“How long d’you think it takes for t’worms to eat you up, like in t’song?” Craig had muttered. Ian had shuddered.
“God knows,” he said, not wanting to dwell on the next verses.
“How long to turn into a skeleton?” Craig persisted.
“I don’t fucking know, do I?” Ian remembered protesting.
“I thought you were t’brainy one,” Craig had shot back, the contempt that grew later already there. “It’s all mouth wi’you.”
“Stevie’d still be alive if them coppers had moved a bit faster,” Ian countered. “They were too bloody slow.”
“D’you reckon?”
“I reckon.” And there they had left it, distracted soon after by Craig’s heavyweight brother, Roy, who had come out of the back door to chivvy them inside for the unprecedented treat of Coke and crisps, things that had barely been seen since the strike began. But it was a moment which had stayed with Ian because he knew it had stayed with Craig. From the day the whole village had turned out to bury Stevie Atkinson, un-policed but watched by a gaggle of reporters and photographers, Craig’s attitude had hardened. From a family where enthusiasm for the strike had been less than whole-hearted, he became, like Ian himself, a fierce supporter of the older men, desperate to persuade both their brothers to take them picketing, always ready to jeer at the police, never finding a good word to say even for the hapless local PC Tom Becket who had struggled to pump air back into Stevie’s clogged airways and had only given up when the ambulance men had pulled him away from what was obviously a hopeless task.
Ian wondered whether Craig had ever run into Fielding or his friend Ferguson again later. He would not have flinched from hurling abuse in their direction, given the chance, maybe even accusing them of killing his brother. Everything had got more serious after Stevie died, Ian thought, and he still did not find it possible to say just how deep Craig’s bitterness had run. As far as murder? Unlikely, perhaps. But as far as covering up for a murderer? Quite possibly. Had he taken the path to the woods that morning past the body deliberately, wanting to show off something he already knew was there? And if Craig had been covering up, who had he been covering up for?
Ian shook himself awake, feeling the coffee begin to stimulate his brain into motion again. He started the car and began to ease out of his parking space. It was unlikely, he thought, that he would ever know the answers to the questions which still tormented him about Craig Atkinson, however much the answers might help Billy. Craig was long gone and unlikely to come back now, especially if he thought that old murder case might be reopened and he did, in reality, have something to hide.
Laura had never visited anyone in prison before, and was bemused by the long queues, the miserable children and the endless searches before she and Ian were finally allowed to take their seats opposite a tall, gaunt man, in a track suit and an orange bib, who looked years older than he should have done. His face was sallow and his hair, naturally fair and cut cruelly short, was almost white at the temples. He gazed at his two visitors impassively for a moment before addressing himself to his brother.
“Long time, Ian,” he said. Ian Baxter glanced away, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s a long way to come. We have a baby now. I expect mam told you.”
“Aye, I suppose it’s a long way,” Billy said. “And who’s this? Not your wife then?” Laura felt his bleak eyes rake over her, assessing her from head to toe, without enthusiasm.
“She’s a friend who’s helping with our efforts to get you out of here,” Ian said hurriedly. “She works for the local paper in Bradfield. She’s been great.” Billy’s expression did not change as he turned back to his brother, his mouth a thin line.
“So what’s all this about Vic Randall? I spoke to our mam on t’phone last night. What the hell’s going on?” Quickly and quietly, Ian told his brother what had happened the previous weekend in Urmstone. When he had finished Billy sat silently for a moment and then sighed.
“Poor old beggar,” he said at length. “Dad must be devastated. Must bring everything back.”
“He is, and it does,” Ian said shortly. “It’s likely to kill him as well, as far as I can see, though mam would never admit it.”
“And I suppose t’village is full of bloody coppers again? Mam said you found the body. You want to watch it or they’ll have you in the frame this time. Have they asked for your DNA an’all?”
