Dying Fall

by Patricia Hall

  "The kids who were killed," Davies said. "They were the usual young tearaways, done all the usual things, been cautioned, been on probation. But I did think the Astra was out of their league. A cut above - you know? It's usually lads a bit older." Thackeray nodded thoughtfully.

  "Fourteen and thirteen. That's what I thought," he said. He watched intently as two teenaged girls in extremely tight short shorts and loose tee-shirts pulled provocatively off-the-shoulder swaggered towards Bronte House. He glanced up at the flats, their facades smoke-stained and blanked off by boarded windows here and there.

  "Those two look as though they're asking for trouble," he said, nodding at the girls. "And an Asian girl? That's unusual, isn't it?"

  "There's no Asian families up here," Davies said. "The council allocated a couple of flats in Priestley to Paki - sorry, Asian - families a couple of years back but the yobs soon drove them out. But you come across a few Asian run-aways around town now."

  "Are they local or just visiting, then?" Thackeray said, watching intently as the girls picked their way past the heap of wilting flowers in the doorway, and used a key to open the entrance door to the flats.

  "Difficult to tell," Davies said, non-committally. "I don't know everyone by sight and there's at least a dozen flats in there with squatters in and out, mostly youngsters. The lasses are on the game. That, or they're nicking some very classy gear."

  "So it's not just the lads running wild?" Davies shook his head.

  "There's very few of them under twenty-five who've ever had a job. If they get dole - which the younger ones don't - it barely covers their keep. If they want booze, or fags, or drugs - and most of them are into that too - they'll nick summat just to set themselves up. And for kicks, there's the cars." Davies eyes smouldered with an anger which had burned slowly within him ever since he had watched the stolen Astra and two young lives end in the harsh light of the police helicopter.

  "Hard times are no excuse," Thackeray said. "There's plenty resist the temptation." It was a view offered without much conviction by a man who had fought temptation himself and lost far more often than he had won, but he wanted to hear Davies's reaction.

  "Aye, well, I dare say that's right," Davies prevaricated, unwilling to contradict, but a streak of stubbornness resisting the analysis. "But if I'd been brought up in these rabbit warrens I'd not put money on which side o't'law I'd be on now."

  "You don't think we should have come in mob handed the other night?" Davies looked away and shrugged dispiritedly.

  "Not my decision, sir," he said.

  "But if it had been?" Thackeray persisted. Davies turned and looked Thackeray full in the face.

  "I told you, sir," he said, his fury barely suppressed now. "I've flogged my guts out up here for three years trying to win us a few friends. This morning no-one would even give me the time of day."

  "But there've been people asking for tougher action," Thackeray objected.

  "Some," Davies conceded. "There's more been out on the streets enjoying the fun. Any road, the law and order brigade are keeping their heads down this morning. Wuthering's closed ranks."

  Thackeray sank into a watchful silence again. He agreed with much that Alan Davies had said. So-called community policing threatened to become a waste of time in communities like this, he thought, communities tacitly left to rot as the blocks of flats disintegrated and decency ebbed away. He glanced up at the battered grey hulk that was Bronte House and wished it wiped off the face of the earth.

  Outside the sun beat down on the dusty, yellowing grass and a straggle of women with pushchairs and small children in tow made their way from the adventure playground towards the flats. As several of the mothers approached the doors of Bronte House Thackeray was surprised to see a figure he recognised come out. Laura Ackroyd glanced somewhat wearily around but apparently failed to notice the police presence. She pushed her hair away from her face with a slightly dispirited but familiar gesture before making her way towards her own car across the street.

  Thackeray's lips tightened perceptibly and he took a deep breath as he watched Laura stride across the road, her short cotton skirt swinging above slim, lightly tanned legs, her hair like a beacon above her pale face in the bright sunshine. What, he wondered, is she doing up here, which, given the tension on the estate, was a legitimate question? And why, after all this time, does the unexpected sight of her still take my breath away, he thought, which was a question he did not want to answer at all.

  Almost in spite of himself he told a curious Davies to wait and got out of the car. Laura saw him immediately and her smile was as welcoming as his was uncertain.

