﻿1
- A little girl goes missing.
The pack salivates.
If it bleeds, it leads, right?
Eddie Dunford, crime correspondent,
back home to take the North.
Business first.
Dad won't mind waiting.
- Edward.
I'm sorry to hear about your father.
- Oh, yeah, thank you very much, Mr. Hadley.
He had a good innings, eh?
- This is Detective Superintendent Jobson.
- Oh, right.
Pleasure, sir. Pleasure to meet you.
- Mr. Dunford's hoping to be
the Post's new crime correspondent.
- Oh, aye, I always got on well with Jack Whitehead.
Good old Jack, eh?
- He'll be standing in for a trial period.
- That's right.
Pleasure to meet you... and to work.
- Is he a local lad?
- Well, he cut his teeth on our Yorkshire Post,
but he's been down south.
- Young Turk, then, eh?
- Made a pig's ear of it from what I understand.
- I'm giving him a month to prove himself.
- So where's Whitehead?
- Jack? - Yeah.
- On the piss, probably.
Don't worry, son.
You've got your legs well under the table.
Just do the job.
- I know, I know.
Fuck him. He's not getting in on this one.
- Yeah, funeral is in two hours.
It's going to be tight.
- I know. We'll make it.
- Aye-up, owl's on.
- Gentlemen, we'll keep this brief.
At 4:00 p. m. yesterday evening, 3rd of September,
Clare Kemplay disappeared on her way home
from Morley Grange Junior and Infants.
Clare is ten years old.
She was wearing a red anorak,
gray school uniform, and red Wellington boots.
Mrs. Kemplay now would like to read a short statement.
Thank you.
- Poor cow. - No, I know.
Yeah, do you reckon dad did it?
- I would like to appeal
to anyone who knows where my Clare is,
or who saw her after yesterday teatime,
to please contact the police.
Clare is a very happy girl.
And I know she wouldn't just-
never just run off without telling me.
Please, if you know where she is...
Please, this is...
I'm sorry.
- All right, lads, that's your lot.
- I'm sorry, Mum. I'm really sorry.
I'm really, really sorry I'm late.
- "Business before pleasure," he always said.
- She means Dad.
Remember Dad?
- He were Yorkshire's finest tailor, William was.
- He was a good lad, your dad.
You knew where you were with him.
Reliable.
- Well, now, Edward Dunford,
North of England crime correspondent.
"Mrs. Sandra Kemplay
made an emotional plea this morning..."
- Did you write that, love?
- Our new byline boy is Eddie.
- You'll be wanting his autograph next.
- He'll always be "Little Eddie" to me.
- It's a step up, lad.
It's a pity your dad's not here to see it.
Hey, is that one of his?
- This? No.
This is a Lord John, Carnaby Street.
- Oh, aye.
- It doesn't look good, does it? This Kemplay lass.
- 24 hours, not a thing.
- There's been a couple now, aren't there?
- Yeah, going back.
Wasn't there a little lass from Rochdale?
- There were one not so long ago in Castleford.
- Yeah, Jeanette Garland.
Never found her neither.
- No? Didn't they?
- Hear them wheels.
- They never caught no one.
- Never do, though, do they?
- Aye-up, Chuck.
How are you? You all right?
Good to see you.
- The prodigal returns.
- Eddie.
- Here to see the old man, Miss Moneypenny.
- Didn't cut it down south, then?
- Funny.
- So, sir, if I could get your attention,
we have three missing girls.
They're all aged between eight and ten.
1969, 1972, and then the day before yesterday.
And they all go missing within miles of one another, sir.
This could be the A34 murders all over again.
- Well, do let's hope so, eh, Mr. Dunford?
- Yeah, fingers crossed, eh?
- I was being sarcastic, Edward.
- Sorry.
- Have you spoke to Jack Whitehead about this?
- No.
No, this is-this is my story.
Isn't it, Mr. Hadley?
- Spot the Ball.
It's the reason why 39% of working-class males
buy this paper.
- That's interesting.
- You honestly think so?
- What about- about working-class males?
- Do you think it could be the same man?
- Yes, sir.
Yes, I do.
- Right, I'll fix you up with a one-to-one.
First thing in the morning with DCS Molloy.
Bill Molloy suspects itinerants.
Gypsies.
- Oh, well...
Of course he does.
- Now, don't push him, lad.
This paper enjoys a good relationship
with our newly amalgamated police force.
And I, for one, would like to keep it that way.
- Of course, sir. Of course.
- Good.
You know, you really ought to have a go at these, Edward.
