decided that no-one from Urmstone could be believed. Billy had admitted he left the house late because he’d been battered the previous day at Orgreave. His brother said he’d tried to persuade him not to go. The prosecution argued that he’d not left ‘t’village at all. He’d missed the cars, spotted Fielding, followed him down the lane and killed him in revenge for the beating he’d taken the day before.”
“So the jury didn’t believe anything the union men said?”
“That’s about it. And it didn’t help that Vic Randall couldn’t come up with the rotas for that night. One of his notebooks had gone missing and it just happened to be the one with that night’s records in. Prosecution made hay wi’that, didn’t they? Accused Vic of covering up for Baxter. But you don’t know, do you? If he were covering up, it might not have been Billy Baxter he was trying to protect. It might have been his own son. Col had already got ten years for the motorway attack. Vic wouldn’t have wanted to see him go down for life. Or maybe Ken Baxter nicked the rota, to protect Billy. He were in t’union lodge office wi’Vic most o’t’time. No-one said. No-one said a word. Not then, not since.”
“In Sicily they call it omerta,” Laura said quietly. “The code of silence.” Becket looked down regretfully at his empty pudding plate and then at his watch.
“I must get home,” he said. “I’m knackered.”
“Just one more thing,” Laura said quickly. “The other thing Ian mentioned was the suspicion that some of the police were spying on the miners, or even provoking trouble themselves. Is that what Andy Fielding was doing in the village that night? Is that the real reason he was killed?”
“There were a million rumours flying about,” Becket said. “It had nowt to do wi’t local forces, I’m sure of that. They wouldn’t have been able to keep it quiet if it had been done local. Canteens would have known. They’d win gold medals for gossip, would police canteens. But t’Government were ready to chuck everything they’d got at the miners to make sure Arthur Scargill were beaten. I’d not be surprised what dirty tricks were going on with the Met, or the funny beggars, special branch and that. What some of those southern lads got up to in broad daylight would make your hair stand on end.”
“The miners weren’t exactly saints. The picketing got pretty violent, didn’t it?” Laura objected.
“Aye, it did, but there were stories around that too: plain vans turning up wi’men no-one knew, stirring up trouble, and then disappearing. It were a bad time, Miss Ackroyd, and there were victims on both sides. I told you, I were glad to get out of Urmstone for a bit. I’d had enough after Fielding were killed. And to be honest, I were never sure they’d got the right man, for that or for the motorway job. But DI Hartnett and that beggar Ferguson seemed convinced. Or convinced themselves, and the juries, any road. So there were nowt I could do about it.”
“And now Ferguson’s back,” Laura said. “Do you know Ian Baxter was assaulted and robbed, and then Ferguson turned up and threatened him? Has he reported it now?”
“When did this happen?” Becket asked, suddenly alert. “I heard nowt about it?”
“Yesterday,” Laura said. “He wasn’t badly hurt, he says, but I think Ferguson scared the hell out of him.”
“I’ve seen Ferguson talking to some of our little yobs,” Becket said thoughtfully. “I thought he were warning them off for summat, but maybe it’s summat different, the opposite, in fact.”
“What do you mean?” Laura asked.
“Well, you know he’s not a copper any longer? Got chucked out o’t’Met?” Laura nodded non-commitally, not wanting to reveal her sources.
“So he’d got no backup, has he, and he can’t be around twentyfour seven. Happen he’s got some of those little toe-rags working for him. They’d sell their own grandmother to feed their habits, some of them.”
“You make it sound as if the village is as dangerous as it was back during the strike,” Laura
said. Becket laughed, but his amusement did not spread as far as his eyes.
“This new murder will set Urmstone back a generation,” he said. “It’s not on t’surface, as it was back then, neither. But I reckon it’ll reopen a lot of old wounds. It has to be connected wi’t’strike. There were no sign of robbery in Vic’s house. What other motive could there be but a settling of old scores? It’s a bad business, I can tell you that for nowt.”
“Can I call you again when I’ve got to the stage of writing something about the strike?” Laura asked. “I don’t need to bring your name into it, but you had a ringside seat back then. I could really use your recollections.” Becket crumpled up his napkin, and lumbered to his feet. He looked exhausted.
“I’ll be out of t’force in six months, and I reckon people shouldn’t forget what happened in ‘84. There were times when I was ashamed o’t’uniform I wore, if you want the honest truth. My girlfriend told me I should get out, but I never did. But now? P’raps it’s time to clear the air.”
Laura drove home thoughtfully, depressed by what Sergeant Becket had told her. When she got back to the flat she found the phone ringing and dashed to pick it up before it stopped. It was Ian Baxter at the other end, sounding agitated.
“I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile,” he said accusingly.
“I had it switched off,” she said. “I was out to lunch.”
“Never mind that,” Baxter said. “I’m on my way home to see Carrie and the baby, but we had a phone call from Billy just before I left my mam’s. He usually tries to ring her on a Sunday. He’s applied for visiting orders for both of us so we can go to see him, perhaps next week. But it wasn’t that. He said Miriam had called him and told him she was arranging for a DNA sample to be taken, so he wasn’t surprised when an officer came round to his cell to take a swab. But it turns out it wasn’t for Miriam and her case review at all. It was for the police, West Yorkshire police. I don’t
understand what’s going on. I thought all this stuff Ferguson was spouting about the case being reopened was so much malarkey, but he’d not have got the prison authorities to agree to a DNA test off his own bat. This must be official.”
