CHAPTER NINETEEN
Pressure on the police was not letting up.
Not just on the question of whether the police had the serial murderer in custody or if he was still out there waiting or planning to pounce again and brutally kill another woman. There had been four deaths already and if there was another one there would be all hell to pay.
Maguire knew this along with every other detective and police officer in London. No doubt colleagues far up north as well. Every other force in the country would be thanking their lucky stars the problem was confined to the capital. At least for now. But morale in police stations everywhere was not high.
The economic crisis was taking its toll. Cuts in budgets were having a marked affect on local services throughout the country. And there were indications that the reduction in government grants for policing budgets would remain for at least another three to four years. If police were finding it tough to apprehend the one serial killer now their ability to deal in future with a series of serious crimes or mass unrest on the streets of major cities would be powerfully questioned.
Of course the government tried to reassure everyone that the changes brought in would be manageable while at the same time stating they had no intention of doing a U-turn on the programme of cuts to try to reduce the overall budget deficit. But even these statements were hindered by former senior policemen and women arguing that such claims were not backed up by common sense and in-house police intelligence. Indeed, the Police Federation went so far as to state that if recent street unrest happened in a year's time forces would not be able to deploy resources in the way they should. The government retaliated by maintaining that the aim was to cut unnecessary bureaucracy and not the number of front line police; the visible policing presence would not be reduced.
Maguire and fellow officers were not totally convinced. They accepted an argument that the most obvious adverse affect would be seen in neighbourhood and community policing. He thought it went further though. He was convinced that both morale and services would suffer.
What would go a long way to improving morale, if the government was not going to change its mind on the funding question, would be a high profile police success. Such as apprehending the serial killer and putting him behind bars for the rest of his life. Assuming of course it was a man and not a women. Either way, an arrest would go down very well.
Of course the word was already out there that Rocky James was probably going to be charged with the four murders. It was not an official statement but that was the impression given to the media and passed on by them.
Maguire disagreed. He now knew James was innocent of the murders. Guilty as hell of the murder of his wife. But he was not the serial killer. What he also knew was that when it was revealed that James was not the man the police were hunting, the public outcry would be loud. And the force would again start to look in on itself. And morale would take another hit.
Something had to be done. Quickly.
*
“I think it might be a good idea to meet up,” I said. “What do you say?”
I had thought about our meeting the night before and had come to the conclusion that perhaps there was something we could do for each other that would be mutually helpful. Just what it was I was still uncertain but I hoped that what I had conjured up in my own mind might sway Maguire to offer something that I would find beneficial not just in the short term but on an ongoing basis. There is nothing a reporter wants more than an inside source. OK, I called myself a journalist who wrote a column in a British national newspaper as well as for a couple of overseas titles. But what I was in fact was an everyday reporter who chased stories.
My column had been accepted and it ran that afternoon. And as expected not everyone was pleased. Even my editor had cautioned that I should not try to go too far with my hypothesise. And the police had let their views be known through a spokesman warning that if the paper was not careful it could find itself accused of hindering investigations into a most serious crime. Threats of possible further action were intimated.
Needless to say my overseas publishers had no qualms. Not only did the column run but there were side bar articles published that said a new Jack the Ripper was on the loose and every women in the country was living in fear for their lives. The fact that Jack the Ripper killed in London only and not in any other city seemed not to occur to my foreign editors. I knew of course that even the name was suspect. It was generally accepted that the letter that had been written more than an hundred and twenty years earlier and signed by that name was probably penned ironically by a journalist to heighten interest in the story. Twelve decades on why let a fact spoil a story was the saying.
“In my ideal world,” replied Maguire, “all journalists would have to be licensed, just like minicabs. They are both potentially dangerous and should not be allowed onto the streets without protection for the public governing their activities.”
“Ok,” I said. “Given you are not about to get that written into law in our life times in this democratic country what about us getting together to see if there is a way we could help each other? Your wife seemed to think it might be worthwhile and she is obviously a clever woman. At least about most things in her life.”
I heard Maguire sniff on the other end of the line. “You’re a prick you know Tighe. If I had any sense at all I would tell you right now to piss off and don’t come near my wife or me ever again.”
“But you’re not going to,” I said, hoping now that Joan Maguire was right, and that perhaps there was something her husband and I could do together that would be useful. I still had no idea what that collaboration might be but the prospect was becoming more appealing. I decided to take a punt. “Is there a pub near to your offices, or maybe not close even, where we could have a pint and toss some ideas around?”