They'd be right up your street.
- Thank you, sir. I will.
- Edward. - Yep?
- Don't cock it up, eh?
- You think you've got it all set up
- Yeah, unbelievable.
They hacked the fucking swan's wings off.
Clean off.
Left the poor bastard lying there.
- You're joking.
- Yeah. Still alive, apparently.
Some kids found it.
- Hey, Eddie. - Yes, yes.
- How did it go with Hadley?
- Ah, he's not convinced.
Usual bollocks, "Don't cause a fuss."
- Right.
One thing's for sure:
They're linked, all right.
- I know it.
Yeah, but linked how?
- Everything's linked, Eddie.
Show me two things that aren't.
- Stoke City and the fucking championship.
- Hmm. Come here.
Eddie, it's a conspiracy.
We've got MI5 keeping an eye on our Harold,
Mountbatten waiting in the wings with a military junta.
- Bollocks.
- There are death squads out there.
They give them a taste in Northern Ireland,
bring them back home hungry.
- Fuck off! Death squads.
- And every city has its death squads.
Sentence first, evidence after.
- All right, well, I'll steer well clear
of Wakey County Council death squad, then.
- You can laugh.
- I will.
Why not work Watergate in there, too, while you're about it?
Death squads, Barry?
Come on, you're losing it, mate.
Oh, shit. - What?
Oh, you're a lucky man, Dunford.
- Mr. Gannon?
- BJ, in there.
- Are you all right, fella?
Fucking hell.
- Business.
- I didn't think it were pleasure, did I?
Having a nice time back up North?
- Yeah, you know, Barry.
Gets a bit obtuse.
- Obtuse?
There's a big word for you.
- Oh. How about you?
- How about me what?
- Are you having a good time?
- Oh, I love being on me own in bars.
- Oh, no, you weren't. You weren't alone.
- You could have come over.
- Well, I wasn't invited.
- Oh, poor baby.
Oh, I love you.
I love you, Eddie.
- Who had love that's now departed?
- I've missed you, Eddie, love.
Eddie.
- It's for him.
- Yeah?
- Dunford, I thought you were a fucking journalist.
Well, you best start asking questions.
- Who is this?
- You don't need to know.
Are you interested in the Romany way?
White vans and gypos.
- Where?
- Hunslet Beeston exit off the M1.
- When?
- Mischief night came early, and you're late.
- Someone had torched the whole fucking place.
It was-it was like Vietnam or something.
- Well, Bill Molloy's got it in for the gypsies, hasn't he?
- You reckon it was the police?
- Their style.
That land's earmarked.
New John Dawson development.
Here, don't be late, mate.
The Badger doesn't like newspapermen.
Into the lion's den you go.
- Come on, then, son.
Surprise me.
- Well, Mr. Molloy, sir, I was just wondering
if there were any more news on Clare Kemplay?
- Nothing.
Sweet fuck all.
That poor lass is dead, son.
- And Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard?
There are some similarities there, eh?
I'm thinking about the A34 murders, Cannock Chase.
- What the fuck do you know about Cannock Chase?
- Just that it turned out
it was the work of one man, wasn't it?
And here we have Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard,
Clare Kemplay- they all go missing.
- You're not the first one to put that together, son.
You vain little twat.
My senile bloody auntie could.
You haven't got a story, son.
Best we find her body, and quick.
Check the bins.
See who's got themselves an early awayday.
- All right.
Pull in local gypos and paddies.
- Have we met before, son?
- No.
No, I don't think so.
- Good.
You do your digging, and I'll do mine.
Now fuck off.
- Sir.
Fucking plods.
- Breaking news...
- Reporter, are you?
- That obvious, is it?
- We've seen a few around here.
Ridyards aren't in, love.
- Oh, right.
Well, do you know when they'll be back?
- Gone away for a few days.
Can't blame them.
Brings it all back.
And what with them finding that new one over in Fitzwilliam.
- Sorry, what?
- Clare Kemplay.
They found her.
Just on the news.
Dumped on a building site.
- Eddie.
- Aw, thanks for letting me know, love.
- Oh, fuck you, Eddie.
- Oh, Jack Whitehead, the crime reporter of the year.
Fancy you being here.
- Oh, glad you could join us, Scoop.
Boss wants to see you, ASAP.
- Early bird and all that.
- Is it true you like it up trap two from Jack?
- You're the one who's fucked, Scoop.
- You couldn't be reached, so I sent for Jack.
- So I'm off the story?
- Not at all, not at all, no.
