Dust to Dust

by Patricia Hall

  “The riot?” Laura said.

  “Even the newspapers had pictures of it,” Madge said with a flash of anger. “And there were not a lot of sympathy for the miners in most of them usually. Or on t’telly. But that time folk seemed to be shocked.”

  “What happened?” Laura asked.

  “It were a Tuesday night,” Madge said. “It was unusual, that night, and we didn’t realise the significance of that till later. But there was to be a day off picketing on the Wednesday so that the men could go on a fund-raising march the next day. It all seemed to be decided at the last minute, like, but any road by tea-time Vic had packed most of the men into cars and they’d gone off. It were a treat for us women because we knew we didn’t have to get up next morning to get their breakfast ready at crack of dawn. Ken and Billy had gone, Vic too, I think. Any road by ten I’d got Ian and Annie to bed and was just getting undressed myself, for an early night, with the alarm set for seven instead of four in the morning. Looking forward to a lie-in, I was. Even Ian said it would be good not to be wakened up in the middle of the night for once. I’d already guessed he were creeping around in t’night when Billy got up, but I’d not managed to catch him at it. Little beggar.

  “Any road, we didn’t get our decent night’s sleep that night either, as it turned out. I woke up in t’pitch dark, after midnight it turned out, by this clattering sound outside, right loud it was. I couldn’t imagine what were going on. And then there were banging and shouting. I thought for minute the men had come back the worse for drink, though where they’d get the money from for that I couldn’t think. But I got out of bed, and Annie had come running in by this time, right frightened, and we looked out of the window onto t’road, and further down, by t’pithead, we could see blue lights flashing, and there were a lot of coppers in riot gear marching up the hill beating on their shields. Like an invading army, they were. Ian had come into my room by now and the two of them were terrified.”

  “What did they do?” Laura asked, though now Madge had started on her story she had a good idea from TV pictures she had seen at the time while she was away at boarding school. She just had not connected the incident with Urmstone.

  “They split up into groups and started banging on everyone’s front door,” Madge said quietly. “And if you didn’t open it quick enough for their liking they were quite happy to batter it down. I got downstairs fast enough and opened up, but they said nowt. Three or four coppers just

  barged in, straight past me and up the stairs where the kids were still in my bedroom. It were obvious they were looking for the men and when they didn’t find them the whole thing got out of hand. They trashed the whole village, flinging stuff about, ransacking the place, trampling over fences and gardens, galloping police horses up and down t’street. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, turning on t’kids when they didn’t find anything out from t’women. Because we didn’t know owt. But we realised then why the men had gone, and why they hadn’t told us where they were going. Just fund-raising, they said. Not where. By the time they’d finished Annie were hysterical and Ian was flinging himself at these great big louts yelling blue murder. In the end they went, leaving us to pick up the pieces. We just sat on my bed hugging each other until it quietened down and the blue lights stopped flashing. Then we went downstairs and found the front room trashed, and the front door hanging off its hinges. And we got off lightly. Most of the houses and gardens were wrecked, but they’d not found a single picket, not made a single arrest, if that’s what they were planning.

  “Of course, when the men came back next day they were furious. The whole village was in turmoil, complaints flying, poor Tom Becket trying to sooth folk down, though it were nowt to do wi’him. He were as horrified as anyone else, I think. It turned out they were the London coppers, following orders from on high, we reckoned.”

  “But they were outwitted?” Laura said. “Someone warned the NUM?”

  “Someone got a whisper and told Vic,” Madge said. “He never let on who, or how. But someone somewhere had decided to make an example of us, probably because of the motorway thing. They were already sniffing around Urmstone, because we were the closest to that and they’d decided it must have been someone from here.”

  “And it was soon after all that happened that the London copper was killed?” Laura asked.

