At 7:00 the radio breaks the news to the rest of the world:

‘The Yorkshire Ripper has claimed his thirteenth victim, as police confirmed that Laureen Bell, aged twenty, was killed by the man responsible…’

I switch off the radio, thinking -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

War:

It is Thursday 11 December 1980.

I arrive in Whitby at 11:00 and park in the drive of the large new bungalow, alongside three expensive cars.

There’s sleet in the sea-spray, freezing gulls wheeling overhead, the wind screaming through a thousand empty shells.

I ring the doorbell.

A tall middle-aged woman opens the door.

‘Peter Hunter,’ I say.

‘Come in.’

I step into the bungalow.

‘Can I take your coat?’

‘Thanks.’

‘This way,’ she says, leading me down the hall to the back of the house.

She knocks on a door, opens it, and gestures for me to go inside.

Three men are sat on the sofa and chairs, grey skin and red eyes, silent.

Philip Evans stands up: ‘Peter? How was the drive?’

‘Not so bad.’

‘What would you like to drink?’ asks his wife from the doorway.

‘Coffee would be nice.’

‘Have to be instant, I’m afraid.’

‘Prefer it,’ I say.

‘Ever the diplomat,’ laughs Evans.

‘Everyone else OK?’

The other two men nod and she closes the door behind her.

‘Let’s get the introductions out of the way and then we can get on,’ smiles Philip Evans, the Regional Inspector of Constabulary for Yorkshire and the North East.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester force. Peter, this is Sir John Reed, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary.’

‘We’ve met before,’ I say, shaking his hand.

‘A long time ago,’ says Sir John, sitting back down on the sofa.