Just sit down a minute, Edward.
Edward, park your ass.
I want a word.
Look, I've got a couple of other things
I want you to follow up for me, all right, a favor.
- Wha-what? What favor?
- I want you to go to Shangri-la.
- What?
- Shangri-la.
It was a silver wedding present apparently,
her favorite film.
- What are you on about?
- Dawson Place.
John Dawson, the construction magnate.
- Right.
Local corruption.
Barry reckons that Marjorie Dawson
will corroborate all the stuff we've dug up on her husband.
Now, look, Marjorie Dawson is not a well woman.
It is ethically dubious to bother her.
So I want you to go with Barry
and make sure he doesn't go off at the deep end.
- All right, so what about Clare Kemplay?
- We'll let Jack handle it for the most part, eh?
You can do the background.
- Who found her?
- A builder's mate, a lad from Fitzwilliam.
Now, Edward, I'm asking you to drop it.
- All right.
- Good.
So you'll stay away from Fitzwilliam, then?
- Hiya. Mrs. Cole?
Edward Dunford.
I'm from the Yorkshire Post.
- To see our Leonard, isn't it?
- Yeah, that's right.
Just a quick chat.
- He's had enough with police.
He don't need to keep going over it.
- Mary, Mary, it's okay.
It's all right.
- Hi.
Sorry. I'm Martin Laws.
- Pleasure. Edward Dunford.
- Sorry about my hands.
I've been working on the allotment.
Sorry about that. - Not a problem.
I'm just here for a quick chat with Leonard,
if that's all right?
I don't want to bother you.
- Put the comic away, Leonard.
- All right, Leonard?
I'm Edward Dunford.
I'm a journalist for the Yorkshire Post.
I just want to ask you a couple of questions, you know.
Naught to worry about at all.
- They thought he'd done it, you know?
- Shut up, Mum.
- Hey, you.
The police realized it was a mistake.
- So why did they think you'd done it, Leonard?
- Ask them.
- He's a good boy, Mr. Dunford.
He didn't do nothing.
- No, I don't...
I can see that.
You might as well get some brass out of it, Leonard,
and tell us what happened.
- It's not about the money, Mr. Dunford.
It's the truth that matters.
Leonard will show you the place.
- She were a lovely little thing.
- We were waiting for the gaffer,
but he never come.
- Right.
- And it were raining, so...
we were just arsing about, you know?
- Yeah.
- I went over to have a wazz, like.
And that's when I saw her.
- Down there?
- She were lying there.
She had...
She had wings.
- What?
- Oh, fuck!
I couldn't believe it were her.
- On the day she went missing,
Clare was wearing a red cagoule and red Wellington boots.
When Clare left Morley Grange Junior and Infants School,
she was seen by witnesses heading south...
- You hard at it, Jackie?
- Hello, Scoop.
- Just had a chat with Leonard Cole.
- You naughty boy.
Didn't Auntie Hadley say you had to go home for an early bath?
- Heard you were over at Clare Kemplay's postmortem.
The police are
withholding exact details.
Haven't you got a family to go home to?
You keep following me like this,
your friend Barry's going to get very jealous.
- Did you get a look at it?
- Your friend
or the postmortem?
Yeah, I saw it.
- And? - And?
And that little girl
was tortured, raped, and strangled
in that order.
- Right.
I want all the details.
- No, you don't, Scoop.
- Jack.
Jack, don't fuck around.
- Hey, whatever happened to all those novels
that you wanted to write,
but you were too scared shitless to even try?
- All right, mate.
All right.
You fucking tell me.
- Eddie.
Eddie, I am pissing on my trouser leg and yours too.
- You are fucking pathetic.
Just a hack.
- Such insight.
- The yellow jester does not play
But gently pulls the strings
He smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king
- A man left this for you, love.
Nice man.
Said he were a friend of yours.
Jack somebody or other.
- Mum, I'm working.
"Presence of coal dust..."
Ligature marks.
Tears and bruising.
Swan's wings stitched into her back.
Stitched into her back.
"4 luv."
Carved into her skin.
- Here we are, at Shangri-la.
All great buildings resemble crimes, they say.
- Oh, yeah?
- Right.
- Oh, fuck Hadley.
I'm going to go and talk to Jeanette Garland's family.
- You still you think there's a connection
to Clare Kemplay and t'other missing girls?
- Absolutely, yeah.
- Good lad.
- And, uh, don't go off the deep end, Barry.
- New Labour government, what is being seen
as a resounding victory for the miners.
