I look across at Reed, the grey skin and red eyes.

He’s shaking his head.

‘If we do get him, we’ll probably find he’s had too long on the left breast and not enough on the right. But I don’t regard him as evil. The voice is almost sad, a man fed up with what he’s done, fed up with himself. To me he’s like a bad angel on a mistaken journey and, while I could never condone his methods, I can sympathise with his feelings.’

Warren presses stop.

‘You know who that was?’

‘George Oldman?’ I say.

Philip Evans is nodding: ‘That was Assistant Chief Constable Oldman talking to the Yorkshire Post last week.’

Warren: ‘Thank Christ they called us.’

Silence.

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

Sir John Reed says: ‘Sixteen hours a day, six – sometimes seven – days a week.’

I shrug: ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.’

‘What do you know?’

‘About?’

‘About the whole bloody farce?’

‘Not much more than I’ve read in the papers.’

‘I think you’re being modest, Mr Hunter. I think you know a lot more,’ winks Reed.

I start to speak, but he raises his hand: ‘I think like most senior detectives in this country, I think you feel West Yorkshire have lost the plot, that the Ripper Tape is bollocks, that he’s laughing at us, the British Police, and that you’d like nothing more than to have a crack.’

I return his stare: ‘So is it bollocks? The tape?’

He smiles and turns to Philip Evans, nodding.

There’s a pause before Evans says: ‘There’ll be a press conference later today and Chief Constable Angus will tell them that Oldman’s out.’

I say nothing now, waiting.

‘Peter Noble’s been made Temporary Assistant Chief Constable with sole responsibility for the hunt.’

Again I say nothing, waiting.