“They’ve asked,” Ian admitted but quietly, very aware of the warders posted strategically around the visiting room. “But why on earth would I want Vic Randall dead? But I did wonder if you knew who would. As far as we can see, the police are at least looking at the theory that his death may have something to do with what happened in ‘84. In which case, it could affect you, maybe come up with something new on your case, even after all this time.”
“To be honest, I’ve given up on that,” Billy said. “I told your friend Miriam last time I saw her. I’ll settle for simply getting out of here because I’ve served my time. Proving or disproving summat that happened so long ago’s a bloody forlorn hope, Ian. She’s my solicitor, not yours. She’ll have to do what I tell her. I told mam that, an’all. You’re wasting your time. Innocent or guilty, it’s all the same to me now. I just want out.”
“But there’s at least a chance that the police will dig up something new as they investigate Vic Randall’s death,” Laura objected.
“It’s water under t’bridge as far as I’m concerned, lass,” Billy insisted. Laura glanced at Ian Baxter and was not surprised to see that he looked devastated by his brother’s mood. For him, it was obvious that the chance to prove Billy’s innocence was just as important as actually gaining him parole. The two were inextricably linked in his mind and, she knew, in the minds of their parents. Nothing less would do.
“But you still gave a DNA sample when they asked for one?” she countered.
“Aye, Miriam thought it were a good idea and if police want it too, it’s no skin off my nose. I know I weren’t anywhere near Fielding’s body, so they can’t match it to owt.”
“Which is why Miriam wanted it. It could be the bit of extra evidence you need,” Ian said.
“Only if they’ve found summat from the site after all these years which tells ‘em summat different. Is that possible?” Billy asked sceptically.
Ian glanced at Laura, with a warning in his eyes. There were aspects of the DNA evidence he clearly did not want to discuss with Billy, especially, she thought, the fact that he and Craig had found the body and told no-one for all these years. And in this particular case, she knew that DNA might work in all sorts of unexpected ways, possibly implicating more than one family member. She knew that brothers could have very similar DNA.
“I really don’t know what they’ve found,” he said. “I know they want mine because I found Vic’s body. To rule me out, they say. But I reckon they’re just as keen to rule me in.”
“Did you really not remember whose car you went in that night?” Laura asked Billy, anxious to change the subject.
“Dad says that they knew in the office that one of the cars set off later than the others but they were never sure which one,” Ian said. “And the records which might have told them have apparently disappeared.” Billy shrugged.
“I were pretty far gone that morning,” he said. “I’d taken a pasting the previous day and drunk more than I should. I could hardly get out of bed.”
“I remember,” Ian said. “I watched you struggling to get your clothes on.”
“I reckoned if I said I got into the first car which had space for me, without really knowing who I were with, it would stop anyone else getting in trouble. One of us in t’dock were enough, I thought. And then when Col and Roy both claimed they’d taken me, I were stuck. If I said one, not the other, they’d be in there trying to implicate the driver an’all. So I said nowt.”
“And dad and Vic said nowt,” Ian echoed bitterly. “Not even to get you out of
trouble.”
“It wouldn’t have got me out of trouble,” Billy said. “Those bastards had decided I was going down for it, whatever. It would just have got someone else in deep. It were for t’best. And by the time we got to the trial, Col had gone down himself, for t’motorway job, so I didn’t want to heap any more on his plate, did I?”
“You went with Col?” Laura asked.
“Aye, and old Tom.”
“Who’s dead now?”
“Aye, so I heard. Shot himself after t’pit closed. He were a great one for going out rabbiting, were Tom, but I reckon he didn’t fancy making a career of it, at his age. Can’t say I blame him.”
“And were you in the last car to leave?” Laura persisted.
“No, not that I recall. I think Roy Atkinson’s car were still there when we left. It’s all a bit hazy. Ian were right. I shouldn’t have gone out that night. But I don’t think we were t’last car out. I reckon Roy were behind us, though who he had with him, I’ve no idea.” Ian Baxter let out his breath noisily.
