Red Riding Nineteen Seventy Four (Red Riding Quartet) [Paperback]

From the very first page of David Peace's first novel, 1974, it soon becomes clear that something is rotten in the state of Yorkshire: a young girl is missing.

The Yorkshire Post's young but disillusioned crime correspondent, Edward Dunford, is assigned to the story, while juggling the recent death of his father and the return to his native Yorkshire after a brief, unsuccessful stint in Fleet Street. For the jaded Dunford, it's just another story; the only intrigue is whether or not the girl will be found dead or alive before Christmas. That is, until the girl is discovered brutally murdered, face down in a ditch with a pair of swan's wings sewn into her back.

As Dunford follows the case, he begins to make a series of terrifying connections with a string of child murders, plunging him into a gut-wrenching nightmare of corruption, violence, sadism, blackmail and sexual obsession--from the upper echelons of local government to the tacky heart of Yorkshire darkness.

As Peace's tale of corruption and conspiracy unravels, it becomes clear that 1974 is as influenced by Orwell's own bleak vision of Britain in 1984 as it is by the wonderfully evoked atmosphere of the mid- 70s. The Bay City Rollers, Leeds United, It Ain't Half Hot Mum and Vauxhall Viva's all make an appearance. The novel works at several levels, from the brilliantly unsentimental homecoming of the gifted, alienated northern son, to a terrifyingly accurate portrayal of an insular, tribal community. The plot is complex and frenetic and Peace often leaves strands untied, especially as he builds to an extremely powerful climax. Yet the dialogue is fast, witty and violent; a must read for fans of Yorkshire Gothic. -- Jerry Brotton --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

‘Breathless, extravagant, ultra-violent... Vinnie Jones should buy the film rights fast’

‘Quite simply, this is the future of British crime fiction’

'Peace has found his own voice – full of dazzling, intense poetry and visceral violence'

‘…powerful, intense, gritty…’

‘Peace’s writing style is incredible, he has a brilliant, unique voice’

Jeanette Garland, missing Castleford, July 1969. Susan Ridyard, missing Rochdale, March 1972. Claire Kemplay, missing Morley, since yesterday. Christmas bombs and Lucky on the run, Leeds United and the Bay City Rollers, The Exorcist and It Ain?t Half Hot Mum. It?s winter ,1974, Yorkshire, and Ed Dunford?s got the job he wanted. Crime correspondent for the Evening Post. He didn?t know it was going to be a season in hell. A dead little girl with a swan?s wings stitched into her back. In Nineteen Seventy Four, David Peace brings the passion and stylistic bravado of an Ellroy novel to this terrifyingly intense journey into a secret history of sexual obession and greed.

Christmas bombs and Lucky Lucan on the run, Leeds United and the Bay City Rollers, The Exorcist and It Ain't Half Hot Mum. Yorkshire, Christmas 1974. Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent for the Evening Post, has been sent to cover the case of the missing girl Clare Kemplay. He's convinced that there's a connection with two other girls who've disappeared in the same area. When little Clare turns up dead in a ditch with swan's wings stitched to her back, Eddie's instincts prove right. But standing between him and the truth is a society riddled with corruption and brutality. Getting answers will mean a toss-up between his sanity and his life. Winter 1974's looking like a real season in hell. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

'1974 is raw and furiously alive, the literary equivalent of a hard right to the jaw' George P. Pelecanos 'Quite simply, this is the future of British crime fiction' Time Out 'A brilliant, unique voice' John Simm 'Peace has found his own voice - full of dazzling, intense poetry and visceral violence' Uncut 'Stunning...a brilliant first novel, written with tremendous pace and passion' Yorkshire Post It's winter, 1974, Yorkshire. Christmas bombs and Lord Lucan on the run, Leeds United and the Bay City Rollers, The Exorcist and It Ain't Half Hot Mum. Eddie Dunford's got the job he wanted. Crime correspondent for the Evening Post. He didn't know it was going to be a season in hell. A dead little girl with a swan's wings stitched to her back. A gypsy camp in a ring of fire. Corruption everywhere you look. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

David Peace grew up in Yorkshire in the '70's and vividly remembers listening to the hoax tape of the Yorkshire Ripper on his way home from school. He was selected as one of Granta's Best of Young British Novelists 2003. He lives in Japan.

