“If we had a what-d’you-call-it, a telescope? We could see right into Linda Smith’s bedroom,” Craig said, giggling.
“Binoculars,” Ian said. “Binoculars would be better. You know, with two eyes.”
“Oh aye? Like Nazis, clever clogs? Who’s got binoculars round here, then?”
“Birdwatchers do,” Ian muttered. They had gone home empty handed that day and been met with fury when their mothers found their clothes covered with the fine black dust which made the tip so treacherous.
“Those are your school trousers,” Madge Baxter had complained bitterly. “How much do you think I’ve got to spend on washing powder to get them clean again?” Next time, he had thought, he would wear old jeans and make sure to bring some coal back with him to ensure a welcome. Looking back, Ian thought, it was amazing how simply the slide to catastrophe for Craig had begun. He turned over in bed for the twentieth time and eventually fell back into a fitful sleep, as faint fingers of dawn light filtered through the thin curtains.
Laura Ackroyd drove up the Dales with mixed feelings. She had taken Michael Thackeray’s advice reluctantly and called ex-DI Don Hartnett who had agreed, equally reluctantly, she thought, to see
her that afternoon. He had retired to a cottage in a remote corner of Wharfedale, miles from the nearest town but close to one of the reservoirs which fed Pennine water to the cities further south, and offered coveted fishing permits to those who could get their hands on them. When Laura parked outside the low stone cottage she found a man she assumed was Hartnett struggling out of his Wellington boots in the porch. He wiped his muddy hands on his thick tweed trousers and shook Laura’s without enthusiasm.
“If it hadn’t been that Michael Thackeray vouched for you, I’d not have agreed to give you the time of day at all,” he said, his eyes, in a heavy unhealthy looking face, unfriendly. “I’ve normally no time for reporters. Had enough run-ins wi’them when I was in the job to last me a life-time.”
“It was good of you to see me,” Laura said, keeping her voice neutral. Obvious Hartnett had checked her out with CID, but she had no way of knowing if he realised how close she and the DCI had become. Hartnett led her into a cluttered living-room, the state of which indicated clearly enough that there was no Mrs Hartnett extant. Her host took off his heavy waterproof jacket and hung it by the door and then cleared a pile of newspapers from a chair and waved her into it before taking what was obviously his usual seat on the other side of the fireplace where a wood fire smoked sulkily. He poked it with what seemed like unnecessary vigour to stir it into life.
“So what’s going on down there then?” he asked, not bothering to hide his simmering anger. “I’ve seen nowt in t’papers. Someone stirring up trouble over the Andy Fielding case, are they? They’ll get no joy from that, especially after all this time.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Laura said carefully. “Billy Baxter’s lawyer is trying to get the case taken to the Criminal Cases Review people because he’s been turned down for parole three times.”
“I’m not bloody surprised,” Hartnett said. “If I had my way he’d die behind bars, the bastard, though I don’t suppose he will. Has anyone told you exactly what he did to Andy Fielding?”
“Yes,” Laura said quietly. “But the other factor is that someone from the Met is claiming that the police themselves are conducting some sort of cold case review, though DCI Thackeray seems to know nothing about it. I’m told the Met think they’ve got evidence more than one person was involved and they want to find the accessory.”
“Oh aye?” Hartnett said, and his obvious scepticism, in the light of his strong feelings about the case, surprised Laura. “And who would this someone from the Met be, then? I’d not be surprised if Yorkshire had launched a cold case review, and they’d not necessarily tell any beggar didn’t need to know. But the Met? They didn’t investigate up here. Over my dead body.”
“Someone called Ferguson, DS Ferguson? Do you know him?” Hartnett was silent for a moment as he digested the question.