“Maybe they’re looking at his case again because of what’s happened to Vic Randall,” Laura suggested, startled by this new twist. Maybe they think there’s a connection and they’re going to compare the forensics.”
“Oh God,” Baxter muttered.
“Will it damage Billy’s case?” she asked sharply. “After all you’ve told me…”
“No, it’s not that,” Baxter said. “It’s just…well, there’s something I haven’t told you. Something I’ve never told anyone, as it goes, and I don’t suppose Craig has told anyone, either.”
“It seems to me that there’s a hell of a lot people haven’t been telling much about that murder,” Laura said sharply.
“It doesn’t give you a clue to who did it. We weren’t covering anything vital up,” Baxter said, and Laura could hear the strain in his voice. “But Craig and I bunked off school that morning, and went down the lane towards the woods. We found the body. We stumbled over it, lying in the ditch. It was awful, horrendous, and I’m sure I never touched anything. I was sick on the spot. But I’m not so sure about Craig. He was completely hyper that morning anyway, and he went closer to the dead man, he went a bit hysterical, dancing around and shouting, and I think he grabbed the stake the poor devil was impaled on. If they’re looking at the evidence again, his DNA could be there. But maybe mine is too. And of they get a match from Billy’s sample, we’re brothers and they may reckon it’s his…sorry I’m not being very coherent. I’m just terrified I might have risked Billy’s whole campaign to clear his name.”
“And put yourself at risk of a very uncomfortable interview with DCI Thackeray,” Laura said. “Finding one body might be inadvertent, but when he discovers you’ve found two? What’s he going to make of that?”
“I haven’t told him,” Baxter said. “It’s not relevant to this new murder, is it? I can wait a
nd see how Billy’s DNA test pans out. I don’t have to tell him.”
Laura felt cold as she absorbed the ramifications of what Baxter was telling her. There was one crucial fact that she had not revealed to Baxter and that was her relationship with Thackeray. It had not seemed important when she was merely investigating a long dead case. But now? She shivered.
“I think you do have to tell him,” she said. “Without a doubt and soon. When are you coming back north?”
“I’m not sure,” Baxter said. “No-one seems sure when Vic’s body will be released for a funeral.”
“No, it could be some time,” Laura said, feeling a slight sense of relief.
“But if the police want to talk to me again, I’ll have to come back anyway,” Baxter went on gloomily. “Or if we get a visit to see Billy next week. How long do DNA comparisons take, for God’s sake? These things seem to be getting quicker and quicker. Is it true that family DNA is similar. If the test clears Billy, wouldn’t it put me in the clear me too?”
“I’m not sure, but let’s keep in touch,” Laura said, feeling slightly sick. “Perhaps you’d better hope so, because with Craig long gone there’s no-one to corroborate your version of what happened that morning. And then there’s the possibility they might find his DNA… God, what a mess. I need to think what to do next. This new murder puts an entirely different complexion on what I can do for the Gazette as well. The crime reporter will be involved now. I’ll have to talk to my editor. It’s all getting very complicated.” Not least, she thought, between her and Michael Thackeray. If Ian Baxter didn’t make a move to tell the police about his sins of omission all those years ago, then she would have to. And that would not be easiest conversation she and Michael had ever had.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DCI Michael Thackeray decided to interview Ken Baxter himself. It was a small gesture of consideration, he thought, for a man who, if his son was to be believed, might not even be available as a witness when Vic Randall’s murderer eventually came to trial. He took Kevin Mower with him and Madge Baxter let them into the sick room, white faced and lips pursed, with only a muttered “Don’t tire him, please” as she ushered them through the door.
Ken Baxter was sitting up against his pillows, gasping for breath but with bright spots of angry colour on both cheeks. There hardly seemed enough of him left to spark the brightness in his eyes, Thackeray thought. He looked like a ghost of times past already.
“So it’s right then, is it?” he gasped before Thackeray could even introduce himself and Sergeant Mower. “Vic were murdered?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr Baxter,” Thackeray said. “He was stabbed. Then fell, or was pushed, down the stairs.” Baxter glanced out of the window as if looking for something.
“You want to look out for them little hooligans who roam round t’village these days,” he said. “Thatcher’s grandchildren, Vic and I call ‘em. A lot of them have never seen a man go out o’t’house to work in t’morning. Don’t know what a bloody job is. One or two o’them might carry knives, I shouldn’t wonder. Little gangsters.”
“We’ll be looking at their activities,” Thackeray said. “But there are other possibilities. When you last saw Mr Randall, did he give you the impression he was worried about anything? Did he seem anxious at all.” Baxter clutched his oxygen tube tighter and shook his head.
