David Peace's acclaimed Red Riding Quartet continues with this exhilarating follow-up to Nineteen Seventy-Four . It's summer in Leeds and the city is anxiously awaiting the Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth's reign. Detective Bob Fraser and Jack Whitehead, a reporter at the Post , however, have other things on their minds-mainly the fact that someone is murdering prostitutes. The killer is quickly dubbed the “Yorkshire Ripper” and each man, on their own, works tirelessly to catch him. But their investigations turn grisly as they each engage in affairs with the prostitutes they are supposedly protecting. As the summer progresses, the killings accelerate and it seems as if Fraser and Whitehead are the only men who suspect or care that there may be more than one killer at large.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Nineteen Seventy-seven||Series: Red Riding Quartet, , #2|
|Release Date: 03-16-2010|
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Sunday 29 May 1977.
It's happening again:
When the two sevens clash . . .
Bunting unmarked rubber through another hot dawn to another ancient park with her secret dead, from Potter's Field to Soldier's Field, parks giving up their ghosts, it's happening all over again.
Sunday morning, windows open, and it's going to be another scorcher, red postbox sweating, dogs barking at a rising sun.
Radio on: alive with death.
Stereo: car and walkie-talkie both:
Proceeding to Soldier's Field.
Noble's voice from another car.
Ellis turns to me, a look like we should be going faster.
'She's dead,' I say, but knowing what he should be thinking:
Sunday morning - giving HIM a day's start, a day on us, another life on us. Nothing but the bloody Jubilee in every paper till tomorrow morning, no-one remembering another Saturday night in Chapeltown.
Chapeltown - my town for two years; leafy streets filled with grand old houses carved into shabby little flats filled full of single women selling sex to fill their bastard kids, their bastard men, and their bastard habits.
Chapeltown - my deal: MURDER SQUAD.
The deals we make, the lies they buy, the secrets we keep, the silence they get.
I switch on the siren, a sledgehammer through all their Sunday mornings, a clarion call for the dead.
And Ellis says, 'That'll wake the fucking nig-nogs up.'
But a mile up ahead I know she'll not flinch upon her damp dew bed.
And Ellis smiles, like this is what it's all about; like this was what he'd signed up for all along.
But he doesn't know what's lying on the grass at Soldier's Field.