“He just told me he were a mate o’t’dead copper, Fielding, and tried to imply that I’d been involved in that business an’all. In the end I told him to get stuffed, but I reckoned he’d just go back and tell someone senior I’d lost my rag and the whole thing would start all over again.”
“Well, as far as I know he hasn’t got anyone senior to report back to, but the man’s a menace. In fact the whole thing’s getting out of hand. I spent half the morning with the police and I reckon they’ve got me down for killing your dad. They’ve taken my DNA and fingerprints, but there’s no way they’ll prove anything from that. I found the body and that’s all.”
“Bloody hell,” Col said. “You’d think this village had been through enough without all this. Who the hell would take a knife to my dad, for God’s sake? He were an old man who’d lost all the battles that mattered to him, though he’d never admit it. Who’d want him dead now? I thought it must be a robbery gone wrong. There’s enough beggars round here looking for the price of their next fix.”
“Yes, I’ve met a few of them, the hard way,” Ian said. “They lifted my cards and wallet the other day. But the police don’t seem to be treating your father’s death as a robbery. They seem convinced it was connected to the strike, though I don’t know what evidence they’ve got for that. Either way, the back door was unlocked when I went round there looking for him. There was no sign of a break in.”
“The daft beggar used to leave it open half the time,” Col said. “I’d told him about it, but he still thought he were living in t’nineteen eighties. But how can I get this bastard Ferguson off my back? That’s what I wanted to ask you? Because I swear of he comes round to mine again I’ll beat seven kinds of shit out of him. Right funny questions he were asking, an’all. Not just about the blokes during the strike, but what the women got up to an’all.”
“The women?”
“Were any of them sleeping around? I bloody nearly thumped him. You want to watch him. He’ll be wanting to know who your mam fancied next.”
“You did say that you saw someone getting out of Fielding’s car one night. Could that have been a woman?” Col looked surprised.
“You think he could have had a bird in t’village? Surely not. She’d have been torn apart if anyone had found out.”
“Or Fielding would,” Ian said slowly. “And Fielding was. If he’d been playing Jack-the-lad, maybe that was why someone killed him. It wasn’t political after all.”
“There’s summat else, an’all,” Col said reluctantly. “And I don’t know how to tell you this.” Ian looked at him, suspicion in his eyes and his heart thumping.
“It were summat my dad told me. He were trying to protect me, he said, but I reckon he might have made it worse for your Billy.”
“And how could he do that?” Ian asked, his mouth dry.
“He tore the page out of the book they kept the records in, who went out, what time they went, all that, the page the police never found…”
“To cover up for you?” Ian asked, horrified.
“To muddy the waters, he reckoned,” Col whispered. “To cover up for all of us who went out late that night.”
“Which was who?”
“Me, Billy, old Tom, Roy and whoever Roy took in his car, if he took anyone. You’ll have to ask Roy about that. We were all milling about a good ten, fifteen minutes after t’rest of lads drove off, arguing the toss about summat. I can’t even remember what. You know your Billy were late. He weren’t the only one.”
“And did your dad say what he did with this information?”
“He said he burnt it,” Col said miserably. “I tackled him, way back, when he came to see me in jail, when Billy were making his first appeal, because I knew new evidence might help him, but he said it were long gone. But I did wonder when he were killed if someone had come looking for it.”
“Did my dad know about this?” Ian asked sharply.
“No, I don’t reckon so. He’d have been furious wi’Vic, wouldn’t he? They’d never have stayed friends all these years, would they, if Ken thought my dad had made it worse for Billy? He can’t have known.”
“But someone who knew it had existed might have been keen to find it now, even after all this time, because of the way everything’s been reopened,” Ian said slowly.
“Ferguson?” Col said. “I’d put my money on that bastard.”
“He was a copper,” Ian said faintly, knowing that in this case Ferguson’s former career meant nothing.
“Nowt to say he couldn’t be a killer too,” Col said. “It’d not be t’first time.”
“We’ll have to tell the police all this,” Ian said. Col looked at him for a long time and then nodded reluctantly.
“You’re right,” he said. “Though it goes against the grain to give those bastards the time of day. I’ll come over after work tomorrow and we’ll go together. Right?”