“He seemed right normal to me,” he said. “He comes in to see me every Saturday morning, regular as clockwork. Last Saturday were no different. It weren’t till after t’weekend that we had your sergeant Ferguson came round, raking up old anxieties. A nasty bit of work, he is, if you want my opinion, which I don’t suppose you do. Vic came round again after that, just to see I were all right. I told him: there were nowt to say that wasn’t said twenty odd years ago. If he thought our Billy had an accomplice, he were barking up same wrong tree they barked up back then. Billy didn’t kill that copper in t’first place. We all knew that. Trouble was we couldn’t prove it.”
“We have to consider the possibility that Mr Randall’s death was connected in some way with what happened back then,” Thackeray said. “Nothing seems to have been stolen from the house, so robbery doesn’t appear to be the motive. I have to ask you. Do you think someone bears a grudge from back then, a grudge maybe sparked by Jim Ferguson’s inquiries in the village?”
“If you’re asking me if I can tell you who really killed Andy Fielding and might have got scared he was going to be shopped after all these years, there’s nowt I can tell you, Mr Thackeray. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. And I don’t reckon Vic knew either. We were in t’lodge office every night, without fail, that night just the same as usual. We sent the lads off and kept a note of who went so we could pay them their expenses.”
“And that night was exactly the same as usual? You saw off the pickets at about four in the morning? How many that night, can you remember?”
“Ten or twelve it usually were. We kept rosters You should have been able to get records from them, but some of them went missing. That’s what sunk our Billy. We’d no record of who he went out with. He didn’t have a car of his own and used to get a lift, with his mate Col, Vic’s lad, or with Roy Atkinson from next door. Trouble was they both said they’d taken him that night. We never saw who went in which car. We were busy in t’office wi’t paperwork, weren’t we? It would depend who were out first who went in which car. They’d fill up and go, like.”
Baxter sank back exhausted against his pillows. Sergeant Kevin Mower, who had been listening in silence to the old man’s wheezing protestations, and taking notes, suddenly broke in.
“Wasn’t it a bit odd that the rosters went missing for that night of all nights, Mr Baxter?” he asked. “Didn’t that look a bit like a cover-up for your sons, yours and Mr Randall’s? Did you or Vic destroy the documents, or hide them, because if the police had got hold of them they would have incriminated Billy or perhaps Col Randall? No-one in the village seemed to be willing to help the police when Andy Fielding was killed. Were you deliberately obstructive with those documents?” Ken Baxter shook his head and sucked on his oxygen supply greedily.
“As I recall, the police didn’t come looking for them straight away,” he gasped. Someone must have told them that we kept records, but when Mr Hartnett came asking, Vic were as surprised as anybody that they’d gone.”
“Who had access to the lodge office apart from you two?” Thackeray asked.
“Anyone who needed us. People were in and out all t’time,” Baxter said. “Vic and I were up half t’night, most nights, so we often slept during t’day. I reckon we locked the door if t’place were empty like, but sometimes we forgot. We were bloody exhausted most o’t’time. The last thing we’d be thinking about were burglars. No-one from t’village would steal from the union.”
“So anyone could have taken the paperwork?”
“Pretty much,” Baxter said faintly. Madge Baxter came back into the room, glanced at her husband, lying back against his pillows, and turned angrily to Thackeray.
“I think you’ve had all the time he can give you,” she said, her voice sharp with anxiety. “Look at the state of him.”
“Nay, it’s reet, Madge,” Ken Baxter said. “I want Vic’s killer found as much as any beggar. More than most. But think on, Mr Thackeray. You may be off down a blind alley if you reckon it’s summat to do with that old paperwork. I see a lot that goes on, lying here looking out o’t’window, wi’ nowt else to do. That man of yours, Ferguson, I’ve seen him talking to those young yobbos who had a go at our Ian yesterday. Ian said he were one of them from London who were here back
then. Have you thought that you might have a bad apple in your own barrel. What’s he doing up here after all this time? Settling old scores, like, is he?” Thackeray got to his feet, his face grim.
“Don’t worry, Mr Baxter. We’ll explore all the possibilities. And thank you for your time.” He nodded to Madge as he led Mower out of the house.
“
You didn’t tell him that Ferguson’s no longer in the job,” Mower said mildly as they walked down the hill to the incident room.
“I don’t think we’ll advertise the fact that we’ve got a bogus copper roaming around a murder inquiry,” Thackeray said, his face grim. “Let’s concentrate on finding Ferguson and getting him out of our way. We’ve enough evidence for a charge of impersonating a police officer already and if Ian Baxter’s got the sense he was born with he’ll give us a complaint of assault to add to that.”
“And when we get the forensics in from Randall’s house, I suppose we could have more,” Mower said. “But if Ferguson came up here looking for some sort of revenge, why now, after all this time?”
“I suppose the campaign to get Billy Baxter out must have sparked it off,” Thackeray said. “After all this, the family must be feeling that was a really bad idea.”
The engine of Roy Atkinson’s truck throbbed throatily in the car park of a transport cafe on the M62, halfway between Bradfield and Urmstone. Laura drove into the car park and had no difficulty finding the lorry she was looking for, even before she spotted the driver, who was uncannily like his father, though without Pete Atkinson’s expression of defeat. As she approached, Atkinson leaned over and opened the passenger door to the cab.
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