news:
“
West Yorkshire Police have launched a murder investigation following the discovery of a woman’s body in aflat in the St John’s part of the city, yesterday
.”
The blood dead in my arms, cold.
“
The woman has been named as 36-year-old Mandy Denizili
.”
Flesh strangling bone, off the road and on to the verge.
“
Mrs Denizili worked as a medium under her maiden name of Wymer and became nationally known after helping the police with a number of investigations. Most recently, Mrs Denizili claimed to have led police to the body of murdered schoolgirl Clare Kemplay. This was a claim strongly denied by Detective Superintendent Peter Noble, the man leading that investigation
.”
My forehead on the steering wheel, hands over my mouth.
“
While police are at present releasing few details about the actual crime itself, it is believed to have been particularly brutal
.”
Struggling with the door and the bandage, bile down the armrest and on to the grass.
“
The police are appealing for anyone who knew Mrs Denizili to please contact them as a matter of urgency
.”
Crazy bloody fucking bitch.
Out of the car and on to my knees, the bile trailing down my chin and into the dirt.
Bloody fucking bitch.
Spitting bile and phlegm, that scream in my ears as she’d slid back on her arse up the hall, those arms and legs splayed, that country skirt riding up.
Fucking bitch.
Gravel in my palms, soil on my forehead, staring at the grass in the cracks in the road.
Bitch.
From the pages of
Yorkshire Life
.
Thirty minutes later, my face black with dirt and my hands stained with grass, I was stood in the lobby of the Redbeck Motel, a bandage round the phone.
“Sergeant Fraser, please.”
The yellows, the browns, the stink of smoke—it almost felt like home or much the same.
“Sergeant Fraser speaking.”
Thinking of crows perched on telephone wires, I swallowed and said, “This is Edward Dunford.”
Silence, only the hum of the line waiting for words.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors, won dering what day of the week it was, wondering if it was a school day, thinking of the crows on the telephone wires and wondering what Fraser was thinking.
“You’re fucked, Dunford,” said Fraser.
“I need to see you.”
“Fuck off. You’ve got to turn yourself in.”
“What?”
“You heard. You’re wanted for questioning.”
“In connection to what?”
“In connection to the murder of Mandy Wymer.”
“Fuck off.”
“Where are you?”
“Listen…”
“No, you fucking listen. I’ve been trying to speak to you for two fucking days…”
“Listen, please…”
Silence again, just the hum of the line waiting for his words or mine.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors, won dering if it was always the same game, wondering if they even bothered to keep score, thinking of the crows on the wire again and wondering if Fraser was tracing this call.
“Go on,” said Fraser.
“I’ll give you names and dates, all the information I have about Barry Gannon and all the stuff he found out.”
“Go on.”
“But I need to know everything you’ve heard about what’s going on with Michael Myshkin, what he’s saying about Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard. And I want his confession.”
“Go on.”
“I’ll meet you at twelve noon. I’ll give you all I’ve got, you give me what you’ve got. And I want your word you won’t try and bring me in.”
“Go on.”
“If you arrest me, I’ll drop you right in it.”
“Go on.”
“Give me till midnight, then I’ll come in.”
Silence, only the hum waiting for the word.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors, won dering where the farting old woman was, wondering if she had died in her room and nobody had found her, thinking of the crows on the wire and wondering if Fraser had set me up at the Hartley Nursing Home.
“Where?” whispered Sergeant Fraser.
“There’s a disused petrol station at the junction of the A655 and the B6134 going out to Featherstone.”
“Twelve?”
“Noon.”
The line dead, the hum gone, feeling much the same.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors.
On the floor of Room 27, emptying my pockets and bags, staring at the tiny cassettes marked BOX AND SHAW, pressing play:
“
I’m no angel either, but I am a businessman
.”
Transcribing my words and theirs in my own injured hand.
“
Persuade the Councillor that he should bare his soul of all his public wrongdoings
.”
Putting a photograph to one side.
“
Tomorrow lunchtime, upstairs in the Strafford Arms
.”
Changing cassettes, pressing play:
“
Because of the fucking money
.”
Printing in capitals.
“
Foster, Donald Richard Foster. Is that who you want?
”
Listening to lies.
“
I didn’t know he was a journalist
.”
Turning over the tape.
“
All of the others under those beautiful new carpets
.”
Rewind.
“
Don’t touch me!
”
Pressing record to erase.
“
You smell so strongly of bad memories
.”