  “A week later,” Madge said soberly. “Just a week. So you’ll understand why no-one was particularly helpful when more London bobbies came round asking questions . It’s not a nice thing to say, but the general reaction to that killing was good riddance. Even people like my Ken, who never broke a law in his life, clammed up, said nowt. And that’s why I’m telling you all this. Because he’s been talking about it. He’s not said a word for years, and now, the last couple of nights, since Vic went, he’s been going on about it, saying they should have told what they knew.”

  “Surely it’s not something that could have helped Billy?” Laura broke in, appalled.

  “No, no, he would have helped Billy if he could, of course he would,” Madge said fiercely. “He didn’t see owt that would help the lad. But what he and Vic did know, he says, is that one of the cars left late that night, later than the rest.”

  “Does he know who was driving?”

  “No, he doesn’t. Or who was in it. The lads came in to sign on, and then sorted themselves out into the cars outside. Ken and Vic weren’t involved in that, except to pay out petrol money for the drivers. Who each driver took was up to them. But what he reckons is that whoever went in that last car could have had time to kill Fielding and then go off on the picket. One of them, or all of them maybe. And given the fury there was here that week, it’s a miracle only one copper got killed.”

  “Both Roy Atkinson and Col Randall said they took Billy. One of them must be wrong. Could either of them have been the last man to drive off?” Laura asked.

  “Of course they could,” Madge said angrily. “Which is why Ken and Vic never said owt. But Ken swears he doesn’t know who went last, or whether Billy was in that car. Of course, the police wanted to pin Fielding’s murder on Col Randall. It weren’t long after that he was arrested for the motorway attack. They made that stick somehow, but they never managed to implicate him in Fielding’s death. So they picked on our Billy instead because everyone were so anxious to cover everyone else’s back that they overdid it for our Billy. Two of them claimed to have taken him so no-one was believed.”

  Laura sighed. The wall of silence the police had faced here must have been impenetrable and she could imagine the fury of Hartnett and Ferguson when they tried to chip away at it to find the killer of their friend. With Vic Randall dead now, she wondered whether, after all this time, the wall might crumble and what Michael Thackeray might uncover if it did.

  “Does Ken know who tipped your men off about the police raid?” she asked.

  “Not for sure,” Madge said. “Roy Atkinson warned him and Vic to get the men out of the village that night, so they invented this fund-raising trip. But Roy never let on who warned him. Ken reckons it was Tom Becket. It were obvious that he was pretty unhappy about a lot of the stuff that were going on. They moved him away from the village soon after, so that might tell you summat. But no-one knows for sure.”

  “Has Ken told DCI Thackeray about all this?” Laura asked. “It might have a bearing on his investigation. Ken must want Vic’s killer caught.”

  “He’s said nowt so far,” Madge said. “But I told him last night. If Vic was killed because he covered something up back then, Ken’s got to tell them all he knows.”

  “Not just for Vic,” Laura said quietly. “If someone thinks Ken knows something which could implicate someone else in Fielding’s death, he could be at risk too. Have you thought of that?” Madge looked at her, horror-struck.

  “I’d rather not, ” she whispered.

  “I’ll take Joyce home as soon as Ken gets too tired,” Laura said. “The police won’t need us getting under their feet. But
you should get them up here straight away. If Vic’s death really is connected to what went on back then, Ken may need protection. He needs to tell them everything.”

  Laura waited impatiently for Michael Thackeray to come home that night. She had been seething ever since she had dropped a tearful Joyce back home.

  “What’s wrong with this country?” Joyce had complained as Laura saw her safely into the house and turned on the gas fire for her to settle down by. “They talk about a moral compass. This country lost its moral compass back in 1984, and it’s never found it since.”

  “Come on, nan,” Laura has said. “That’s a long time ago.”

  “And do you think we’re not still paying the price? That woman stamped on dissent and promoted naked greed. And look where it’s got us.” Laura knew her grandmother would never be placated and began to regret taking her to see the Baxters, where the legacy of past wrongs was still so raw. But she had done her best to settle her down for the evening, and gone home in a turmoil of her own. What, she wondered, had Michael Thackeray witnessed back then, even if at a distance, and how far did he now regret what had been done.

