Blood Relatives. Stevan Alcock
id="u4faf74e8-1e9e-5d65-aa04-a03fb094a40d">
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Stevan Alcock 2015
The right of Stevan Alcock to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
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available from the British Library
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Cover photographs © Evening Standard/Getty Images (boys); Jack Hickes/Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images (Arndale bus stop)
Source ISBN: 9780007580842
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007580859
Version: 2015-12-02
For Peg
Contents
Jean Royle (also known as Jean Jordan)
30/10/1975
The milkman found her. On Prince Philip Playing Fields. He crossed the dew-soaked grass toward what he took to be a bundle of clothes, but then he came across a discarded shoe, and then t’ mutilated body.
Her name wor Wilma McCann.
An hour earlier, wi’ t’ daybreak a mere streak across t’ Leeds skyline, Wilma McCann’s two kids wor found by t’ police, waiting in their nightclothes at a bus stop in t’ Scott Hall Road, hoping to see their mother on t’ next bus from town.
Later on t’ morning the milkman made his gruesome discovery, after he’d told the police, made a statement, phoned his missus from a box on Harehills Lane, the milk float wor working almost parallel wi’ our Corona Soft Drinks wagon up and down Harehills’ red-brick back-to-backs. It worn’t usual for him to be in this street at the same time as us. He wor running way late. Eric, my driver, parped the horn. The milk-float driver beckoned us over, his face taut and joyless.
‘Stay here, Rick. Watch the van. Summat’s up.’
This irked me. My mind wor already racing ahead to t’ end of t’ working day, to t’ terraced house in t’ cul-de-sac where t’ Matterhorn Man lived, and now Eric wor blathering on wi’ t’ milkman and the day wor stretching itsen out before me.
I plonked both feet sulkily on t’ dashboard and mulled on t’ lines of washing slung between t’ backs of t’ terraces. Billowing sheets, flapping underwear and wind-socked nylon shirts. Washing slowed us down even more than some poor cow’s corpse. I’d have to march before t’ wagon wi’ a long pole and hoist up all t’ washing so our grimy vehicle could sneak beneath. The women would hear t’ van and look out skittishly as we passed, watching to make sure their pristine laundry worn’t soiled on t’ line.
Then we’d stop. Stacking half a dozen bottles up each forearm we’d move deftly from back kitchen doorstep to back kitchen door; from Asian kitchens where t’ hands of t’ women wor stained wi’ turmeric, to t’ kitchens of black women who laughed and joked wi’ us in their patois, to Ukrainian and Polish kitchens and English kitchens. Kitchens filled wi’ t’ smells of spices and baking, dank kitchens of stomach-churning grease, dirt and indifference.
Over t’ road, the milkman