Around 260,000 miners have accepted weekly pay rises
ranging from six pounds to...
- Hiya.
Are you Mrs. Paula Garland?
- Yeah.
- Hi.
I'm Edward Dunford.
I'm from the Yorkshire Post.
I just wanted a quick chat about Jeanette.
Sure?
Thank you.
Mr. Garland about, or...
- No.
What is it that you want, Mister-
Mr. Dunford?
- Um, well...
I'm doing this article, and it's about the...
about parents of children who have gone missing.
It's about how people like yourself,
like your husband, have coped
after all the fuss has died down.
It must be a very difficult time for you, bring it all back.
I understand that.
I know how you must have felt.
- No, you have no idea how I feel.
- No.
I mean, one of the things, for example...
do you feel
that the police could have done anything more
to have helped you?
- Yeah, there was one thing.
- Right. What was that?
- They could have found my daughter.
- Yeah.
- You come into my house
like you're discussing the weather
or some war
in another fucking country.
You know, this thing happened to me.
Can you get out, please?
Just get out!
- He killed himself.
- What?
Her husband's dead?
- Never got over Jeanette.
Sucked on a shotgun a year back.
- Oh... shit.
- You're supposed to know these things, Dunford.
- It didn't exactly make
the front page down south, did it?
- Well, it did here.
You should have fucking known.
Do your job.
- Time, gentlemen, please.
- How about you?
How was, um- how was Shangri-la?
Mrs. Dawson told me my life's in danger.
- Bollocks.
Look, Barry, if you believe it, you've got to tell someone.
- Oh, yeah, who? The law?
Fuck that.
These people are the law.
Eddie. - Yeah?
- That gypsy camp, Hunslet Carr.
- Yeah? - Take a closer look.
Dawson set up a £100 million property trust.
100 million.
It would be interesting to know who else is on that board.
- There are death squads out there, eh?
- You're ignorant, Dunford.
Try carrying a history book
along with that notepad of yours.
Want a lift or what?
- I'm going t'other way.
Piss head!
- Never had the urge to deliver us from evil, then?
- No, never.
- The devil triumphs when good men do naught.
- What are you doing here, lad?
- Just been for a pint. What about you?
Fuck off.
- It's all right; I'm over 18-
- Shut up, you little poof!
I didn't do anything! What do you want?
- I'll tell you what we don't want.
We don't want tits like you bothering people
we don't want bothering.
- Yeah. Not very nice, is it?
Is it?
- Fuck!
All right, Mrs. Garland?
It seems like a nice local.
- Yeah, yeah. It used to be.
- You mind if I have a seat for a sec?
- One of them for me?
- Come here often?
- It sounds like you're trying to pick me up, Mr. Dunford.
- I hope your friends in the force
don't see us here together.
- What?
What are you talking about?
- It's all right.
I got the message.
You didn't have to do that.
You didn't have to go to the police.
- Well, I never-I never said anything to the police.
- No? - No.
- Who'd you tell, then? - No one.
- Look, Mrs. Garland...
- Paula.
It's Paula.
- Paula, I'm very, very sorry...
about earlier.
- It's all right. You were doing your job.
Might help find my little girl.
- Yeah, but still, I was right out of order.
- Yeah. - Yeah.
I didn't know about your husband.
- Right.
Well...
the ring always felt a bit loose, to be honest.
And there, that was a stupid thing to say.
- Do you want another drink?
Just another drink, that's all.
- That's a bad idea.
- Eddie?
It's for you.
About Barry.
- Come on!
Come on! Come on!
- His brakes went.
Straight into the back of a van, bang.
A pane of glass sliced through, scalped him.
Took the top of his fucking head clean off.
- Are they sure it's him?
- Barry's dead, mate.
- Yeah, and in fucking Morley too.
- Dead drunk is what I heard.
- Yeah, you'd know, wouldn't you, Jack?
- Oh, mea culpa.
But it wasn't me getting the dear departed
pissed up, was it?
- Come on, lads. Press conference.
- Are you sure you've got the stomach for it, Scoop?
- What, just like you, Jack?
- Oh, no.
No, you're the man.
Jack Whitehead's away from his desk just now.
- Sergeant Bob Fraser.
Thanks for coming, Mr. Dunford.
- Yeah.
- I know you were friends.
- Mm, yeah.
So the van was carrying plates of glass?
- Yes.
- And one of them went through his windscreen?
- Yes.
- So you reckon it were instantaneous?
- I'd say so, sir. Yes.
- Yeah.
Fuck.
- Yeah.