“Right,” Ian said. “I was hoping to get back home again but I’ll have to be be here with my mam until my dad’s over the worst. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“The Atkinsons,” DCI Michael Thackeray said explosively to Sergeant Kevin Mower halfway through the next morning. “They’re the great gaping hole in the middle of this investigation.” He had got to Urmstone later than he had wanted to, after another stormy evening with Laura and a pretty sleepless night. When she had told him about her prison visit to Billy Baxter with his brother he had not been happy.
“When I asked you to keep out of Urmstone, I meant keep out of the case,” he had said angrily. “We can’t have these conflicts of interest all the time. It’s not safe. You’re getting far too close to someone I’m investigating, and that’s dangerous for both of us. You must see that, Laura.”
“I know, but I promised I’d go with him,” Laura said. “I wasn’t in the village getting in your way. The man’s in Strangeways, for goodness sake. I wanted to see this guy who’s supposed to be innocent, to see if I believed him.”
“You can’t make those sorts of judgments on the basis of a prison visit,” Thackeray said with an edge of contempt in his voice. “He’s had more than twenty years to hone his sob story. And he’s not convinced the appeal court or the parole board in all that time. You’re being over-emotional, Laura.”
“The campaign for Billy Baxter is a good story,” Laura had said, her expression obstinate.
“But it’s now impinging on a new murder case,” Thackeray said flatly. “Leave it to your colleagues at the Gazette, please Laura.”
“Bob Baker?” Laura said. “He’ll be even more of a pain than I am.” She had never held her paper’s crime reporter in high regard and she knew there was not a police officer in West Yorkshire who did, so she was on firm ground there.
“You’re not at work, you’re on sick leave,” Thackeray had snapped. “And you’re pregnant. You can’t get involved. You really can’t.” But they had not resolved the argument and when Thackeray had left home this morning, with Laura facing another day of enforced idleness, he wondered nervously what stratagem she could find next to pursue her inquiries. By the time he reached the incident room in Urmstone and had read through the overnight reports, he was as edgy as Mower had seen him in a long time.
“Right, guv, the Atkinsons?” the sergeant said soothingly, after waiting for some minutes while his boss seemed to concentrate on his next move.. “I’ve got someone chasing up Craig – employment records, passport, national insurance, tax – but so far there’s no trace, apparently. The family keep saying they think he must have emigrated, but there’s no record of a passport in his name. He was on his mother’s when he was a kid and they had a couple of holidays in Spain, but he doesn’t seem to have applied for one as an adult. I reckon he’s dead, and has been for some time, but we can’t find a death certificate either.”
“And the mother? What’s her name? Brenda?”
“Ah, yes, Brenda. I was planning to go to see Brenda later today, guv. She left Pete soon after Roy got marr
ied and Craig went wherever he went. First stop for her was a builder in Bradfield, but that didn’t last. He seems to have gone bust and that didn’t suit Brenda any more than an unemployed miner did. She’s shacked up with a bloke in Pontefract now, apparently. I’ve got the address somewhere…”
“Right, pin her down,” Thackeray said. “She wasn’t a supporter of the strike so her take on
what happened should be different. And find out if she’s ever heard anything from Craig. Now what about the other brother, what’s his name? Roy?”
“He seems to be the only one who’s got his life on track,” Mower said. “As I say, he got married in ‘87, ‘88, something like that, after the mine closed, retrained, got a house at the other end of the village, and a job with a long distance haulier. Still with the same wife, still in the same job, kids in their teens now.”
“Have we interviewed him?”
“Not yet. He left late Saturday for Turkey. Not due back until Friday, his boss says. He was a bit miffed we were wanting to talk to him. Good worker, he says, reliable, one of the best.”
“Well, we all know that the most normal looking people can suddenly flip,” Thackeray said.
“Pillars of society, even,” Mower said. “How is Laura, by the way? Is she fully recovered.”
“Not quite, I don’t think, but she finds it hard to rest. She’s very anxious to get back to work.” Thackeray turned away, making it obvious that Mower had overstepped the boundaries of his privacy, which he set tight and very close. Mower shrugged.