“Toss some ideas around.” Maguire laughed. “I’m beginning to think if you had an original idea about anything it would be a miracle.” There was a silence. I had done my bit and I reckoned there was no point in labouring things any further. So I just stayed mute and waited for the expected final insult to end the telephone conversation.
“Waxy O’Connors. Near Chinatown. Being a high flying columnist you must know all the pubs. And you have a history linking you to Chinatown or something don’t you?”
“I know it,” I said. “When?”
“Let’s get this over with,” said Maguire. “Today. Two hours from now.”
“Done,” I said. He beat me to ending the call.
I certainly did know Waxy’s. And its Little Sister Waxy’s across the street in the heart of the West End and on the very edge of Soho’s Chinatown. I had been there many times and always enjoyed the atmosphere not to mention the décor of the place that was unlike any other pub I knew of. It is made up of a labyrinth, and that is the most appropriate description, of four unique bars extending over no fewer than six levels which are linked together by a maze of staircases and passages. That it harks from an Irish ancestry only adds to my reason for liking it.
The original Waxy O’Connor was born in Smithfield, Dublin City in 1788 exactly a hundred years before Jack the Ripper carried out his serial prostitute murders. Waxy was not his real name but the name he came by as a candle maker. And being a true Irishman he was a good drinker of beer and whisky. Candle making apparently was hard and extremely hot work in his day and therefore sapped a man of energy and fluids. According to the pub’s promotional material, the tale has it that Waxy was heard to comment “such heat does parch a man - a parched man is a barren man - and beer is the only cure .......ah, us lads could put away gallons in a day!” It is further claimed that the ‘Waxy O’Connor’s tree’ was planted two hundred and fifty years ago in Ireland but died in 1994. A local woodworker who played around the Beech tree as a boy hewed the pieces that were then shipped to England and ‘planted’ in Waxy O’Connor’s the following year. So, says the pub literature, now a tree, which has lived for a quarter of a millennium in Ireland, begins a new lease of ‘life’ in the heart of London.
I knew these stories and it only added to the appeal of the pub which also explains why it has gained a worldwide reputation for warm hospitality as well as the impressive range of beers, spirits and coffees.
I was quite happy to linger in the lower bar over a pint of Caffrey’s. Maguire was running late which did not surprise me. I had convinced myself I would be surprised if he did turn up. I was mulling over the Caffrey’s and didn’t hear or see Maguire come down the steps from outside. I am really a lager man and seldom drink ale. But Caffrey’s Irish Ale, right now, right here, was the only drink to order. And with a texture as smooth as stout but with the taste of ale I was deep in thought when Maguire walked up the bar, faced me and said simply: “Well?”
“Well, what will you have?” I stammered.
He kept looking at me, through me it seemed. “One of those,” he said. I ordered another Caffrey’s.
“Want to sit upstairs?” I asked.
“Here’s fine,” he said.
The first five minutes of conversation was strained to say the least. We fenced with each other. I tried to probe to try to get somewhere where I might be able to suggest a working relationship. He remained distant, pretty well monosyllabic and decidedly unforthcoming with ideas or suggestions. At the end of that time I was about to give up and kiss the idea of an inside police source goodbye.
“How widely read is your column?” Maguire suddenly enquired.
“It’s gone up a lot since I started,” I said. Actually I was not lying as readership had increased quite a bit in the last year, even if I was not in the least bit responsible for the rise.
“Let’s not waste time,” said Maguire. “Is your column read or not?”
“Yes it is,” I said. “We get a lot of feedback, some of it surprisingly quite complimentary.”
He said nothing.
“Why do you ask?”
He thought carefully before he answered. “If you wrote something it would have an influence on whatever you were writing about. Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes. I suppose it would. Does. Depends on the subject.”
“Can you write anything you want to? Or are you given topics to write about?”
“I’m free to write on topics of my own choice.”
It was the truth. I could write a commentary piece on just about anything I liked. Provided it didn’t breach any of the guidelines set by the papers and my editors. Immediately after the riots I felt a column, expressing some of the feelings I had even before the shameful goings on, might hit a soft point with certain of our readers. So I sat down and wrote a personal missive.
“It was late at night when I was verging on being very drunk that my life changed for ever.”
That was the opening line of a novel that I contemplated writing back in the early 70s.
I had left my native country a few years before and spent around six months working on newspapers across Asia.