I understand you last saw Mr. Gannon
in the Shakespeare Public House.
Would you say that he was drinking heavily?
- No.
No.
- And you've no idea where he went from there?
- Mm-mm.
- No idea why he might have come to Morley?
- No, none.
- I see.
- We almost have all the details, sir.
There will be an inquest tomorrow.
- That's a bit quick, isn't it?
- I think the family are keen to,
you know, get it all sorted.
If anything occurs to you, I can be reached
through the Morley police station.
- You're one of the good ones, aren't you, Sergeant?
- I do my best, sir.
Not good copy, is it?
- No.
No.
- "We live in an age of great investigative journalism.
"Barry Gannon was one of the men who gave us that age.
"Where he saw injustice, he asked for justice.
"Where he saw lies, he asked for the truth.
"Barry Gannon once said,
"'The truth can only make us richer. '
"For those of us who seek the truth,
Barry Gannon's passing can only make us poorer."
Not overly panegyric, is it?
- Panegyric?
No, I don't think so.
Here.
- Do we really need this?
- Interesting story.
Been a spate of animal mutilations,
hacked-about swans found over on Bretton Park.
- I'm not stupid, lad.
Jack showed me the postmortem.
- Right, well, it's background, isn't it?
- We'll get some police quotes.
Maybe we'll run it on Thursday.
- Thank you very much, sir.
- No mention of Clare Kemplay, mind.
Just straightforward animal abuse,
like those pit ponies.
- All right. Yeah, no problem.
- And try and pull back on the more visceral details.
You don't want that with your cornflakes, do you?
- No.
Absolutely, Mr. Hadley. Thank you.
- Edward. - Yes?
- You're trying too hard.
You're just like Barry.
Do you know we could be sued because of Barry?
Mrs. Dawson's recovering up at Hartley's after his visit.
- Hartley's loony bin?
- Nursing home.
- Sorry.
Sorry to, uh- to hear that, sir.
- Take care, won't you, lad?
- Yeah.
I'm just here to see my Auntie Marjorie.
Marjorie Dawson. Sorry.
- We had to give her something for her nerves.
She was in a right state when they brought her back.
Mrs. Dawson, you have a visitor.
It's Eric, Mrs. Dawson, your nephew.
It sometimes takes her a while to come round.
- I know. I understand.
Oh, thank you.
- It's locked.
Who are you?
- I'm Edward Dunford.
I'm a journalist.
- So you've been telling lies?
- It's the privilege of the profession.
- I just want to ask you
a couple of questions, Mrs. Dawson.
- I can't help you, Mr. Dunford.
- I don't know.
I think maybe you can.
See, um...
See, you told my friend Barry Gannon that-
that his life was in danger,
and he was killed last night.
- How terrible.
- You didn't know that, did you?
- Who knows what I'm supposed to know these days?
- See, I just can't figure it out.
Why-why would you tell my friend that he was in danger?
- He always used to be so careful.
- Who? Your husband?
- You smell so strongly.
- I'm sorry.
- You smell of death.
- Look, Mrs. Dawson.
- Don't touch me!
- Hey, it's all right. I'm not gonna-
- Please, don't!
- I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not.
Shh. It's okay.
It's all right.
It's all right!
- Tell them about the others.
- What? - The others.
- What others? What are you talking about?
- Please tell them where they are.
- Will you tell me what you're talking about?
- Hello. You must be going.
- Lying bastard!
- Get up!
- All right. All right!
Can lead an unsuspecting heart
- I found you by the car.
You were covered in blood.
What time is it?
Just gone 6:00, love.
- Okay.
- What are you doing?
- Mum.
- Don't be daft.
You're not fit.
- This is my work, right?
- Don't do this to me.
Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum.
- He really loved you, your dad.
- He had a funny way of showing it.
- Upset Mum again, and you're out on your ear.
You never did one good thing, you.
Mum, I've got to go.
Okay?
- It's not safe.
- Hi there.
Dad?
- Sit down, then.
- Here you go.
- Thank you.
- So what happened to your hand?
- It was the same two coppers
that warned me off last time I was here.
- Look, I told you before.
I never said anything to the police.
- Paula, please.
Come on. I need to know.
Paula, please tell me.
- Right.
I was upset after you went so...
so John came over.
- Who's John?
- John Dawson.
- So what did you tell him?
- I told him some fucking journalist had been round
asking questions.
You pissed me off.
- Well, there you go, then.
Why didn't you tell me about Dawson?
- He was very kind to us when Jeanette went missing.
- Substandard housing, dodgy property trusts,
backhanders to the local council.