“After all this time,” he whispered. “You could have cleared yourself.”
“Happen,” Billy said carelessly. “And landed Roy in it maybe? What sort of choice was that?”
“Tell the police now,” Ian said fiercely.
“No,” Billy said. “And you won’t either. Not a word. Understand? Leave well alone.” Ian met his brother’s implacable eyes for a moment and then glanced away.
“If you say so,” he said helplessly.
Ian Baxter drove Laura Ackroyd back to Bradfield in almost total silence. Both were preoccupied with their own thoughts. But when Baxter pulled up outside Laura’s flat, she turned to him with a wan smile.
“We’ll have to talk to the police,” she said. “You haven’t told them about finding the body, have you? And now there’s all this stuff from Billy. You can’t keep that to yourself.” Baxter looked at her with eyes full of anxiety.
“Billy won’t like that,” he said. “He’ll be furious.”
“And the police won’t like it if you hide things from them,” she said. “You already reckon you’re on their list of suspects for Vic Randall’s murder. If you’re not open with them you’ll go right to the top of the list, Ian. Believe me.”
“I thought you were in this for your newspaper. You sound more like a copper yourself now.”
“You know I want to write about this,” Laura said. “But I can’t conceal what might be important information in a murder case. In the beginning this was about putting a miscarriage of justice right, and it was quite obvious that the police weren’t very interested in that. In fact, some people were positively antagonistic to what we were doing. But Vic’s death changes everything. You know that. And if we’ve found out anything which could be relevant to DCI Thackeray’s investigation, we’re going to have to tell him.”
Baxter gazed out of the car window for a moment so that Laura could not see his face, and then shrugged slightly.
“You know, I’ve been a lawyer now for twenty years and I’ve never realised how much I distrust the police. Of course, it all goes back to ‘84. Occasionally, in my dreams, I’m sometimes back in the house the night the coppers broke in, just me and my mother and sister, and of course I felt I had to protect them. But I couldn’t. I was screaming at them to leave us alone, trying to get between them and my mam. One big thug picked me up and threw me across the room when they discovered that my father and brother weren’t there. When I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a uniformed copper since then without a shudder. I suppose that’s why I didn’t go into criminal law. I couldn’t have stood being so close to them every day in court. I couldn’t have ever fully believed what they said. I suppose the honest truth is, deep down I hate them all, with the possible exception of old Tom Becket, who was close to my father and Vic back during the strike. I’ve always thought it must have been him warned someone that the Met were coming in mob-handed that night and gave Vic time to get the men away. But apart from Tom, I have to admit I don’t trust one of them.” Laura winced slightly.
“Ian, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “It wasn’t relevant when we started all this, but it certainly is now.” He waited as she hesitated.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you this before, but DCI Thackeray and I are an item,” Laura said carefully. “We have been for a long time and now we’re expecting a baby. I’m going to have to tell him everything we’ve learned if you won’t - not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because if I don’t, I don’t think my life will be worth living when he finds out. I’ve no choice.”
Baxter looked at her, his face white with shock.
“I trusted you,” he said quietly, but there was venom in the words. “I confided in you. I invited you to meet my family. I thought you were that contradiction in terms, an honest journalist. What a fool I was.”
“I’m sorry,” Laura said. “I really am.. Who I was living with wasn’t really relevant when we started out, but now..?” She shrugged helplessly. “It’s suddenly got a lot more complicated and a lot more unpleasant. Your father’s friend Vic Randall is dead, Ian. You have to help the police, you have to tell them everything, for everyone’s sake, and not least your own.” Baxter leaned across her and opened the passenger door.
“I don’t think we’ll be wanting to see you in Urmstone again,” he said. “You can tell your copper what you like. I really don’t care. You may not believe it, in fact it’s pretty obvious that you don’t, but I’ve nothing to hide, Laura. Nothing from back during the strike, when I was just a kid, and nothing now. I want Vic Randall’s killer caught, and if Billy really is innocent, as I believe he is, I want PC Fielding’s killer caught as well. That’s what justice is about, though there wasn’t much in evidence during that strike. But I’ll not be manipulated by you, that’s for certain. You’d
better go.” Her mouth dry, and her eyes pricking, Laura got out of the car.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, and slammed the door as Baxter drove away at speed.
