Dust to Dust

by Patricia Hall

  “It feels a bit odd being the one answering questions,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “Did your sergeant tell you I was hoping to get off down the M1 as soon as I can. My wife’s getting a bit fed up at home alone with the baby.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Baxter,” Thackeray said. “But a murder inquiry has to take precedence over everything else. You were expecting to make a statement, I think. It is even more vital now.” He watched Baxter closely and could see the blood drain from his face as he ran a hand over his hair, looking bemused.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “A murder inquiry? What do you mean?”

  “You’d better tell him, sergeant,” Thackeray said to Becket. “As the two of you were there.” Becket gave Baxter a not unsympathetic look.

  “When the body was moved, it was obvious that our first assumption that Vic Randall had died from a fall wasn’t accurate,” he said. “We jumped to conclusions, Mr Baxter, and we were wrong. Mr Randall had been stabbed, apparently upstairs – that’s where most of the blood was. The way he was lying you couldn’t see the wound but the ambulance crew found it. Vic may have been alive when he fell, or he may not, but he was undoubtedly murdered, sir. Which is why Mr Thackeray is here.”

  Baxter was either genuinely deeply shocked or a very good actor, Thackeray thought, as he watched him take a deep breath and sink deeper into his chair, almost as if he could no longer

  support himself.

  “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

  “So tell me, Mr Baxter, exactly how you came to be inside Victor Randall’s house this morning, please. I know you’ve explained to Sergeant Becket, but that was before we knew the full facts. So could you please start again at the beginning and tell me what happened?” Baxter went over the sequence of events again, his voice low, and Becket took notes.

  “And the back door was open? Ajar or just unlocked?” Thackeray asked, when he had ended at the point where Becket had joined him in the narrow hallway of Vic Randall’s house.

  “Unlocked,” Baxter said. “Doors always used to be unlocked around here when I was a kid but these days I don’t know. I don’t live here, and there seem to be some little hooligans around the village.”

  “That’s true enough,” Becket said, and earned himself an irritated glance from Thackeray.

  “You also said you knew Randall was dead when you found him,” Thackeray went on quickly. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “I thought he was dead the moment I saw him,” Baxter said. “The way he was lying, he looked as if he had broken his neck. His head was at an odd angle.” Becket confined himself to nodding this time.

  “Did you touch him, or move him at all?” the DCI asked.

  “I felt his neck,” Baxter said.

  “And you found no pulse?”

  “No pulse and he was very cold,” Baxter agreed.

  “But you didn’t try to move the body?”

  “No, certainly not,” Baxter protested. “I guessed there was no point but even if there was I knew better than to move someone with head or neck injuries. And I know enough about police procedure to know that if I was right, if he was dead, you wouldn’t want the body interfered with.

  I told you, I tried to call 999 inside the house but couldn’t get a signal…”

  “It’s a real problem round here, mobile phone signals,” Becket broke in, earning another unfriendly glance from Thackeray.

  “Anyway I went outside to try again and found sergeant Becket right there, in the street.” Undeterred, the sergeant nodded his confirmation again and Thackeray could see Baxter’s growing confidence.

  “So let’s get this quite clear, shall we Mr Baxter?” Thackeray said, his expression unforgiving. “You entered the house by the back door because you couldn’t find Mr Randall. You went through the kitchen into the hall…”

  “I looked in the oven first and turned it off,” Baxter said. “It was filling the place with smoke.”

  “Right,” Thackeray said. “Then into the hall where you found Mr Randall’s body, ascertained to your own satisfaction that he was dead, and then tried to summon assistance.”

  “Yes,” Baxter said, his expression uneasy.

  “You saw no blood on the body?”

  “No, none,” Baxter said firmly.

  “And you didn’t go anywhere else in the house? Upstairs, for instance?”

  “No, I went straight back outside, through the front door, to call the emergency services.”

  “And you didn’t see a knife or a sharp implement anywhere?” Thackeray persisted.

  “Certainly not,” Baxter said. “I saw nothing which made me think Vic’s death was anything but a tragic accident on the stairs.” Baxter looked as if he thought that this had brought the interview to an end but Thackeray had not quite finished yet.

  “Have you ever been upstairs in the Randall’s house?” he asked. Baxter hesitated for a second before he shook his head doubtfully.

  “Years ago, when I was a boy, I might have been. My father used to be round at the house quite a lot on union business and I think I went with him once or twice. I might have gone upstairs to use the lavatory, but if I did it was twenty years ago. Col Randall was much older than me, and there were no other children there, so it wasn’t a house I went round to play at.”

  “But not more recently, on visits to Urmstone?”

  “I don’t visit Urmstone often and I hadn’t seen Vic Randall for twenty years or more until I saw him at the welfare on Thursday with a reporter from Bradfield I know. We exchanged a few words, and I saw him there again yesterday at lunchtime but we didn’t speak. I…we were having a drink with his son Col.”

  “We?” Thackeray asked, although he knew the answer, and how potentially embarrassing it was likely to be.

  “The same reporter, Laura Ackroyd. We’re trying to get my brother Billy parole.”