  "How are you?" Thackeray asked. "How's your ankle. I've been meaning to call you ever since you came back from Portugal ..."

  "You knew I was back then?" Laura asked lightly. "I was tempted to stay. There was this gorgeous PR man from Lisbon with an unpronounceable name my father invited to dinner. Had a look of Tom Cruise...." But as she caught the gravity of Thackeray's blue eyes, the mischief in her own faded. "I'm fine," she said quietly, remembering, as she knew he was, the horror of their last meeting when he had found her lying half-conscious and in pain. "The leg's healed now, and for the rest..." She shrugged. "It fades slowly."

  He nodded at that, knowing how slowly. The silence between them lengthened as if each had too much to say to know where to begin.

  "Are you writing about the joy riders?" Thackeray asked at last, opting for safety as he glanced at the tape-recorder which was clearly visible in Laura's open shoulder bag. She hesitated, not wanting to lie and yet reluctant to tell him the real reason for her visit to Bronte.

  "I had an interview to do," she said, non-committally.

  "For your television programme?" Thackeray hazarded.

  "How did you find out about that?" Laura asked, suddenly feeling at a disadvantage as she picked up the note of disapproval in his voice. She flushed slightly.

  "I suppose it was that bastard Kevin Mower," she said. "I should have known he wouldn't respect a confidence."

  "Not if there's an advantage to be gained by not respecting it." Thackeray's assessment was unexpectedly harsh. "And I think on balance I can do him more good than you can."

  Laura digested that slowly, wondering just how insulting it was supposed to be. She did not reply and the sparkle that had lit up her face when she first saw Thackeray faded. She gazed tiredly across the littered grass towards the flats, embarrassed by her own presumptuous pleasure at meeting a man who clearly was not much moved to see her again. "You don't have a high opinion of reporters, do you?" she asked irritably.

  "They have a job to do," he said non-commitally. "I don't think it should interfere with mine."

  "Even if you've got it wrong?"

  "So you are investigating the Tracy Miller case?" he asked.

  "Do you have a problem with that?"

  "That programme's had more misses than hits," he said. "And Harry Huddleston's something of a local hero. You'll get no encouragement on this one."

  "Perhaps that's just because the police close ranks so effectively when their methods are questioned," Laura came back quickly. "I didn't expect that from you."

  "I don't like to see honest coppers hounded for no good reason," he said. "No-one does."

  "Then it's a pity there are so many dishonest ones about," Laura said sharply, looking slightly flushed now. "If that boy's been locked up for ten years for no good reason it's high time someone got him out. Ten years in goal is a damn sight worse than any embarrassment Case Re-opened can cause the police now."

  "He can appeal," Thackeray said, knowing he'd blown it, as he had half intended, but only half.

  "He did appeal, and much good that did him." She did not bother to hide her anger now. "If Harry Huddleston got it right, he has nothing to worry about, has he?"

  "Just so long as you get it right too," Thackeray said.

  Laura turned away from him to hide the disappointment in her eyes and unlocked her
car. For a second Thackeray looked as though he might reach out and take her arm, but then he shrugged and turned back to his own car to meet the still curious gaze of PC Davies.

  "Bloody reporters," Thackeray said as he turned the key viciously and revved the engine.

  "Always poking about where they're not wanted," Davies offered sagely. "Not that she's not got nice legs on her, that one."

  Thackeray groaned silently as Laura's Beetle pulled away from the kerb ahead of them and accelerated down the hill towards the town.

  "I've never gone much for red hair, myself, though," Davies burbled from the passenger seat and was astonished when his superior responded with a single and to his mind totally unjustified expletive.

  "Take the car back to HQ, will you," Thackeray said suddenly. "I feel like a walk." Without waiting for a response from the astonished Davies, he got out of the car again and walked briskly away towards the centre of the estate. He had wanted time to think, but as he made his way past the old people's bungalows which huddled beneath the shadow of the flats, he was surprised to hear a shrill whistle. Non-plussed, he hesitated, searching for the source of the sound.

