and he could not understand why. They had worked together for years now, and Mower reckoned he had done as good a job as he’d ever done setting up the incident room and assembling what little evidence had so far been collected. To him the police machine seemed to be moving on pretty well-oiled wheels, with the forensic team almost finished at Vic Randall’s house, the body on its way to the mortuary and a post-mortem fixed for the next morning. After running through his plans for launching house-to-house inquiries as soon as uniformed reinforcements arrived from Bradfield, Mower glanced at his boss quizzically.
“What did you make of Ian Baxter then?” he asked. “Is he our man?” Thackeray shrugged, his expression not lightening.
“I got the impression that there was a lot more Mr Baxter could tell us if he chose. Tom Becket thought the same, and he knows this village better than anyone. But he thought his distress at Randall’s death was genuine enough. Becket says he was either in a state of shock or a very good actor when he came out of Randall’s house. It’s early days, but if he’s the killer he’ll have left some traces in the house, you can bank on that. We’ll talk to his father to corroborate his end of the story, and then bring him in again when he gets back from London and we’ve got some forensic results.”
Mower nodded.
“The wild card is Jim Ferguson,” Mower said.
“Is he still around?” Thackeray asked.
“Sergeant Becket isn’t sure,” Mower said. “He says he didn’t see him yesterday and hasn’t seen him today but that doesn’t mean much. Becket’s not here full-time and since he came over yesterday morning he’s had a lot on his mind. He was here during the strike, remember, so he knows most of what went on back then. He’ll be a useful man to have around if this killing is connected to what happened then.”
“Which we don’t know, of course,” Thackeray said. “Don’t let’s make this any more complicated than we need to at this stage, Kevin. Baxter said the back door to the house was unlocked, so presumably there’s no sign of a break in?”
“No sign,” Mower said. “And no sign that anyone’s ransacked the place, though it’s untidy in there, so it’s difficult to tell. Randall still had money in his back pocket and there was a wallet with thirty quid in it in the bedroom, plus a bank card and a credit card. Co-op bank, of course. I’ve looked quickly through his personal stuff. Basically he was living on his State pension and a small pension from the NUM, and had a savings account with about £10,000 in it. Nothing much personal – no letters, a few photographs of his son, Colin, and his late wife. Some old union paperwork. That was a bit jumbled, as if he’s been looking at it recently.”
“I skimmed through what I could find on the Fielding murder,” Thackeray said. “Apparently a lot was made at the time of some union records going missing, details of who went picketing and when. It came up at Billy Baxter’s trial but never seemed to get resolved.”
“I didn’t see anything like that,” Mower said. “I’ll go through everything more carefully once we get the house-to-house organised. We need to know who saw who moving around the village Friday evening and this morning. Estimated time of death is any time between six and mid-night last night, according to the doc. We can cover some of that this evening, start again tomorrow morning. Most people should be at home as it’s the weekend.” Thackeray glanced at his watch.
“We won’t get any sense out of forensics now,” he said. “And I don’t want to bother Ken Baxter yet if he’s as sick as his son claims he is. Will you go up there and make an appointment to see him in the morning? Then have a chat with Tom Becket, fill yourself in on whatever he can tell you about Randall and his history. Who might bear a grudge? He’s been around this village since before the strike, so he must know it inside out. And launch a search for Ferguson. I want to talk to him urgently. ”
“Through the Press?” Mower asked.
“No, not yet. Just circulate the details of him and his car to other forces. He’s either still around here or is heading back to London. Either way, he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Ask Don Hartnett if he’s seen or heard from him. They were both involved in the Fielding murder inquiry and if Ferguson’s raking that up he might have contacted Hartnett. And Kevin…” Thackeray hesitated for a moment before going on, and Mower guessed what was coming.
“Laura’s been in contact with Ian Baxter,” he said at last. “She’s got it into her head that there’s a story for the Gazette in Baxter’s campaign to get his brother released. I’ll warn her off myself, but don’t be surprised if her name crops up. I know she’s aware of Ferguson. I’ll talk to her tonight to see if she’s got anything which may be relevant to Randall’s death, but I doubt it.”