From there I set off to travel overland to the UK which took me around nine months.
It was after that – and perhaps another six months in London before returning home for a year and then back to Asia – that I decided to write the novel which began with those lines.
And it was those lines that really did have meaning. Had I not gone out with friends for a drink after work which developed into quite a few I would not have rashly decided to resign my job the next day and head overseas for adventure. A rash, spur of the moment decision that really did change my life for ever and one that I could never regret.
So I set about writing “Shattered promises, brilliant dreams.” I got about fifty pages into it with much of the opening chapters relating to my life growing up at a time and in a place that was perfect for young people to learn, experience and mature.
But other things intervened and the typed pages were confined to a carton in the back of the wardrobe and with the passing of the years lost.
But it has reminded me these past few days about my years of growing up.
I was never really conscious of crimes being committed, at least not serious ones. My family taught me the difference between right and wrong. I valued friendships enormously. I respected my elders. If I could not afford something I saved up for it.
As I say, it is the last few days that I have been mulling over these things – a time when young people have been running amok in some of our cities here in Britain. I needn’t go into great detail because I am sure that anyone with a television anywhere in the world will have witnessed the events.
I have heard that the reasons why these rioters behaved in the way they did (and some were black, some were white, some were from dysfunctional families, some were from poor neighbourhoods, some were educated, some were not, some were from well to do families, and so on). They include: Looked down on by the wealthy, Neglected by their parents, The spending cuts introduced by the government, These times of economic hardship, Poor control in schools, And so on and so on.
I don’t profess to know all the reasons that led to these terrible events. But I am absolutely certain of one thing.
Every single one of those people, from whatever background, who attacked the police, set fire to buildings, assaulted people in the street, smashed into shops and stole property, and generally caused mayhem in communities where law abiding citizens will suffer for years to come – every one of those people knew without a doubt they were doing something very wrong.
For that reason alone, if for no others, they deserve whatever punishment is dealt out to them (and I do hope it is severe).
It will be the “consequence”of their behaviour.
Well deserved.
A word they will have to learn.
And perhaps it will remind them and many more that we all have responsibilities, not just rights. Our responsibilities take precedence over our rights much of the time.
So that’s my gentle rant about the disturbing events in Britain in the past week or so.
It made me think back to a time when we knew and accepted our responsibilities. We also knew we had rights but we knew and accepted too that we had to earn those rights.
There will be much reporting and analysing in the media, on television, in film and in books no doubt about the riots.
It will be interesting to see what emerges.
It was of course self indulgent. It got a burden off my chest. But I doubted very much that the direction Maguire seemed to be heading would involve my getting all self pitying again.
He sipped his beer. “What made you write that latest stuff about us not having caught the serial killer? You must know its garbage.”
“Is it?” I said. “I am not so sure. Is Rocky James the man who has murdered and mutilated those four women?”
He did not say anything for a while. Then: “If I wanted you to write something would you?”
“It depends on what it is.”
“If it was controversial and risked getting you into
trouble, would you write it?”
“As I just said, it depends what it is.”
“Would you reveal where you got certain information?”
“No,” I stated emphatically. “Not if the person who gave me that information required me not to reveal his identity. That’s a certainty. Believe it or not some of us do have principles.”
Maguire took another taste of his drink. “And as a man of principle I suppose you will say that off the record is definitely off the record. No matter what.”
“Yes,” I answered. “Absolutely.” I went on: “This conversation we’re having now is off the record as far as I’m concerned.”
“If you fuck with me I promise you I will make your life so miserable you will wish you were dead.” Maguire’s eyes burned into mine. I believed one hundred per cent he meant exactly what he said, whatever it was he had in mind.
Then he told me.
*
“You are seriously in trouble.” Martin Walden had his hands thrust into his pockets and was leaning forward at such an angle that spittle almost landed on Maguire’s chin. “And you have probably landed me in it as well. Are you honestly telling me that you have given the story to the press that James is not our man?”
“Just that columnist Tighe,” said Maguire.
“Just Tighe! You must be mad.”
“Listen,” Maguire said. “You and I both know that Rocky James did not kill those women. We know that that is going to become known soon. What then? It has already been leaked, or at least not denied, that he is about to be charged with their murders.”
“What’s that got to do with giving the story now to Tighe?”
Maguire hesitated slightly. “It’s not just that Rocky James is not the killer.”
Walden stared back at his partner. “Dave, what have you done?”