1974

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All we ever get is Lord fucking Lucan and wingless bloody crows,” smiled Gilman, like this was the best day of our lives.

Waiting for my first Front Page, the Byline Boy at last: Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent; two days too fucking late.

I looked at my father’s watch.

· AM and no bugger had been to bed; straight from the Press Club, still stinking of ale, into this hell:

The Conference Room, Millgarth Police Station, Leeds.

The whole bloody pack sat waiting for the main attraction, pens poised and tapes paused; hot TV lights and cigarette smoke lighting up the windowless room like a Town Hall boxing ring on a Late Night Fight Night; the paper boys taking it out on the TV set, the radios static and playing it deaf:

“They got sweet FA.”

“A quid says she’s dead if they got George on it.”

Khalid Aziz at the back, no sign of Jack.

I felt a nudge. It was Gilman again, Gilman from the Man chester Evening News and before.

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