Mower swallowed hard, hesitated and then decided to say nothing about his own contact with Laura, which Thackeray obviously knew nothing about.
“Is she up to chasing stories again?” he asked at length. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“She’s not, and it isn’t,” Thackeray said abruptly, and Mower knew better than to pursue the subject any further.
“I’ll let you know if anything crops up,” Mower said. “Go home, guv, I’ll stay and make sure everything’s moving on as it should. There’s nothing more to be done until we get more information in. I’ll call you if anything urgent crops up.”
Michael Thackeray drove home slowly. Mower was right, he thought. There was nothing more for him to do in Urmstone today. Until they had a clear picture of where Vic Randall had been on Friday afternoon and evening, and who he had seen, and who had seen him, before he went home to an empty house and put a ready meal in the oven for his supper, there was no-one else to question. Ken Baxter, sick and bed-bound, might have interesting information to impart but could not possibly be a murder suspect and could safely be left in peace until the morning.
Of more concern to Thackeray now was how to tackle Laura and deter her from following up her inquiries any further. He had never been noticeably successful at doing that in the past, but her recent experience with a serial killer, and her pregnancy, made Thackeray all the more determined to try again and succeed this time. But when he got home and found Laura in the kitchen surrounded by savoury aromas as she prepared a meal, he found that he did not even have to raise the subject himself. She spun round as he came in, chopping knife in hand, eyes bright.
“That man Ferguson,” she said. “Have you found him yet? Has Ian Baxter reported what happened to him this afternoon? He called me to let me know. Ferguson’s a menace. He’s out of control. Copper or no copper, he needs locking up.”
“Calm down, calm down,” Thackeray said, laughing in spite of his worries and taking Laura in a firm embrace. “What on earth are you on about? Come and sit down and tell me what’s brought this on?” Laura allowed herself to be led into the living room and settled on the sofa while Thackeray poured her a drink.
“Are you sure you should still be on vodka and tonic?” he asked as he handed her the glass. Laura grinned.
“One a day, the doctor conceded,” she said. “One a day won’t do me any harm.”
“I suppose I’ll have to believe you,” Thackeray said doubtfully, pouring himself a straight tonic. “Now, what’s all this about? What did Ian Baxter say?” He listened quietly while Laura recounted what Baxter had told her earlier in the afternoon.
“Surely he’s reported it?” she said when she had finished. “I told him to get straight on to you. This man Ferguson’s obviously dangerous.”
“Which is exactly what I told you yesterday,” Thackeray said dryly. “But no, I don’t think he has reported it. Not when I left Urmstone anyway. He was anxious to get off to London, so he’s probably half way down the M1 by now.”
“No, he’s not, as it happens,” Laura said. “The kids who laid into him took his wallet and his credit cards so he’s decided to stay another night to get everything sorted out. But it wasn’t them he was worried about. It was Ferguson who really scared him. He reckons t
hat if he didn’t set people up last time around, he’s going to have a good try this time.”
In which case, Thackeray thought to himself, furious that Ferguson had been so close and aware of Laura’s outraged expression, why hadn’t Ian Baxter come immediately to the police for help? If he had done that, he thought, they might well have picked Ferguson up already. He guessed he had even less chance now of persuading Laura to give up on Ian Baxter’s crusade for his brother.
CHAPTER TEN
Laura Ackroyd wrestled with her conscience the next morning, but not very hard. Thackeray had gone off early to the incident room in Urmstone, having wrung out of a reluctant Laura a promise not to go to the village herself today, though that was as far as she had been prepared to go.
“You need to rest,” he said, as she sat in her dressing gown sipping coffee while he grabbed a quick breakfast.
“Yes, yes,” she had agreed. “I may go to see Joyce. She’ll need calming down a bit when she hears what’s happened.”
“Good idea,” Thackeray had said, pulling on his coat. “But keep her away from Urmstone, too. I’m going to have to talk to Ken Baxter today. That’ll be difficult, the state he’s in. I don’t think they’ll want any more disruption.” He hesitated before going on. “And honestly, Laura, I can do without you or Joyce getting involved in this murder investigation. You understand that?”