  “Well, at least your brother can’t be a suspect in this murder case,” Thackeray said dryly.

  “And I can, chief inspector?” Baxter jumped in angrily.

  “The pathologist reckons that Vic Randall died some time on Friday evening, Mr Baxter,” Thackeray said. “That will soon become common knowledge as we ask people to account for their movements last night. So if I ask you where you were, you won’t be at all surprised, will you?”

  “I was at home with my parents,” Baxter said, his eyes angry. “My father’s dying.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Mr Baxter, but you’ll appreciate that I can’t let that interfere with my inquiries. I’ll probably need to talk to your father himself at some point.”

  “I hope you don’t think you can set us up the way Billy was set up, Mr Thackeray, because believe me, you’d have a much tougher fight on your hands than your colleagues did when they were hounding him. And Col Randall, for that matter. Much tougher.”

  “I hold no brief for what went on in 1984, Mr Baxter,” Thackeray said firmly. “But I will be pursuing Vic Randall’s killer vigorously and it’s by no means impossible that his death had links with what’s gone on in this village previously. As the person who found the body you must realise

  you’re of interest to the investigation, if only because we need to eliminate you. Perhaps you would be willing to give us a DNA sample and your fingerprints to make that process easier?” For a moment, Baxter seemed to hesitate and then shook his head tiredly.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think you’re pushing your luck. You’re nowhere near needing anything like that yet. If you have my statement typed up I’ll sign it before I go back to London. I’ll not be away from the village long. I need to come back with my wife for Vic’s funeral. He was my father’s best friend as well as an old comrade, Mr Thackeray. I doubt if you have the faintest idea what that means in a community like this.” Thackeray leaned back in his seat and watched the younger man as he moved towards the door, making no sign that he wanted to stop him.

  “Leave your Londo
n details with sergeant Becket when you leave, please,” he said mildly to Baxter’s departing back, and when he had closed the door he glanced at Becket with a rueful expression.

  “Are they all going to be as touchy as that?” he asked. The sergeant shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “You can bank on it,” he said. “They’ve long memories and they don’t forgive or forget.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ian Baxter walked thoughtfully up from the police house after making his statement. The village looked deserted late on a Saturday afternoon, the only sign of life a light still on in the shop, and the ubiquitous group of youths, hoods up, loitering against the wall outside. He had been shaken by the news that Randall’s death had not been a natural one, and knew that his father would be even more appalled. Violence and the remorseless implementation of the law had between them ravaged this place, and torn his own family apart, he thought. He had always suspected that his father was not totally convinced of Billy’s innocence, and to have another murder investigation beginning, in which it looked as if he himself might be a suspect, could kill the old man.

  He glanced at the shop and on impulse decided to go in for some cigarettes. He did not smoke but Billy did and he realised that it was increasingly urgent that he pay his brother a visit. Things had gone on in Urmstone of which he was only dimly aware and he could only go along with Miriam’s campaign to get Billy out of gaol if he prised some more information out of him and his father. He could not easily decide which of them would be more reluctant to give up the secrets he was sure they still clung to more than twenty years on.

  He was pushing the cigarettes into his pocket as he came out of the mini-market when he realised that the youths outside were watching him even more intently than usual and he felt suddenly uneasy. But they were too quick for him. As if on a prearranged signal, they snaked around him in a menacing line until he found himself jostled around the corner of the block into a narrow alleyway where the pushing and shoving turned instantly into serious blows and kicks.

  He gave a single shout for help, although he could see no-one else in sight, before one boy gave him a fierce punch in the stomach which brought him gasping to his knees on the muddy ground trying vainly to protect himself from a sudden onslaught with heavy boots, while the smallest youth wriggled close, pulled open his coat and relieved him of his wallet and the cigarettes he had just bought. With blood in his eyes and gasping painfully to get air into his lungs, he was only half aware of a shouted warning which instantly persuaded his attackers to cut and run down the alleyway and disappear. On hands and knees, unable to move and barely able to breathe, he glanced up helplessly to find Jim Ferguson standing over him, his face as unfriendly as those of the boys who had just robbed him.

  “I thought you’d buggered off home,” Ferguson said. Baxter could not find the breath to reply and Ferguson offered him no help as he struggled back to his feet and leaned against the wall gasping and wiping the blood from a cut on his temple. Ferguson said nothing for a moment but then moved closer to Baxter and planted a hand on his shoulder and a knee between his legs, effectively pinning him against the wall.

  “Funny thing, isn’t it?” he said. “You turn up and straight away there’s another murder. Coincidence, would you say?” Baxter shook his head helplessly, without the breath to speak.

  “I know your family was up to its neck in what went on in ‘84,” Ferguson went on. “So don’t imagine that being a brief yourself now will protect you. The courts take just as much exception to bent lawyers as they do to bent coppers, believe me. You’ll get no favours there. Killed poor old Vic Randall to keep him quiet, did you? Thought he’d get in the way of your misguided campaign? I always thought Vic and your dad knew a lot more than they were saying. This time you’ll get what you deserve, the whole lot of you. I’ll see to that.”