- He's been very good to me.
- Oh, yeah? I bet he has.
- Oh, what is that supposed to mean?
- Do you think he'd do something like this?
- No. - No?
- No. Why would he?
- I don't know. Maybe because of what I know.
- Huh, and what do you know, Eddie?
- I know that Clare Kemplay was found
on a Dawson construction site.
- You're talking nonsense.
- And I know all the Dawsons in this world care about
are their lies and their money.
- Look, you don't know anything.
You're j-just a-a boy.
- And I know that there is some bastard out there
who is taking, raping, murdering little girls
and nobody's going to stop him
because no one really fucking cares.
- What, and you do?
- Yeah, maybe I do.
- Thank you.
Okay, here we are.
Two little dickey birds, yeah, sitting on the wall,
one called Peter,
one called Paul.
Fly away, Peter.
Fly away, Paul.
You know, when she was just a baby, I...
I used to lie awake at night
and-and wonder what I'd do if anything happened to her.
And I-and I'd run to her room, and I'd-
and I'd wake her up and...
I'd hug her and hug her and hug her.
And...
And when she never came home,
all those terrible, terrible things had come true.
- Come here.
I've got you.
- Good piece by Hadley, wasn't it?
- A bit on the panegyric side, I thought.
- Aye, I suppose.
Barry would have appreciated it.
- Doubt it.
- Come for a spin in the Jensen, Mr. Dunford?
- Why would I want to do that?
- I was a great admirer of your late colleague.
Such a waste.
John Dawson.
Fuck the press club wake, eh?
Jump in.
This nation's in fucking chaos with its hung parliaments.
A year ago,
they were to bring back rationing.
Now we've got inflation at fucking 25%.
The country's at war, Mr. Dunford.
The governments and the unions, the left and the right,
the rich and the poor.
Then you've got your enemies within:
your paddies, your wogs, your niggers,
your fucking gypos,
the poofs, the perverts, even the bloody women.
They're all out for what they can get.
I tell you, soon, there'll be naught left for us lot.
- Time to turn the tide.
So you're not a Labour man, then?
- Of course I bloody am.
The Tory cunts have out priced themselves.
Your Labour man will always do a deal.
The trouble with your generation is, you know naught.
Your lot never fought a bloody war.
Fucking cowboys and Indians then, son.
Like now.
Are you going to continue our late friend's crusade
against local corruption, Mr. Dunford?
- Why'd you ask me that?
- Me and Barry had a very special relationship.
Most of the time.
Mutually beneficial, it was.
- In what way?
- I'm in a fortunate position to be able to
occasionally pass on information that comes my way,
certain officials sticking their fingers
where they shouldn't, that kind of thing.
You like the cut?
Top man, your dad.
Knew how to cut his cloth.
Solid, dependable.
That's not you, is it, Mr. Dunford?
You're more like me.
We like to fuck and make a buck, and we're not right choosy how.
Isn’t that right?
Eh?
Drop by Saturday lunchtime.
I've got something that might interest you.
Mr. Dunford.
- What?
- My wife is a very unwell woman.
Speak to her again, it won't be your hand that gets smashed.
Come on.
- Seen Jack's leader?
Ziggy was in, love.
Looking for you.
- Who were?
- Poof with the orange hair.
He's outside.
- I saw you at Barry's funeral, didn't I?
- We've seen things, you know?
- I'll bet you have.
- Listen, I know people, powerful people,
because I have sucked the cocks
of some of the greatest men this country has.
- Well, a boy should have a hobby.
- Listen, don't let me keep you.
- Hey, relax. Just relax.
I'm sorry.
It's all right.
Okay?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
I'm not going to bite you.
You liked Barry, didn't you?
Yeah, I did,
because he was kind.
- Yeah, he was.
- Yeah.
And he liked you.
He said he wanted to help you.
This is his life's work.
He said to give it to you
in case anything happened to him.
- Do you think Barry was murdered?
- Listen to me.
BJ loved Barry,
really loved him.
But he was too fucking scared to go to his funeral.
I don't know who did Barry.
I don't want to know.
- Michael John Myshkin of 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam,
was today taken into police custody
for the murder of Clare Kemplay.
Myshkin has insisted...
- It's fucking mental out there.
- So who is he?
- Works for a photo lab.
Dad's a Polack, hardly speaks a word of English.
- That's lucky.
- Are you Michael John Myshkin
of 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam?
- Yes.
- You are accused that on or between
August the 31st and the 1st of September
you did murder Clare Kemplay
against the peace of our sovereign lady, the queen.