“Damn and blast,” she said to herself as she let herself into the Victorian house where she and Thackeray shared the ground-floor flat, knowing that she still had to face what was likely to be another angry man. “I really have mucked it up this time.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
If Ian Baxter had hoped to be left in peace with his parents the next morning, he was soon disappointed. He had got up early and sat for a while alone in the sunlit kitchen trying to make some sense of his disordered thoughts. The anxieties which had plagued him during the night receded slightly in the daylight and by the time his mother came downstairs to join him he had decided what he had to do. Angry as he was with Laura Ackroyd, he knew that what she had said to him the previous day made sense. He knew he would have to talk to the police again.
“I have to get home again soon,” he said to his mother when she appeared to pour a cup of tea for Ken, muffled in her shabby dressing gown. “I’ll come back for Vic’s funeral, but there’s no knowing when that will be. The coroner won’t release the body before the police are ready. But before I go I’ll have to talk to the police again.”
“I can still barely believe he’s gone,” Madge said. “If you know owt at all that can help them catch who did it, you must tell the coppers. They’re not the enemy now, like they were back then.” Squaring her shoulders, she took the tea into the sickroom next door and Ian listened to the murmur of voices as she made his father comfortable. But when she returned Madge looked even less happy than she had before.
“His breathing’s right bad this morning,” she said. She glanced back at the door and lowered her voice. “Vic’s might not be the only funeral we see soon.”
“Mam,” Ian protested faintly, although he guessed she was right. “You’ve got to stay cheerful for dad’s sake.” Madge gave him a faint smile.
“Aye, you’re right,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve been here any road,
in spite of all the trouble there’s been in t’village. And I’m glad you managed to see Billy yesterday. He must have been pleased about that.” Pleased might be an exaggeration, Baxter thought, but he did not want to add to his mother’s anxieties by telling her what Billy had revealed during his visit. All Madge was interested in was his release, and he could offer her nothing very optimistic on that front yet. When he got home he must quiz Miriam Feldman, he thought, and find out how much Billy had told her of his unexpected recollections of the night PC Fielding was killed. But his mother put a hand on his arm, looking worried.
“I’ve not wanted to bother your dad, but I’ve been getting funny phone calls,” she said.
“What do you mean, funny phone calls,” Ian asked.
“Sometimes, just silence, and once or twice someone saying they’ll get us in the end, summat like that. You know I’m not easily scared, but I didn’t like it.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I didn’t want to bother them with summat so silly,” Madge said. “It’ll be someone having a joke. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’ll report it to the police,” Ian said, but even before he had finished his breakfast with his mother, there was a knock on the front door and he found himself face-to-face with Sergeants Kevin Mower and Tom Becket, and anonymous phone calls went out of his head. Mower did not waste words.
“We heard you’d got back, Mr Baxter,” he said. “Convenient really, as DCI Thackeray would like you to come with us to the incident room to answer some more questions about what happened on Saturday. Would you like to get a coat?”
“Are you arresting me,” Baxter asked, his mouth dry.
“You’ll just be helping us with our inquiries,” Mower said, but the “for now” he didn’t utter was clear enough.
Baxter got his coat, reassured his mother as best he could, and walked down the hill to the police house with the two officers, attracting a few curious glances from passers-by, and soon found himself sitting in the harsh electric light of an interview room across the table from DCI Michael Thackeray and Sergeant Mower. Becket, he guessed, had been dismissed as likely to be too sympathetic to their interviewee. The DCI had given him no more than a nod of greeting as he came in, and Baxter knew that this interview would be a lot tougher than the last if Laura Ackroyd
Dust to Dust Page 16