Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two by David Peace Read Free Book Online Page B

‘Similar.’
Frankie smiles and looks at his watch, ‘Best be getting back.’
‘No offence, mate,’ says Rudkin, patting Frank’s back.
‘None taken.’
We sup up and pile into the car.
It’s almost three and I’m fucking tired, half-pissed.
We’re going to drop Frankie back at the station, say our goodbyes, and head home.
I’m thinking of Janice, half dozing.
Ellis is telling Frankie about Kenny D.
‘Dumb fucking monkey,’ he laughs.
I can see Kenny’s splayed legs, his cheap underpants and shrivelled dick, the pleas in his eyes.
Rudkin’s going on about how we’ll hold him until they bring Barton in.
I picture Kenny in his cell, sweating and shitting it.
They’re all laughing as we swing into the car park.
Detective Chief Superintendent Hill is waiting for us as we come through the front door.
‘Got a minute?’ he says to DI Rudkin.
‘What is it?’
‘Not here.’
Me and Ellis stand around at the desk as Alf Hill takes Rudkin upstairs.
We wait, Frankie hanging around, talking up Lancs/Yorks rivalry.
‘Fraser, up here now,’ yells Rudkin from the top of the stairs.
I start up the stairs, stomach hollow.
Ellis starts to follow.
‘Wait there,’ I snap.
Rudkin and Hill up in the Lancashire Murder Room.
No-one else.
Hill’s putting down the phone.
‘Get that fucking file,’ shouts Rudkin.
I pull it out from the cabinet.
‘The Inquest in there?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘What was the blood group they got off her?’
‘B,’ I say from memory, flicking through for the report.
‘Check it.’
I do and nod.
‘Read it to me.’
I read: ‘Blood grouping from the semen taken from victim’s vagina and rectum, blood group B.’
‘Pass it here.’
I do it.
Rudkin stares at it, flat on his palms:
‘Fuck.’
Hill too:
‘Shit.’
Rudkin holds it up to the light, turns it over, and hands it to Detective Chief Superintendent Hill.
Rudkin picks up the phone and dials.
Hill has sucked his lower lip in, waiting.
‘B,’ says Rudkin into the phone.
There’s a long silence.
Eventually Rudkin repeats, ’9 per cent of the population.’
Another silence.
‘Right,’ says Rudkin and passes the phone to Alf Hill.
Hill listens, says, ‘Will do,’ and puts down the phone.
I stand there.
They sit there.
No-one speaks for about two whole minutes.
Rudkin looks up at me and shakes his head like, this can’t be fucking happening .
I say, ‘What is it?’
‘Farley pulled some semen stains off the back of Marie Watts’s coat.’
‘And?’
‘Blood group B.’

    9 per cent of the population .
It’s somewhere around eight or nine in the evening, the light still with us.
My eyes, my shoulders, my fingers ache from the writing.
The phone from here to Leeds hasn’t stopped:
Panic Stations .
Rudkin keeps looking up at me like, this is fucked , and I swear sometimes there’s bloody blame there.
We keep at it:
Transcribing, copying, checking, re-checking, like a gang of fucking monks hunched over some holy books.
Me, I keep thinking, didn’t Rudkin fucking know this? What the fuck were him and Craven doing over here?
Ellis is just sat there scribbling away, totally blown away, head spinning like the fucking Exorcist .
I sketch the scene, the boot and the coat, and I look up and say, ‘I’m going to go back up there.’
‘Now?’ says Ellis.
‘We’re missing something.’
‘We going to stay night?’ asks Rudkin.
We all look at our watches and shrug.
Rudkin picks up the phone.
‘I’ll sort you out,’ says Frankie.
‘Somewhere nice, yeah?’ calls Rudkin, a hand over the receiver.
Up Church Street, the light almost gone, a train snaking out the station.
Yellow lights, dead faces at the glass.
Searching, looking for the lost, trying to find a Thursday night two years ago:
Thursday 20 November 1975.
It had rained during the day, helping keep Clare in the pub, the one at the bottom of the hill, St Mary’s, same name as the hostel.
To the left the multi-storey and Frenchwood Street.
I cross the road.
A car slows behind me, then passes.
A tramp on the corner, asleep on a bed of cans and newspapers.
He