  When Thackeray finally came home, he found Laura slumped on the settee, dozing in front of the TV with its sound muted. She looked at him with an expression her could not read as he sat down beside her and put his arm around her.

  “What have you been doing to get so tired again?” he asked. “This is the second time I’ve found you almost asleep. You know it’s not good for you.” She had a scarf above her sweater and he eased it away from her neck to reveal the scar with the imprint of the stitches it had needed still clearly visible.

  “If you’d lost only a little more blood, I’d have lost you,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Please, please take care.” Laura smiled wryly. All her plans to accuse him of the sins of the 1984 were blown away by his evident concern.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Joyce got into a bit of a state after she’d seen Ken. It took a while to calm her down.”

  “How is he?” Thackeray asked. The question jerked Laura thoroughly awake.

  “Has Madge Baxter not been in touch with you?” she asked. “She said she would be.”

  “It seems to me that the Baxter family are still not too keen on talking to the police, one way and another. I thought Vic Randall was Ken’s best friend.” Laura sighed.

  “You need to talk to them all again,” she said. “That was obvious from what Madge told us this afternoon. I didn’t talk to Ken directly but she agreed with us that he ought to talk to you about things which might be relevant to Vic’s death. He’s not well, Michael. You need to move quickly there. Joyce seemed to be convinced that he not got long to go. I think she’d said her goodbyes, that’s why she was so upset when she got home.” Thackeray pulled away from Laura and got out his mobile phone and punched in a number.

  “Kevin Mower is still at the incident room,” he said. “I’ll get him to go round there now.” When he had finished, he turned back to Laura.

  “Are you really all right?” he asked. Laura shrugged.

  “Madge Baxter told us about the night the London coppers ran riot through the village,” she said. “I didn’t realise it had happened so close to the night PC Fielding was killed. You weren’t there then, were you?”

  “I told you. I was only there for a week or so earlier on,” Thackeray said.

  “But you knew what happened when they came looking for the pickets?”

  “Of course,” Thackeray said. “Everyone knew what happened. And a lot of people were not best pleased, even the top brass, so we heard. But it was all smoke and mirrors. The policing of the strike was not being organised locally. We all knew that. Orders were coming from London and I guess if they went in hard that night they were authorised to do it. But what do I know? I was a rookie, a probationer, twenty two years old and still wet behind the ears.”

  “It didn’t make you wonder if you’d chosen the right career?” Laura asked angrily.

  “Of course it did. I know a few coppers who got out round about that time. But miles away, up in Ainsdale, where the most exciting thing to happen that year was a truck carrying sheep to market turning over on the Clitheroe road, it was all rumour and counter-rumour. We didn’t believe everything we read in the newspapers…”

  “A lot of the newspapers weren’t reporting what was really going on anyway,” Laura objected. “It didn’t suit their take on events. But there were some TV pictures of the police in Urmstone. I remember. I saw them.”

  “And a lot of the allegations were denied. You know what it’s like in these situations. One side says one thing and the other side says another. It’s all spin and propaganda.” Laura smiled faintly.

  “Joyce gave me a Coal not Dole badge that summer and I wore it when I went back to school,” she said. “It didn’t go down well. My form mistress confiscated it and gave me a real dressing down. Nice young ladies didn’t get involved with things like that, she said. Joyce would have given her a hard time if she’d known. It’s a funny thing about those posh girls’ schools. Boys’ schools boast about how many alumni they have in high places. Girls’ schools tell parents what good marriages the girls make. But I was very young. I opted for a quiet life. It was the first triumph of spin-doctoring, wasn’t it? And they got away with it.”

  “The miners didn’t help themselves,” Thackeray said. “Ten years earlier they’d had the country behind them. In ‘84 they blew it.”