On the floor of Room 27, stuffing a manila envelope full of Barry’s bits and the things he’d found, licking it locked and scrawling Fraser’s name across the front.
“
You didn’t see it coming?
”
At the door of my Redbeck room, swallowing a pill and lighting a cigarette, a manila envelope in my hand and a Christmas card in my pocket.
“
I’m a medium Mr Dunford, not a fortune teller
.”
One door left.
Noon. Saturday 21 December 1974.
Between a lorry and a bus, driving past the disused Shell petrol station at the junction of the A655 and the B6134.
A mustard-yellow Maxi sat on the forecourt, Sergeant Fraser leaning against the bonnet.
I drove on for a hundred yards and pulled in, wound down my window, turned round, pressed record on the Philips Pocket Memo, and drove back.
Pulling up beside the Maxi, I said, “Get in.”
Sergeant Fraser, a raincoat over his uniform, walked round the back of the Viva and got in.
I pulled out of the forecourt and turned left up the B6134 to Featherstone.
Sergeant Fraser, arms folded, stared straight ahead.
For one moment, I felt like I’d stepped into an alternate world straight out of Dr fucking Who, where I was the cop and Fraser was not, where I was good and he was not.
“Where are we going?” said Fraser.
“We’re here.” I pulled into a lay-by just past a red caravan selling teas and pies.
Turning off the engine, I said, “You want anything?”
“No, you’re all right.”
“Am I? You know Sergeant Craven and his mate?”
“Yeah. Everyone knows them.”
“You know them well?”
“By reputation.”
I stared out of the brown mud-stained window, over the low brown hedges dividing the flat brown fields with their lone brown trees.
“Why?” said Fraser.
I took a photograph of Clare Kemplay out of my pocket, one of her lying on a hospital slab, a swan’s wing stitched into her back.
I handed the photo to Fraser. “I think either Craven or his partner gave me this.”
“Fuck. Why?”
“They’re setting me up.”
“Why?”
I pointed to the carrier bag at Fraser’s feet. “It’s all in there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Transcripts, documents, photographs. Everything you need.”
“Transcripts?”
“I’ve got the original tapes and I’ll hand them over when you decide you need them. Don’t worry, it’s all there.”
“It better be,” said Fraser, peering into the bag.
I took two pieces of paper from inside my jacket and gave one of them to Fraser. “Knock on this door.”
“Flat 5, 3 Spencer Mount, Chapeltown,” read Fraser.
I put the other piece back in my pocket. “Yeah.”
“Who lives here?”
“Barry James Anderson; he’s an acquaintance of Barry Cannon’s and the star of some of the snaps and tapes you’ll find in the bag.”
“Why are you giving me him?”
I stared out towards the ends of the flat brown fields, at blue skies turning white.
“I’ve got nothing else left to give.”
Fraser put the piece of paper inside his pocket, taking out a notebook.
“What have you got for me?”
“Not so bloody much,” said Fraser, opening the notebook.
“His confession?”
“Not verbatim.”
“Details?”
“There aren’t any.”
“What’s he said about Jeanette Garland?”
“He’s copped for it. That’s it.”
“Susan Ridyard?”
“Same.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” said Sergeant Eraser.
“You think he did them?”
“He’s the one confessing.”
“He say where he did all these things?”
“His Underground Kingdom.”
“He’s not all there.”
“Who is?” sighed Fraser.
In the green car, by the brown field, under the white sky, I said, “Is that it?”
Sergeant Fraser looked down at the notebook in his hands and said, “Mandy Wymer.”
“Fuck.”
“Neighbour found her yesterday about 9
AM
She had been raped, scalped, and hung with wire from a light fitting.”
“Scalped?”
“Like Indians do.”
“Fuck.”
“They’re keeping that from your lot,” smiled Fraser.
“Scalped,” I whispered.
“Cats had had a go too. Real horror show stuff.”
“Fuck.”
“Your ex-boss turned you in,” said Fraser and closed the notebook.
“They think I fucking did it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a journalist.”
“So?”
“So they think you might know who did it.”
“Why me?”
“Because you must have been one of the last fucking people to see her alive, that’s why.”
“Fuck.”
“She mention her husband?”
“She didn’t say anything.”
Sergeant Fraser flicked open the notebook again. “Neighbours have told us that Miss Wymer was involved in some kind of argument on Tuesday afternoon. According to your former employer, that must have been either just before or just after she saw you.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
Sergeant Fraser looked me in the eye and closed his notebook again.