“Oh aye, I know Jim Ferguson,” Hartnett said at last. “Or I knew him, back then. He’s still around, is he? He was Andy Fielding’s best mate when they were in Urmstone. When I said the Met wasn’t involved in the investigation, I’d forgotten about him. He shouldn’t have been involved by rights, but he was so worked up, blamed himself because he said he’d told his mate not to go into the village by himself, that I hadn’t the heart to keep him out of things. Probably a mistake, looking back, but I reckoned if I hadn’t had him on the inside pissing out, he’d have been on the outside pissing in, as the saying goes.”
“You don’t sound as if there was any love lost between you and the Met coppers,” Laura said carefully.
“The miners were out of order,” Hartnett said flatly. “A picket’s one thing, a mob’s another. But a lot of the coppers from the south came up here like an invading army. The strike could have been settled, but it wasn’t, because neither Arthur Scargill nor t’bloody government wanted it settled. So there was a civil war, and nobody wins them.”
Laura digested this unexpected take on the events of 1984 with some surprise. If there had been divisions within the police force at the time, she thought, she had never heard them discussed in all the fierce arguments she had listened to over the years amongst her grandmother’s friends. To those on the other side of the divide the police had evidently appeared monolithic and as hostile as it was possible to be.
“So why did Fielding want to go into the village on his own?” she asked, having revised her impression of Hartnett’s loyalties slightly.
“I always reckoned Andy Fielding had a bit of stuff on the side, though I never got any joy out of that line of inquiry, any more than any other. Tight as clams, they were, every last one of ‘em in Urmstone. And if Ferguson had his suspicions about what was going on, he knew nowt definite. Fielding took no notice, any road. For whatever reason, he went to Urmstone that night and never came back.”
“The investigation wouldn’t be done by the book, then?” Laura said.
“In those circumstances?” Hartnett said angrily. “There wasn’t one of them in that village didn’t know more about what was going on than we did. And not one of them would tell us owt, men, women, even the bloody kids like Baxter’s young brother. If there ever was a book during that strike, it got well and truly torn up in Urmstone after Fielding’s death, believe me. You have no idea the pressure we were under to get a result from the Met lads. The powers that be had to keep them out of Urmstone for the duration and let us local lads handle it. They didn’t think they could be responsible for what might happen if they let them loose anywhere near the village again.”
“But you’re still sure Billy Baxter did it?” Laura persisted. “His brother’s just as sure he’s innocent.” Hartnett snorted derisively.
“What was his name? Ian, wasn’t it? I remember Ian, and his school-mate, Craig. Sharp as tacks, they were. I always reckoned they knew a lot more than they were letting on, but their mothers swore they were at home in bed all that night, and I reckoned that even the two of them together weren’t strong enough to kill a grown man like that, the way it was done. Ian Baxter was a scrawny little lad, though Craig was a bit bigger. They could have been out with the older Baxter lad, but then so could anyone else in the village. The only alibi we ever managed to crack was Billy’s because there were two different versions of who he was with that night, and in the end the jury didn’t believe either of them. The prosecution made a great thing about unreliable witnesses, and Col Randall was never going to be believed, was he, after he went down for chucking a concrete block onto a mini-bus on the motorway? It was a sheer miracle he didn’t kill half a dozen people. They brought him from Strangeways to give evidence in Baxter’s trial. I reckon he wasn’t alone when he ambushed the bus, either, but I never found out who else was in the car with him. That could have been Billy Baxter, for all I know.”
“So you’re not s
urprised the case is being reopened?” Laura asked.
“I’d be surprised if I didn’t know forensics has moved on as far as it has,” Hartnett said. “I guess they’ve found some sort of DNA trace which couldn’t be identified before. If that’s what they’ve got, good luck to them. Someone down there must be sweating if Baxter really did have someone with him that night. Who’s the Senior Invetigating Officer? You say it’s not Michael Thackeray?”
“No, he hadn’t heard anything about a police investigation when I told him about Ian Baxter’s efforts to get the case looked at again. And Baxter only knew about it because DS Ferguson had been to see him in London. And he’d interviewed their original solicitor, who’s trying to get it looked at by the Criminal Cases Review people.”
