studies library. I wanted to review back issues of the Hull Daily Mail. It was quiet with only a handful of people at work, so I was able to persuade a member of staff to assist me. The archives had plenty references to Reg Holborn. I went straight to the article on his retirement. Holborn had retired as a Detective Chief Inspector and an event had been held in his honour at one of the city’s boxing clubs. He had obviously been well thought of. I glanced through the details. Alongside Don, he’d worked on all the major murder investigations Hull had seen in recent times. The ones I’d spoken to Branning about, Bruce Lee and Christopher Laverack, were both included. As Holborn had moved up the ranks, he’d taken the lead on the doorstep stabbing of driving instructor Keith Slater in 1988, and then in 1994, the doorstep shooting of Shane George. That had been the first time I could remember such an incident in the city. It had felt like a definite shift, a move to more violent and final solutions. I knew from the stories Don had told me how difficult the job had been, especially if you were leading the investigations. Holborn had done a tough job for several decades. My helper brought me more items to review. I looked at photographs of Holborn taken at various civic events. He’d done a lot of work for his favourite charities, particularly those which benefited young people. He had been a patron of a well-known local boxing club, which made sense, given the venue for his retirement celebration. I read the accompanying article. Holborn had been taken to the place as a youngster and he’d felt it had given him some purpose in life and he wanted to pass it on. Boxing had been his passion and escape from the rigours of the job. I’d thought Don’s escape had been his family life, but that assumption had been turned on its head by what Neil Farr had told me. I turned to the photographs of Holborn standing alongside various Lord Mayors and local members of Parliament. They were always Labour. It was that kind of city. Holborn had moved in impressive circles, seemingly a popular man. I stared out of the window at Freetown Way. Cars hurried past, skirting around the edge of city centre. I went back to the screen and checked the most recent mention of Holborn. I read the story again. He’d died in a house fire a couple of weeks ago.
I left the History Centre with several photocopies. I’d read the articles in depth later. Gerard Branning had played me like a professional. He’d wanted me to find out about Reg Holborn’s death. He was still sharp. The Hull Daily Mail’s coverage of Holborn’s death stated he lived on Winchester Close, a small estate of bungalows in East Hull. My dad had told me Rovers had once owned the land, before deciding to build the original Craven Park a couple of miles closer to the city centre on Holderness Road. I knew the area well. My dad had been landlord at the Barham Pub, which stood at the top of estate. Before heading there, I tried calling Neil Farr. I wanted to speak to him again, but I was told he was in a meeting. I knew I was being lied to, but there was no point pushing my luck.
I hadn’t been back to the area I’d spent most of my childhood in for years. The small row of shops had changed. What had once been a large playing field behind the pub was now sheltered housing for the elderly. The estate was enclosed and easy to navigate. Holborn’s house was easy to spot. I could see the damage the fire had done. I pulled out my mobile and started to call the number on the estate agent’s board. I stopped and put my mobile away before the call was answered. I had a better idea. I parked up and approached the house. No curtains were up, so I peered in. There wasn’t much to see, but it got me the attention I wanted.
‘Can I help you?’
Holborn’s neighbour was a woman in her sixties. She was holding a trowel in her hand and had appeared from the back of her bungalow. Her
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Mary Oliver, Brooks Atkinson