Mr. Myshkin, the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police
have requested that you be held in custody
for a further eight days.
The court understands that you have no objection.
- No.
- Michael John Myshkin,
due to the seriousness of the accusation,
your case will be referred to the Crown Court.
In the interim, you will be remanded in custody.
And that concludes the business for today, your worships.
Thank you.
- Please! No!
It-it wasn't me!
It was the wolf.
Under those beautiful carpets!
- What was that?
What did he- what did he just say?
The wolf? What was that?
- Something about carpets. Bollocks.
- They got the bastard, then, Scoop?
- You can't go in there!
- Bloody farce isn't it. Myshkin didn't do it, did he?
- He's confessed.
- Yeah, but it's- it's absolute bollocks.
- Nefarious deeds carried out in what he called
his "underground kingdom."
- Jack, did you see him? He's retarded.
- No, his dad's just a Polack, that's all.
- What's happened to your hand?
- I hope it don't cramp your style.
- Fuck off. - Now watch your language.
- They found all kinds of things in Myshkin's room, Scoop.
Photos of little girls, boxes of them.
- Well, he does work in a photo lab.
- He's coughing for the lot.
- Clare Kemplay, Jeanette Garland,
and the Ridyard girl, right back to 1969.
- Right, so he's 22, right?
So, therefore, he would have been 16
when Susan Ridyard went missing.
- So? - So fuck you, Jack!
- Hey!
Now, watch your language in my office!
- Feels wrong, doesn't it, eh?
All that slog, all those hunches.
You just don't want it to be him, Scoop.
I was the same once.
- You're in their pockets.
- What are you talking about?
- Police going about their business,
supported by the good old Yorkshire Post.
- The truth is the truth, Scoop.
And it's a bitter pill,
but you'll get used to it one day.
I'll handle the press conference, boss.
- Thanks, Jack.
- Fucking chamber yourself, Jack.
- Edward! - Yeah?
- I won't have you coming in here like this.
- Like what? - Like this.
Now, take the rest of the month off
and get that hand sorted out.
Are you listening to me, lad?
Edward?
- How well do you know John Dawson?
- Do you mind?
Edward, I haven't got time
for your adolescent conspiracy theory.
Go on, get home, and get yourself sorted out.
- She's dead, isn't she?
It's all right.
You try to hide the tears inside
- The Karachi's closed, hen.
- It's all right, Clare.
He's with me.
Same again, love.
You look like shit.
- Up all night.
What's your excuse?
- I've got my weaknesses, lad.
- Aye.
Paula Garland one of them?
- Me and Paula go back a long way.
We're old friends.
I like this place.
It's private.
Just the wogs and us.
That's how I like things, private.
- Cheers. - Cheers.
- Another round, Sammy.
And bring the pud trolley over.
I want to show Mr. Dunford some delights.
I think you know we've got an important investment
over at Hunslet Carr.
Feast your eyes.
What about that, then?
Look.
It's got little trees and everything-
what your Yanks call a shopping mall.
You've got your high-street chains,
cinema, bowling alleys, cafs, restaurants,
all under one roof.
Put an hotel in there,
there's no need to fuck off home.
Not bad, eh?
- And your pals on the West Yorkshire Police
already cleared the site for you so...
- Gypos.
Squatters.
That's my land.
- So what's the problem?
- I've got investors to look after, haven't I?
- Is Bill Molloy one of them?
- Don't be a cunt.
Of course Bill Molloy's one of them,
not the only copper neither.
Give it to him, Paul.
Open it.
Take a fucking look, lad.
I apologize for the vile content of these snaps, Mr. Dunford.
I hear you're a bit of a cunt man.
Sticks in the craw, doesn't it?
I mean, how can they do it?
- Who is this?
- Who is it?
Bloody hell!
That's Councilor William Shaw of the Labour Party, that is.
That's your man most likely to succeed.
He's your nigger in the whatsit, is Councilor Shaw,
traitor to the cause.
It's a scoop is what it is.
An ambitious lad like yourself.
Make your name with this one.
- No. Wrong boy, Dawson.
- Gonna be a failure all of your life, son?
Come on, Eddie.
I need a little support, a little cooperation.
You play your part, son,
we'll all get what we want.
- No.
I'm a journalist.
- Oh, yeah?
Like Barry.
I respected Barry.
He was a good man.
Problem is, he had his own agenda.
- Is that why you had him killed?
- What the fucking hell are you gonna do about it?
Eh, son?