Nineteen Seventy Four by David Peace Leadtext: 'All we ever get is Lord fucking Lucan and wingless bloody crows,' smiled Gilman, like this was the best day of our lives: Friday 13 December 1974. 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. 9 a.m. 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 Manchester Evening News and before. 'Sorry to hear about your old man, Eddie.' 'Yeah, thanks,' I said, thinking news really did travel fucking fast. 'When's the funeral?' I looked at my father's watch again. 'In about two hours.' 'Jesus. Hadden still taking his pound of bloody flesh then.' 'Yeah,' I said, knowing, funeral or no funeral, no way I'm letting Jack fucking Whitehead back in on this one. 'I'm sorry, like.' 'Yeah,' I said. Seconds out: A side door opens, everything goes quiet, everything goes slow. First a detective and the father, then Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, last a policewoman with the mother. I pressed record on the Philips Pocket Memo as they took their seats behind the plastic-topped tables at the front, shuffling papers, touching glasses of water, looking anywhere but up. In the blue corner: Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, a face from before, a big man amongst big men, thick black hair plastered back to look like less, a pale face streaked beneath the lights with a thousand burst blood vessels, the purple footprints of tiny spiders running across his bleached white cheeks to the slopes of his drunken nose. Me thinking, his face, his people, his times. And in the red corner: The mother and the father in their crumpled clothes and greasy hair, him flicking at the dandruff on his collar, her fiddling with her wedding ring, both twitching at the bang and the wail of a microphone being switched on, looking for all the world more the sinners than the sinned against. Me thinking, did you do your own daughter? The policewoman put her hand upon the mother's arm, the mother turned, staring at her until the policewoman looked away. Round One: Oldman tapped on the microphone and coughed: 'Thank you for coming gentlemen. It's been a long night for everyone, especially Mr and Mrs Kemplay, and it's going to be a long day. So we'll keep this brief.' Oldman took a sip from a glass of water. 'At about 4 p.m. yesterday evening, 12 December, Clare Kemplay disappeared on her way home from Morley Grange Junior and Infants, Morley. Clare left school with two classmates at a quarter to four. At the junction of Rooms Lane and Victoria Road, Clare said goodbye to her friends and was last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home at approximately four o'clock. This was the last time anyone saw Clare.' The father was looking at Oldman. 'When Clare failed to return home, a search was launched early yesterday evening by the Morley Police, along with the help of Mr and Mrs Kemplay's friends and neighbours, however, as yet, no clue has been found as to the nature of Clare's disappearance. Clare has never gone missing before and we are obviously very concerned as to her whereabouts and safety.' Oldman touched the glass again but let it go. 'Clare is ten years old. She is fair and has blue eyes and long straight hair. Last night Clare was wearing an orange waterproof kagool, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale blue denim trousers with a distinctive eagle motif on the back left pocket and red Wellington boots. When Clare left school, she was carrying a plastic Co-op carrier bag containing a pair of black gym shoes.' Oldman held up an enlarged photograph of a smiling girl, saying, 'Copies of this recent school photograph will be distributed at the end.' Oldman took another sip of water. Chairs scraped, papers rustled, the mother sniffed, the father stared. 'Mrs Kemplay would now like to read a short statement in the hope that any member of the public who may have seen Clare after four o'clock yesterday evening, or who may have any information regarding Clare's whereabouts or her disappearance, will come forward to assist us in our investigation. Thank you.' Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman gently turned the microphone towards Mrs Kemplay. Camera flashes exploded across the Conference Room, startling the mother and leaving her blinking into our faces. I looked down at my notebook and the wheels turning the tape inside the Philips Pocket Memo. 'I would like to appeal to anybody who knows where my Clare is or who saw her after yesterday teatime to please telephone the police. Clare is a very happy girl and I know she would never just run off without telling me. Please, if you know where she is or if you've seen her, please telephone the police.' A strangled cough, then silence. Hooked up. Mrs Kemplay had her hands to her mouth, her eyes closed. Mr Kemplay stood up and then sat back down, as Oldman said: 'Gentlemen, I have given you all the information we have at the moment and I'm afraid we haven't got time to take any questions right now. We've scheduled another press conference for five, unless there are any developments before then. Thank you gentlemen.' Chairs scraped, papers rustled, murmurs became mutters, whispers words. Any developments, fuck. 'Thank you, gentlemen. That'll be all for now.' Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman stood up and turned to go but no-one else at the table moved. He turned back into the glare of the TV lights, nodding at journalists he couldn't see. 'Thank you, lads.' I looked down at the notebook again, the wheels still turning the tape, seeing any developments face down in a ditch in an orange waterproof kagool. I looked back up, the other detective was lifting Mr Kemplay up by his elbow and Oldman was holding open the side door for Mrs Kemplay, whispering something to her, making her blink. 'Here you go.' A heavy detective in a good suit was passing along copies of the school photograph. I felt a nudge. It was Gilman again. 'Doesn't look so fucking good does it?' 'No,' I said, Clare Kemplay's face smiling up at me. 'Poor cow. What must she be going through, eh?' 'Yeah,' I said, looking at my father's watch, my wrist cold. 'Here, you'd better fuck off hadn't you.' 'Yeah.' The M1, Motorway One, South from Leeds to Ossett. Pushing my father's Viva a fast sixty in the rain, the radio rocking to the Rollers' Shang-a-lang. Seven odd miles, chanting the copy like a mantra: A mother made an emotional plea. The mother of missing ten-year-old Clare Kemplay made an emotional plea. Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional plea as fears grew. Emotional pleas, growing fears. I pulled up outside my mother's house on Wesley Street, Ossett, at ten to ten, wondering why the Rollers hadn't covered The Little Drummer Boy, thinking get it done and done right. Into the phone: 'OK, sorry. Do the lead paragraph again and then it'