Laura had nodded, her face bleak. They had known for years that their careers were not always compatible. But she had been more upset than she had admitted to Thackeray when she had learned from Ian Baxter everything that had happened in Urmstone the previous day, and she knew that she could not abandon her inquiries now. The death of Vic Randall only made her more curious about the whole case, but while Ferguson was at large in the village, a loose cannon she certainly did not want to meet after what had happened to Ian, she was content enough to do what Thackeray wanted and stay away. But that, she thought, did not mean she had to do nothing. As soon as she had showered and dressed, she rang the police office number in Urmstone and asked to speak to Sergeant Tom Becket.
When she had introduced herself, she sensed a frostiness creep into the broad Yorkshire voice at the other end. “I’m trying to get a picture of what happened in Urmstone back in 1984,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t want to talk about the current murder. Obviously, you can’t do that. But the Gazette will want some background on all that old history when this gets into the paper, and you were actually there. It would be really helpful if we could have a chat about the strike and the murder of the policeman. Most of us at the Gazette are too young to remember much about what went on back then and we do want to get it right.” There was a long silence at the other end.
“There’s no-one else around with your experience,” Laura said, sure she was losing Becket the more she tried to persuade him. “Everyone else is biased.”
“Aye, well, happen there’d be no harm in that,” Becket conceded at last. “Just ancient history, mind.”
“Should we meet away from the village?” Laura asked. “Would that suit you best.” It would certainly suit her, she thought wryly.
“I’ll be free at twelve,” Becket said. “I’ve been on duty half the night. Meet me at the Lord Derby on the Huddersfield Road for a drink and a bite of Sunday dinner. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it,” Laura said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “About twelve thirty? I’ll give you my mobile number in case you need it.”
Tom Becket ate his way stolidly through the Lord Derby’s £6 Sunday roast dinner while Laura picked at hers, refusing pudding while her companion took his time choosing between jam rolypoly and custard or apple pie and Wensleydale cheese. When the bowl brimming with pudding and custard arrived, he sat back slightly in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction and eyed his companion carefully. He was a big man, running to fat, still wearing his uniform shirt, under a dark green sweater, his blue eyes bright in a broad pasty face, although Laura guessed he must be soon due for retirement.
“The Baxter lad’s been priming you with stuff about ‘84, has he?” he asked at last.
“He contacted me about the campaign to get his brother out of jail,” Laura said. They think he’s being kept in longer than he should have been because the police don’t want him out. Could that be true?”
“Oh aye, I dare say,” Becket said. “Could have been some pressure from somewhere up top. No-one likes a cop-killer.”
“If he did it,” Laura said quietly. “Ian Baxter still thinks he’s innocent. I wondered what you thought.” Becket did not reply immediately, taking his time over several mouthfuls of rolypoly.
“It’s a long time ago,” he said at last. “And there were a lot of people in t’village who weren’t telling us the full truth, even if they weren’t outright lying, I do know that. Relations between t’miners and t’police were at rock bottom. The feeling seemed to be that if they created enough confusion, whoever killed Andy Fielding would get away with it. But DI Hartnett and Jim Ferguson from the Met weren’t having that. Someone was going to pay, and if Billy Baxter were t’wrong one then he were just unlucky, weren’t he? That was the general attitude amongst most of the officers on that case. It were a brutal killing.”
“And was that how you felt?” Laura asked. Becket scraped up the last of his pudding and masticated slowly before replying.
“I knew those people,” he said. “I’d been t’local bobby for four or five years before the strike. They had bobbies living in’t’villages then. You got to know folk, not like these so-called community police we’ve become now, sailing in and out in a car. You never build up relationships that way.”
“And you knew the Baxters?”
“Aye, in good times and bad. Young Ian were not a bad lad, though a lot of folk thought he were too sharp for his own good. Doesn’t seem to have done him any harm in t’long run, though, does it? And he had a lot to put up with. I were there the night the young Atkinson boy were killed. I were on duty in t’pit yard and dragged young Stevie out of t’muck, carried him down and tried to get him breathing.” Becket stopped for a moment, his eyes bleak as if he was reliving that night of pouring rain and desperate tragedy.
