Red Riding: The Year of Our Lord 1974

A little girl goes missing.

The pack salivates.

If it bleeds, it leads, right?

Eddie Dunford, crime correspondent,

back home to take the North.

Business first.

Dad won't mind waiting.

Edward.

I'm sorry to hear about your father.

- Oh, yeah, thank you very much, Mr. Hadley.

He had a good innings, eh?

- This is Detective Superintendent Jobson.

Oh, right.

Pleasure, sir. Pleasure to meet you.

Mr. Dunford's hoping to be

the Post's new crime correspondent.

- Oh, aye, I always got on well with Jack Whitehead.

Good old Jack, eh?

- He'll be standing in for a trial period.

That's right.

Pleasure to meet you... and to work.

Is he a local lad?

- Well, he cut his teeth on our Yorkshire Post,

but he's been down south.

Young Turk, then, eh?

- Made a pig's ear of it from what I understand.

- I'm giving him a month to prove himself.

So where's Whitehead?

- Jack? - Yeah.

On the piss, probably.

Don't worry, son.

You've got your legs well under the table.

Just do the job.

I know, I know.

Fuck him. He's not getting in on this one.

Yeah, funeral is in two hours.

It's going to be tight.

- I know. We'll make it.

Aye-up, owl's on.

- Gentlemen, we'll keep this brief.

At 4:00 p. m. yesterday evening, 3rd of September,

Clare Kemplay disappeared on her way home

from Morley Grange Junior and Infants.

Clare is ten years old.

She was wearing a red anorak,

gray school uniform, and red Wellington boots.

Mrs. Kemplay now would like to read a short statement.

Thank you.

- Poor cow. - No, I know.

Yeah, do you reckon dad did it?

I would like to appeal

to anyone who knows where my Clare is,

or who saw her after yesterday teatime,

to please contact the police.

Clare is a very happy girl.

And I know she wouldn't just-

never just run off without telling me.

Please, if you know where she is...

Please, this is...

I'm sorry.

- All right, lads, that's your lot.

- I'm sorry, Mum. I'm really sorry.

I'm really, really sorry I'm late.

- "Business before pleasure," he always said.

She means Dad.

Remember Dad?

- He were Yorkshire's finest tailor, William was.

He was a good lad, your dad.

You knew where you were with him.

Reliable.

Well, now, Edward Dunford,

North of England crime correspondent.

"Mrs. Sandra Kemplay

made an emotional plea this morning... "

Did you write that, love?

Our new byline boy is Eddie.

- You'll be wanting his autograph next.

- He'll always be "Little Eddie" to me.

It's a step up, lad.

It's a pity your dad's not here to see it.

Hey, is that one of his?

- This? No.

This is a Lord John, Carnaby Street.

Oh, aye.

- It doesn't look good, does it? This Kemplay lass.

24 hours, not a thing.

- There's been a couple now, aren't there?

Yeah, going back.

Wasn't there a little lass from Rochdale?

- There were one not so long ago in Castleford.

Yeah, Jeanette Garland.

Never found her neither.

- No? Didn't they?

Hear them wheels.

They never caught no one.

Never do, though, do they?

Aye-up, Chuck.

How are you? You all right?

Good to see you.

The prodigal returns.

Eddie.

- Here to see the old man, Miss Moneypenny.

- Didn't cut it down south, then?

Funny.

- So, sir, if I could get your attention,

we have three missing girls.

They're all aged between eight and ten.

1969, 1972, and then the day before yesterday.

And they all go missing within miles of one another, sir.

This could be the A34 murders all over again.

- Well, do let's hope so, eh, Mr. Dunford?

Yeah, fingers crossed, eh?

I was being sarcastic, Edward.

Sorry.

- Have you spoke to Jack Whitehead about this?

No.

No, this is-this is my story.

Isn't it, Mr. Hadley?

Spot the Ball.

It's the reason why 39% of working-class males

buy this paper.

That's interesting.

You honestly think so?

- What about- about working-class males?

- Do you think it could be the same man?

Yes, sir.

Yes, I do.

- Right, I'll fix you up with a one-to-one.

First thing in the morning with DCS Molloy.

Bill Molloy suspects itinerants.

Gypsies.

Oh, well...

Of course he does.

Now, don't push him, lad.

This paper enjoys a good relationship

with our newly amalgamated police force.

And I, for one, would like to keep it that way.

- Of course, sir. Of course.

Good.

You know, you really ought to have a go at these, Edward.

They'd be right up your street.

- Thank you, sir. I will.

- Edward. - Yep?

Don't cock it up, eh?

- ♪ You think you've got it all set up ♪

Yeah, unbelievable.

They hacked the fucking swan's wings off.

Clean off.

Left the poor bastard lying there.

You're joking.

- Yeah. Still alive, apparently.

Some kids found it.

- Hey, Eddie. - Yes, yes.

How did it go with Hadley?

Ah, he's not convinced.

Usual bollocks, "Don't cause a fuss. "

Right.

One thing's for sure:

They're linked, all right.

I know it.

Yeah, but linked how?

Everything's linked, Eddie.

Show me two things that aren't.

- Stoke City and the fucking championship.

- Hmm. Come here.

Eddie, it's a conspiracy.

We've got MI5 keeping an eye on our Harold,

Mountbatten waiting in the wings with a military junta.

Bollocks.

- There are death squads out there.

They give them a taste in Northern Ireland,

bring them back home hungry.

- Fuck off! Death squads.

- And every city has its death squads.

Sentence first, evidence after.

- All right, well, I'll steer well clear

of Wakey County Council death squad, then.

You can laugh.

I will.

Why not work Watergate in there, too, while you're about it?

Death squads, Barry?

Come on, you're losing it, mate.

Oh, shit. - What?

Oh, you're a lucky man, Dunford.

Mr. Gannon?

BJ, in there.

Are you all right, fella?

Fucking hell.

Business.

- I didn't think it were pleasure, did I?

Having a nice time back up North?

Yeah, you know, Barry.

Gets a bit obtuse.

Obtuse?

There's a big word for you.

- Oh. How about you?

How about me what?

Are you having a good time?

- Oh, I love being on me own in bars.

- Oh, no, you weren't. You weren't alone.