- You're a fucking student with your notebook.
- I do not want to be a part of this!
- Tough shit.
You already are.
- All right, yes.
I went to see John last night.
I told you. He's been very kind.
- So you fucked him?
You fucked John Dawson?
- Me?
I'll fuck anything in trousers.
- You shouldn't have said that.
- Go on, then.
What are you going to do?
You chose to get involved.
You see? You don't care.
You don't really fucking care at all, do you?
You just want to rescue me.
Well, you're not the first.
And you think you'll be the last?
Oh, no.
Eddie, wait.
I'm sorry.
Please, listen to me.
Dawson fucks
who he wants to fuck.
He takes what he wants.
- How long have you known him for?
- All my life.
- We've got to get out of this place.
- What?
- We've got to get out of Yorkshire.
- I can't.
- Yeah. Yeah, you can.
They've got sunshine down south.
Yeah.
They've got seaview flats and warm summer breezes.
Let's just go there right now and never come back.
Pack a bag.
Yeah?
- Yeah.
- Okay.
I'll be back.
A couple of hours, all right?
All right, so you're one of the good ones,
aren't you, Sergeant Fraser?
No, you are.
Not many of them left.
This is Barry Gannon's life's work.
This is high-level corruption:
business, local government, West Yorkshire Police.
- Who in particular? - Have a look.
Is this too hot for you?
I thought I could do it, but I can't.
Look after that.
And we've almost got it made
That sweet moment of surrender
At a point we both decided to meet
Paula?
- Evening, sir.
You got your invite?
Thank you.
It's just one of those things you put down to experience
- Looking after that special relationship,
are we, Mr. Hadley?
- Been another blue day without you, girl
Been another sad summer song
I been thinking about you, girl
Been another sad tear on my pillow
Been another memory to tell me you're the one, girl
I been thinking about you, girl
- Eddie. Eddie, lad.
Some people I'd like you to meet, son.
- I just want to see Paula.
That's all I want to do.
I'm not interested in your filthy little world.
I just want to see Paula.
- Paula's gone, son.
Long gone.
Come on, you know that, don't you?
- Where is she?
- Let it go, lad.
Let me introduce you to-
- Paula! - Eddie, lad.
- Paula!
Paula! - No!
- Paula!
- I said...
- Tell them about the others.
Beneath the beautiful new carpets.
Beneath the grass.
- Way after your bedtime.
Where is she?
- Get him out of here.
- Paula!
- Been another hard-luck story
Been another man who thought that he was oh so strong
I been thinking about you, girl
- Is he bleeding yet?
- He is now.
Come on, sunshine.
Get off!
Get away!
Fuck!
Please, please, please.
What is it?
- Take a seat, lad.
- Want me to take a seat?
Okay.
- I want you to put your hands...
down on this, like me.
Come on.
Put them down flat.
Come on.
Yeah, nice and flat.
Help!
Help me.
- Up.
- Look at her.
Look at her!
Forensics, lad.
You're all over her clothes, in her flat,
under her fingernails, up her cunt!
- You're all over her.
You did it, didn't you, eh?
- Go on, say it.
Say you did it.
- Bill!
- Stay with him.
- I didn't do it.
I didn't do it.
I loved her.
- Of course you didn't do it.
We know who did, though, don't we?
Don't we, lad? Eh?
Keep fucking still!
Behave!
That's it.
Oh, shit.
Oh, for fuck...
- Say, "Do it!"
- No! - Yes! Now!
Now! Now!
No!
No, please!
- We were only joking.
Are you all right, lad?
- We're just joking. - Just joking.
- Hey!
- Come on!
- Now, these-
These are a different ball game altogether, son.
These are real.
Just relax.
It's all over now, mate.
- This is the easy bit.
Give me that.
- Put it in his pocket.
Put it in his pocket.
Right.
Now you are going to do us a little favor.
Come here.
Come with me.
You see this?
This is the North.
We do what we want.
- The others?
Beneath the beautiful carpets.
He always used to be so careful.
- Where is he?
- Eddie, is that you?
- Never did one good thing, did I?
- Please come home, love.
- No. I'm sorry.
Can't.
Bye, Mum.
- Look who's here.
- Well...
All this over the fucking shopping center?
Fucking hell!
- Paula were your fault, son.
Letting that prick of yours lead you where you shouldn't go.
- And what about the children?
- The wolf does for John.
- Private weakness.
Fucking hell, I'm no angel.
- The wolf does for John.
They got sunshine down south and warm summer breezes.
Let's just go there right now and never come back.