  “And now it’s come back to haunt them.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Thackeray said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ian Baxter drove back up the motorway towards Urmstone with very mixed feelings. The date had not yet been set for Vic Randall’s funeral, but what his mother did have was two visiting orders which would enable him and Laura Ackroyd to go to see his brother Billy in prison. Laura had sounded hesitant when he had called her to tell her the news, but he was fairly certain that he had persuaded her to come with him. But he was sure that he was leaving behind him a less than happy wife, a baby he could hardly bear to kiss goodbye again, and puzzled colleagues at work, all anxious about the deteriorating situation in the north.

  “Surely they can’t think you stabbed this man,” Carrie had said incredulously. But Ian could do no more than shrug.

  “I have no idea. The police don’t have a very good record of getting it right in Urmstone. I suppose they could get it wrong again.” Baxter had not felt especially threatened by the officers who had been drafted in from Bradfield, but he could not forget the malevolence in Jim Ferguson’s eyes as he had assaulted him outside the shops. Even if he was no longer in the force, Baxter wondered how much weight his word might still carry with DCI Thackeray. Once a cop, always a cop, might be the rule, he thought, and it was absolutely certain that Ferguson intended to stir up as much trouble as he could even before Randall’s death. The possibility of doing that was even more threatening now.

  Baxter stopped at a service station in the Midlands and after a coffee, sat in the car for a while, trying to let the tension he felt drain away. Funerals, he thought, looked like piling on the agony for everyone in the village. Vic’s could not be long delayed, and he was sure his father’s would quickly follow. His mother did not seem to have much hope that Ken would see the spring. As he half dozed in the warm air, he remembered the first funeral he had been too, insisting with the total conviction of a fourteen year old who believes he is always right, that he would not only go to Stevie Atkinson’s interment but would walk in the procession behind the hearse to the bleak little Wesleyan chapel on the hill behind the village alongside his best friend, Craig. They had been together on the tip when Stevie died, he had told his parents angrily, and they should be together, side-by-side, behind the small white coffin on its final journey, and nothing they said about not being “family” would change his mind.

  The two boys had put on their school uniform, brushing their blazers and combing their hair in a way they
would never have bothered to do on a school day. They had carefully pinned on their prized array of strike badges, which were not permitted in school, and as the Atkinson family had left the house, Ian had fallen into step beside Craig, both with their heads held high, both fighting back the tears.

  It was a day he would never forget, every street lined three deep with miners and their families from the village and far beyond as the cortege and its straggling procession wound its way slowly up the hill led by the hearse and the colliery brass band. The chapel was packed with mourners and a loudspeaker relayed the service to those who stood outside. And then there was the burial, conducted in driving sleet and a bitter wind which blew the minister’s words away like so much chaff.

  Brenda and Pete Atkinson had stood by the grave dry-eyed, their faces white and set above upturned collars and thick scarves, shoulders back as if on parade. Roy had looked flushed and angry even in the chapel, unable to stand still, and Ian guessed that he had already been drinking. Craig had stood beside him, white and pinched in the cold, and with tears flowing so freely that Ian had awkwardly handed him a handkerchief to wipe his snotty nose as the first shovels of earth hit the coffin with a hollow thud.

  Later, back at the welfare, where the men were already queuing at the bar for their pints and their families sat mute at the tables where plates of sandwiches were disappearing into the mouths of hungry children, Ian and Craig had slipped away, ostensibly to the gents but in fact out into the back yard, where beer barrels and empty crates were stacked, to take a few surreptitious drags at a cigarette. There had been no police in the village that day, but they still loomed large in

  Craig’s mind.

  “We’d never have gone up there in t’dark if it weren’t for bloody coppers,” he had said, shivering uncontrollably as he tried to puff smoke in what he reckoned was an adult way.

  “Give us a go, it’s my turn,” Ian had said, holding out his hand.