“He came to see me later on,” he continued. “Young Ian, I mean. Came to see me to tell me they hadn’t realised the little lad had followed them out onto t’tip. He didn’t need to do that. They’d made statements, the two lads, Ian and Craig. I told him straight off. None of them were safe that night, the way it were bucketing down. The whole tip were ready to slide like bloody Aberfan. They could all have been killed. He went for me then, said we could have saved Stevie if we’d moved a bit faster when he came running for help. As if it were our fault. What he didn’t know till I told him were that the officers on duty wi’me that night were Andy Fielding and Jim Ferguson. I were there too because someone banged on my door to fetch me, but they were the first on t’scene. Later on, after Fielding were killed, I told him, on the quiet like. I said if you think you’ve got a grudge against him, Ian lad, I’d keep quiet about it if I were you, or you might find yourself charged with your brother. Billy was being questioned by then, and DI Hartnett wouldn’t have blinked an eye at putting the younger lad in the dock with him if he’d found an excuse.”
“You mean Ian Baxter could have been a suspect?” Laura asked, incredulously.
“As far as the murder team was concerned everyone in the village was a suspect. And I knew as well as anyone that Ian and Craig were out at nights, trying to get someone to take them picketing. I never thought they were involved, which is why I said what I said to young Ian, and no-one ever admitted seeing them that night. But then, they wouldn’t, would they?”
“But they were only young boys,” Laura objected. “Could they have killed a grown man?”
“Ian Baxter were quite a small lad, he couldn’t have killed a hefty lad like Fielding. But Craig had grown, he were head and shoulders above his mate and broad with it, like his
brother Roy. And you were left wondering why he buggered off, like he did? He’s not been seen for twenty years and from what I hear he’s not been in touch wi’anyone in all that time.”
“You seriously think Craig could have been involved?”
“Mebbe,” Becket said. “Or he might have been out that night and seen summat he didn’t want to let on about. Back then the kids were just as fierce against the police as their parents were. Make no mistake about that. It got so bad that I asked for a transfer in the end. No-one in Urmstone would pass the time o’day with me. I had six months in Leeds and came back after the men went back to work.” Laura shook her head in bewilderment.
“It’s another world,” she said quietly.
“It were,” Becket said, draining the last of his pint. “And not a good one, either. If the younger lads had seen their older brothers doing owt dodgy, they’d go to their graves before they’d say owt. I’ve no doubt they’d have perjured themselves rotten to get Billy Baxter off if they hadn’t stymied themselves by claiming to have been in bed that night.”
“So what was the evidence that convicted Billy in the end?” Laura asked.
“Circumstantial mainly,” Becket said. “There was nowt forensic, but of course that were in the days before DNA. But Baxter were his own worst enemy, in some ways. He was a heavy drinker and the first time I saw him after he was finally arrested – and remember this were after t’end o’t’strike, they were back at work by then – he had a hangover like you’ve never seen before. He were white as a sheet, shaking all over. I reckon Hartnett and Ferguson had waited their moment to bring him in, in the hope of confusing him. His family went to a local firm of solicitors and they called on this woman in London who’d been handling a lot of the miners’ cases, but it took her a day to get up here, and by then I reckon the damage had been done. He’d been talking to Hartnett all day by that time, back and forth, on and on, bullying and brow-beating… Some o’t’police didn’t pull their punches back then. I’ve no doubt he’d had the odd thump, an’all. I sat in on parts of the interviews and Baxter was hopelessly confused, reckoned he couldn’t remember that night, the nights were all a blur, thought he went picketing but wasn’t sure whose car he went in. Then it turned out that Col Randall and Roy Atkinson were both claiming that they’d driven him to Nottinghamshire and there was no way he had time to commit a murder on the way. I’ve no doubt they both thought they were helping Billy out, but Col was in gaol by then, and I think the jury just
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