  "Nah then," said a voice, in a piercing whisper which clearly came from the bungalow he was closest to. "Nah then. You! Copper!" The door of the bungalow was open slightly and as he opened the gate and went slowly across the tiny patch of garden, it swung wider revealing an elderly man sitting in the hallway in a wheelchair, a maroon muffler firmly tucked around his neck and into his tweed jacket in spite of the oppressive heat of the day.

  "Come in quick, lad," the figure said conspiratorially. "I've got summat I want to tell you. Stan Jackson's the name."

  Thackeray followed him into an untidy and sparsely furnished living-room which smelt faintly of cats and disinfectant. The house had been adapted for a wheel-chair but its occupant was evidently not much of a house-keeper. The old man looked at Thackeray warily for a moment, his eyes bright with some unfathomable emotion in a face as grey and lined as that of a mummy.

  "I want guarantees," he said at length. "I need to get out of here, else they'll be chucking bricks through t'window if they find out I've been talking to thee. Or worse."

  "What is it you want to talk about, Mr. Jackson?" Thackeray asked cautiously.

  "Them bloody joy-riders," the old man said. "Some bloody joy they bring. Young Mark, that were killed. He were my great grand-son."

  "I'm sorry," Thackeray said, understanding the old man's glittering eyes now, the tears held in check by determined pride.

  "I'm eighty, you know," the old man said fiercely. "I fought at El Alamein. I didn't reckon I'd have to put up wi'this."

  "Is there anywhere you can go, if you feel unsafe here?" Thackeray asked, knowing that the old man's fears were not idle ones. Intimidation was a major industry on the Heights, "grassing" a serious offence and age no defence at all.

  "If you can get me some transport I can go to my sister's in Halifax. She's always asking. She's seventy-six and nearly as decrepit as I am." He laughed mirthlessly. "Do her good to have someone else to look after, silly old cow," he said.

  Thackeray used the old man's phone to make arrangements with social services, who prevaricated until he lost his temper and told them that this was a matter of life and death. Having got the assurances he wanted, he put the phone down angrily and turned back to find the old man offering a toothless grin of appreciation.

  "You tell them useless buggers," he said. "They're supposed to come and clean this place up twice a week and I'm lucky if I see 'em once a fortnight. Community bloody care!"

  "This had better be good," Thackeray said, wondering if he was being used.

  "Do you want to catch them beggars or not?" the old man snapped.

  "Of course," Thackeray said gently and settled down to listen. What Jackson had to tell was simple enough. Confined as he was to his wheelchair, he had become an inveterate watcher of the world as it passed his front window where he sat for hours, concealed behind the net curtains. He had got to know most of the estate's residents by sight and watched their comings and goings with unquenchably malicious curiosity.

  The joy-riding had excited him at first as the cars had screamed past his grand-stand seat. But infrequent visits from his relatives had intimated that young Mark might be involved and he became alarmed. It was only then that he began to notice that on the nights when displays materialised an unusual number of vehicles had previously made their way to the hollow square of lock-up garages opposite his bungalow, arriving at dusk and disappearing into the complex, sometimes for days at a time, to roar forth as if at some appointed signal, on the nights of the displays.

  "I thought it were a bit o'harmless fun at first," Jackson said. Thackeray looked at him in despair, although he knew that many, perhaps the majority, of the people on the estate had gone along with that view for a time, and many still did.

  "What sort of cars are we talking about?" he asked. "And how many?"

  "I've not counted," Jackson said. "And I'm not right good at makes of cars. Fast, though, and expensive. I must have seen a couple of dozen over t'last month or so. They've not all been in t'displays. Some of them come and go without t'lads driving them at all, as far as I can see."

  "Can you see which garages they're using?" Thackeray asked, but Jackson could not be much more specific. His view of the garages was restricted and he could not easily change his position, but that they were being used to store the stolen vehicles he had no doubt.

  "Do you think there are any there now?" Thackeray asked, but Jackson shook his head.