“Aye, I remember her,” Hartnett said. “Fierce, she was, at the trial, but the jury gave her no credence. As for Jim Ferguson, he’s a loose cannon,” Hartnett said. “Always was. And as I say, he was beside himself when Fielding was killed. If there’s the remotest chance of getting any more satisfaction in that case, you can be sure he’ll be there, shaking every tree in the forest in case summat drops out. He’ll not let it rest if he thinks he can still get a result. But I’d be surprised if the Met’s reopened the case. That should be Yorkshire’s call.”
“Isn’t it just as dangerous to have Ferguson involved now as it was back then. You said you thought twice about having him on the case.”
“Well, that sort of decision’s nowt to do with me now,” Hartnett said. “Thank God. I worked in security for a while after I left the job, but now I’m happy just to catch a few fish, and sup a pint at the local. I’ve seen enough mayhem for eight lifetimes, all told, and I’ve had more than enough. Let Jim Ferguson pursue his vendettas if he must. I want none of it. But I’ll tell you summat for nowt. There’s a lot of coppers who can remember 1984, in London as well as Yorkshire, who’ll not be best pleased if Billy Baxter comes out of prison any time soon. A lot of them would have liked to see him hang back then, if it had still been possible, and they’ll want him to rot in jail for good now. Make no mistake about that. Baxter’s lawyers won’t find it easy to get him out. You can bank on that.”
Laura drove back to Bradfield feeling tired and depressed, not even cheered by the fitful sunshine which dappled the heather covered hillsides with gold. Michael Thackeray had been right, she thought. She wasn’t really fit enough for this sort of expedition, but she did not know how she could tell Ian Baxter, and through him his parents, that she wouldn’t carry on. She felt slightly better after she got home and had a cup of coffee, and decided on one last throw. She called Detective Sergeant Kevin Mower, who sounded faintly surprised when he took the call.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m OK, thanks,” Laura said. “Just tired now, really. I’m over the worst.” It was ironic, she thought, that the injury she had suffered gave her and Thackeray a perfect mask for other things that they did not want to become public knowledge just yet.
“You frightened us all to death,” Mower said.
“I know. I don’t think Michael will ever forgive me, let alone forget. But never mind all that. I wondered if I could pick your brains.”
“What are you up to now?” Mower asked, sounding amused. “I thought you were off work, convalescing, the boss said.”
“I am. This is just a little freelance inquiry,” Laura prevaricated. “Did you ever come across someone called Jim Ferguson in London when you were in the Met. A detective sergeant, apparently. Does it ring any bells.” There was a silence at the other end of the phone.
“The name sounds vaguely familiar,” Mower said at last. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s asking questions about an old Yorkshire murder case,” Laura said. “Something that happened during the miners’ strike in ‘84. A man from Urmstone is still in prison for a particularly nasty killing of a copper. His family still says he’s innocent and Ferguson is apparently just as convinced he’s not only guilty but others may have been involved as well. One way or another it looks as if the death of Andy Fielding is going to be raked up again. It’s a good story for when I get back to work. I’ll need something to keep Ted Grant happy after everything that’s happened. I’ll have been away so long that he’ll have forgotten all about me, and that’s never good in a newsroom.”
“I’ve heard of the case,” Mower said slowly. “It was before my time, of course, but it was one of those horrific cases that festers in people’s memories. Ferguson’s that generation, is he? One of the London coppers who got sent up to the north? And threw their weight about if what you read about that strike is true.”
“He and Fielding both, apparently,” Laura said. “They were thoroughly hated in Urmstone back then and from what I’m told Ferguson is stirring up something similar now. I just thought you might have heard of him when you were in London.”
“The name’s not one I can put a face to,” Mower said. “But I’ll put out a few feelers, if you like. Someone I worked with in CID must know him, I guess. He could still be around if he was a young copper then. He may not be retirement age yet. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can find out. I assume the boss is not too keen on what you’re doing?”