  “You’re threatening me, you bastard,” Baxter said at last, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper in spite of his fury.

  “Oh, you could say that,” Ferguson said, increasing the pressure of his knee in Baxter’s groin. “And I’ll threaten you some more if I find out you’re hiding anything the senior investigating officer should know about, believe me. He doesn’t know he needs my help, but he’s going to get it anyway. I know this village, don’t forget.” With a final fierce nudge that brought tears to Baxter’s eyes, Ferguson spun away and disappeared round the corner onto the main road leaving him to lean helplessly against the wall of the shop until he felt able to move again. He staggered to the front of the parade, and glanced back towards the former police house where ranks of cars and vehicles were now building up. In normal times he would have hurried down there to report an assault and a robbery, but these were not normal times. He could feel the blood from the cut trickling down his forehead and he spun on his heel and turned up the hill, towards his parents’ house. Madge Baxter took one look at him when she opened the front door, her pale face becoming even more bloodless in an instant, before she pushed him into the kitchen and onto a chair.

  “What happened?” she asked grimly, as she ran hot water at the sink and wiped the blood and dirt from his face. “Who did this to you? It were Billy who always used to get into fights, not you.”

  “Lads,” Baxter said, still feeling too dizzy to complain about being treated like a child. “I should have known better than to let them see me buying cigarettes. They took my wallet as well, credit cards, the lot.”

  “There’s never a policeman around when you need him,” his mother said. “Tom Becket’s still supposed to be our bobby but he’s hardly ever here these days and I reckon he’s demob happy any road. He retires soon.” Ian did not feel quite strong enough to tell her yet just how many policemen had now congregated in the village.

  “Those little beggars think they own the place,” Madge went on as Baxter winced under her not very tender ministrations. “Most of them are on heroin. There’s been nowt but drugs and crime here with the young ones since the pit closed. Those with anything about them get out as soon as they can, leaving the place to us pensioners and the little hooligans. D’you think you need a stitch in this.” Baxter looked at the cut in the wall mirror by the sink and shook his head.

  “It’ll be right with a plaster on it,” he said. His mother nodded grimly.

  “Doctor’s coming later to see your dad, if you need him,” she said. “What were you doinbuying cigarettes any road? I didn’t think you smoked.”

  “I was planning to go to see Billy,” Baxter said. “How quickly can I get a visiting order? I want to take Laura Ackroyd with me.” His mother shrugged.

  “I’ll speak to him,” she said. “He usually rings me at t’weekend.”

  Baxter leaned back in his chair and sighed. He felt sick and dizzy and he realised that his plan to drive to London that afternoon lay in ruins. He couldn’t trust himself on the motorway feeling as bad as he did.

  “I need to use the phone,” he said wearily. “I’ll have to tell Carrie I can’t get back today, and report my credit cards stolen, before those little thugs empty my account.”

  “They’ll not do owt wi’them in t’village,” Madge said. “There’s nowt to spend money on here except booze and fags and the shop won’t take your cards. They’ve more sense.”

  “No cash machine?” His mother laughed, but there was no humour in it.

  “What’s that when its at home?” she scoffed. “You know, miners used to be kings o’t’working class, when you were a lad. We’re at t’bottom o’t’heap here now. Banks don’t want to know us.”

  “You can’t put the clock back,” Baxter said, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Times change, you have to adapt.”

  “Aye, well, your dad never had much chance of that, the state he were in when t’pit closed, and now Vic’s gone. That’ll finish him, that will.” Baxter knew he was wasting his breath. There

  was no cure for what ailed his parents and many others in the village. They had been wrung dry and
now he had to add one more hammer blow to the unending series which had rained down on them for years.

  “There’s something else,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Some more bad news.”

  “Oh aye?” Madge said, he face freezing. “Summat else your father’s not going to like?”

  “Something my father’s going to hate,” Ian said. “The police believe Vic was murdered. That’s why I was so long making my statement down there. There’s another murder investigation going on. And this time they’ll have all the modern forensics at their disposal.” His mother looked at him in horror.

  “Surely to God they don’t think you did it, do they?” she whispered.

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what they think,” he said. “I really don’t. I must call Laura Ackroyd. This whole thing is getting out of hand and she needs to know. It’s one thing trying to get Billy out of gaol, something else to have another murder on our hands. It’s getting horribly complicated and she may not think she can help any more.” His mother looked at him with despairing eyes.

  “Why would anyone kill Vic?” she asked. “It can’t have anything to do with what happened back then. Not after all this time.”

  “Who knows?” Ian said. “With the best of intentions, Miriam and I set about stirring things up to help Billy. One person we stirred up without meaning to was obviously Jim Ferguson. Who knows who else has something to hide or old scores to settle?” Madge looked at him for a long time.

  “That’d be half the village, I reckon,” she said. “At least.”

  DCI Michael Thackeray drummed his fingers on his temporary desk, a sign DS Kevin Mower knew was not good. His boss had seemed out of sorts and edgy ever since his arrival in Urmstone