  "I've seen nowt," he said emphatically. "Nowt since the night Mark and t'other lad were killed. They're keeping a, what do'you call it? - a low profile?" Which was not surprising, Thackeray thought, and he wondered how long they would maintain it.

  "We'll not rush in," he said slowly. "You could help us, if you're going away, by leaving us a key so that we can keep watching from your window. Would you be willing to do that?"

  "Oh, aye," the old man said, a single tear shining in the corner of his eye. "I'd like to see them beggars hang. They're effing murderers, aren't they?"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Church of the Sacred Heart in Arnecliffe was as dim and cool a refuge from the afternoon sunshine as Thackeray remembered it. It was a modern building, winner of architectural prizes for its unadorned concrete echoes of old romanesque basilicas. The narrow lanceolate windows were set at an angle and their abstract patterns of coloured glass cast lozenges of azure and gold across the tiled floor and the pale oak pews. They filtered the light and air even on the hottest of days such as this and maintained an even temperature which as a boy Thackeray had thought of as an integral part of a holy place, as essential to achieving a state of grace as the faint smell of incense and the piercing sound of the choir.

  It had been a place of intense joy to him in his youth. He had taken his first communion and been married here. The pain of seeing his son's tiny coffin in front of the golden sand-stone altar had drowned those earlier memories in bitterness, but even now, years later, he was drawn reluctantly back to the church whenever he had cause to drive near Arnecliffe.

  He sat quietly in the tiny Lady Chapel facing a rack of flickering candles in front of a pale, sad faced plaster Virgin and Child. He had put his silver into the box and held a tall translucent candle to a guttering neighbour not out of any vestigial belief in the efficacy of prayer, but simply as a remembrance of the faith which, in spite of what had come after, had made him what he was.

  He sat for a long time, hoping to be soothed by the silence and mesmerised by the flickering flames, as he had often been before. But today he found that the solace of the place was not so easily come by and old wounds felt newly raw. Laura Ackroyd's sparkling green eyes and guileless smile of greeting came unbidden into his mind again and again, and he cursed himself for his gratuitously graceless response. Laura offered the possibility of a new beginning which he had scarcely dared
contemplate since his son's death and scarcely dared imagine now. He was unaware of anyone approaching until a hand on his shoulder made him turn round with a start.

  "It's good to see you, Michael," said the priest who had come quietly up behind him. There was an unexpected warmth in Thackeray's smile as he faced Frank Rafferty.

  "You're looking well," he said, taking in the elderly priest's ruddy complexion under the thick iron gray hair which seemed hardly to have changed over the last ten years of an at times stormy relationship.

  "And you're not looking too bad yourself, my son," Rafferty said, a hint of amusement in his sharp blue eyes and more than a hint of Irish in his voice. "I take it you've not come to confession - or has there been a trip to Damascus since I last saw you?" Thackeray shook his head with a glimmer of a smile.

  "No chance", he said. In spite of past battles, he liked the old man and valued the friendship of someone who had been generous enough not to bear grudges and to offer him help when few others would.

  "I come to talk to Ian," Thackeray said, without affectation, glancing at the simple memorial plaque on the wall of the chapel to his baby son. "He'd have been going to secondary school soon. I'd have been taking him training at the rugby club. I wonder if he'd have taken to rugby. He had a good pair of shoulders on him."

  It was said lightly but Thackeray could not maintain the pretence for long and he turned away suddenly to hide the spasm of pain which seized him. A look of helplessness passed briefly across Rafferty's face, aging him even in the soft afternoon light.

  "God has forgiven you, Michael," he said quietly. "Can you still not forgive yourself?" Thackeray turned back, his face set now as immovably as one of the carved images on the stone face of the altar.

  "No," he said shortly, getting to his feet. "I don't think I'll ever do that. But don't worry about it, Frank. I've learned to live with it."

  The two men walked slowly towards the door of the church, Rafferty's cassock swinging gently and sending motes of dust wafting into the narrow shafts of coloured sunlight where they hung, dancing, like sparks from a fire. As they crossed the main aisle, the priest genuflected towards the sanctuary where a red lamp glowed, while Thackeray stood unmoving at his side.