“As always,” Laura admitted. “So thanks, Kevin. You’re a mate.”
“But, Laura,” Mower added quietly. “For God’s sake don’t get involved in anything risky again. That last little episode …”
“I know what you’re saying,” Laura said. “I won’t, I promise. This is something entirely different. It all happened a long time ago. It’s not risky at all.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mower said fervently. “I really do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Laura Ackroyd parked her car the next morning in one of the parking spaces outside the miners’ welfare hall in Urmstone, a dilapidated building with firmly closed double doors and dirty windows, which gave little indication of what must have been its long history as the main social centre for the village when the pit was working. There was no sign of Ian Baxter, who had arranged to meet her there at noon, explaining that he did not want his father disturbed after a bad night.
She settled down to wait, feeling tired after the drive, as Michael Thackeray had warned her she would when she told him it was time to get back behind the wheel. And while she waited, she became even more dispirited as she took in the neglected state of the village. The main street was deserted, apart from a large group of hooded youngsters, boys and girls, who were kicking their heels outside the only shop which seemed to be still open on a concrete parade of boarded up units. She wondered if there had been any respite between the 1980s harrowing of places like Urmstone and the one which was going on now.
Further up the hill, she could see a couple of cars parked outside the Baxters’ house, one of which she recognised as Ian’s. And eventually she saw Baxter himself emerge from the front door and walk slowly down the road towards her. He could not be much older than she was herself, she thought, but this morning he was walking like an old man.
When she had told Michael Thackeray about her interview with ex-DI Don Hartnett, he had obviously hoped that she would drop the story and take his word for it that there had been no miscarriage of justice. But what Hartnett had said had niggled her during a restless night and by the time Thackeray had gone to work, leaving her alone in the flat, feeling slightly queasy as she generally did in the mornings these days, she knew that she would, at the very least, talk to Ian Baxter again.
She unlocked the passenger door and Baxter slid into the seat beside her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“You said you had something to show me?”
“Someone,” Baxter said. “You see that car up there?” He gestured back up the hill and Laura nodded. “It’s Ferguson’s. He’s just sitting there watching the house. God knows what he hopes to gain from that. My mother told him in pretty uncertain terms that he wasn’t to go bothering my father again
. I can only imagine he thinks as I’ve turned up here, I might lead him to something interesting, though what he thinks that might be I can’t imagine.”
“Hasn’t he approached you again since you got here? Said anything?” Laura asked. Baxter shook his head.
“Nothing, apart from the visit to my father, who’s in no fit state to talk to him, as you know. Now he’s just sitting there, watching. Not making any secret of it, just watching. I’ve no idea how long he’s been there, all night for all I know. I don’t think my mother’s noticed, she’s got so much else to think about, but it’s un-nerving to say the least. How can the police afford to keep him there, wasting his time like that.”
“I’ve no idea,” Laura said. “But I might try to find out if you like. Or you could complain of harassment, I suppose.” Baxter slid further down in his seat with a sigh. He looked as tired as he had seemed as she had watched him walking down the hill, his face pale and dark circles under his eyes.
“I haven’t got the energy to get into a wrangle with the police with my father the way he is.” Laura glanced around the village again.
“What happened to the miners’ welfare?” she asked. “I thought those places were the heart and soul of these pit villages.”
“They were. It was,” Baxter said. “It’s still there, just about,” he said, waving towards a dilapidated low building set at right-angles to the main street behind an empty car-park. “You should have seen it during the strike.” He had a vivid memory of the bustle, which used to surround
the hall, a low red brick building with an ornate portico with a reproduction of the NUM banner across the swing doors, its colours cracked and fading now. The place had been the noisy, boozy social centre of Urmstone for generations, and then a war room and feeding station, plastered with defiant slogans and posters throughout the year of the strike. It was, he thought, nothing but a pale shadow now, almost empty most of the time, with no sign of the lively laughing young men who had spent their good wages there when he was a boy.
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