Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The M1 back into Leeds.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fat grey slabs of Saturday afternoon skies turning to night on either side of me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eyes out for Jack fucking Whitehead’s Rover.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hitting the dial for Radio Leeds:

The body of missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kerriplay was dis covered on wasteland in Wakefield’s Devil’s Ditch by workmen early this morning. At a press conference at Wakefield’s Wood Street Police Station, Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman launched a murder hunt, appealing for witnesses to come forward:

On behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal…

Fuck.

“Someone’s got to you. Someone’s fucking got to you!”

“You are very wrong and I’d thank you to watch your language.”

“I’m sorry, but you know how close I am…”

The words became inaudible again and I gave up trying to hear what was being said. Hadden’s door was thicker than it looked and Fat Steph the Secretary’s typing wasn’t helping.

I looked at my father’s watch.

Dawsongate: Local Government money for private housing; substandard materials for council housing; back-handers all round.

Barry Cannon’s baby, his obsession.

Fat Steph looked up from her work again and smiled sym pathetically, thinking You’re Next.

I smiled back wondering if she really did like it up Trap Two from Jack.

Barry Cannon’s voice rose again from within Hadden’s office. “I just want to go out to the house. She wouldn’t have bloody phoned back if she didn’t want to talk.”

“She’s not a well woman, you know that. It’s not ethical. It’s not right.”

“Ethical!”

Fuck. This was going to take all bloody night.

I stood up, lit another cigarette, and began to pace again, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”