“I’ll get off to see Brenda Atkinson then,” he said.
Sergeant Kevin Mower gritted his teeth as he manoeuvred down the M62 motorway past two solid lanes of trucks heading towards Hull. Pontefract lay on the eastern edge of the coalfield, an old red-brick market town, dominated by its castle, and more renowned for its traditional liquorice confectionery than for its pits. He eventually found the former Brenda Atkinson’s new home on an estate of new “executive” houses on the eastern edge of the town, the windows protected by drapes of nylon net and the double garage doors open to reveal one empty space and a black Saab convertible with a very recent numberplate. Very nice, he thought as he parked on the gravelled drive outside and made his way to the front door and rang a carillon of bells.
“Mrs Peters?” he asked, when a very well-built woman in a short black skirt and a revealing silk blouse came to the door. “Formerly Mrs Atkinson from Urmstone?” He flashed his warrant card in her direction as the second question clearly did not meet with the woman’s approval.
“What of it?” she asked, her voice shrill and her expression immediately intransigent. “I’ve left that bloody dump behind years ago, thank God.” But it hasn’t left you behind, dear, Mower thought uncharitably, before trying her with his most sincere expression and a flashing smile. He was a good-looking man, dark-haired and with a natural tan, and knew how to use his assets as well as any woman when needs must.
“I don’t know whether you know, but there’s been another murder in Urmstone,” he said. “Vic Randall has been killed, and we would be really grateful for your take on what went on in the village all those years ago, in case it has a bearing on the present case.” As Mower expected, Brenda Peters softened slightly to the flattery and invited him in. She led him into a large sitting room, with two well cushioned sofas each side of a stone fireplace, and waved him into a seat. She had done pretty well for herself, Mower thought, thinking of the red-brick rows most of the miners had lived in, and aware of her self-satisfaction as she lowered her considerable bulk into the cushions beside him and crossed her legs. He glanced at the dyed blond hair and the expensive rings on her fingers and smiled.
“You seem to have landed on your feet, though, after leaving Urmstone” he said admiringly.
“Third time lucky,” she said complacently. “Les does all right for himself. He’s in debt collecting. There’s a boom on just now.”
“And you don’t see your former husband, or your son Roy at all?”
“I hear from Roy now and again. He used to bring t’kids to see me when they were smaller but they’re teenagers now, so they don’t bother. I’ve not seen Pete since the day I left him and filed for divorce. As far as I know he’s on t’skids. He were a bloody waste of space, that man.” Mower nodded non-noncommittally.
“Did you know Vic Randall had been killed,” he asked.
“Les brought us a copy o’t’Bradfield Gazette home with him one day. He spotted it and thought I’d be interested.” She shrugged, an action which caused disturbing undulations beneath her blouse.
“I suppose you know I wasn’t Vic Randall’s favourite person back then. I used to tell him where he could put Arthur Scargill and all his works. The men couldn’t see it, but I knew that woman would win when they didn’t ballot properly. They were wasting their time, right from t’start, weren’t they? What was it she used to say? The lady’s not for turning. Well, she weren’t, and I lost two sons as a result of that stupid strike. I never want to see Urmstone again, and that’s a fact.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Peters,” Mower said. “But I think there may still be one or two things that you can help me with, even after all this time.”
“Like what?” Brenda asked, her blue eyes slightly anxious now.
“We’d like to trace your son, Craig,” Mower said, and watched as her face disintegrated finally into creases which aged her in seconds. “Have you any idea where he is? No-one else seems to have heard from him for years.”
“I wish,” Brenda Peters said, her voice becoming husky. “I’ve heard nowt from Craig since he buggered off. You’d think he’d give us a call now and again, wouldn’t you? I told that other copper who came round that I’d no idea where he is, but I don’t reckon he believed me.”
“Which copper was that?” Mower asked quickly.
“Some beggar from London. Ferguson, is it? He were here during t’strike an’ all. I remember him. A right bully he was then, and still is. I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him without my husband here, I can tell you. But Les saw him off. He’s used to it, in his line of work.”
“You remember Ferguson from ‘84?” Mower asked, surprised.
“He were a friend of t’lad who were killed, weren’t he? They were in t’village together for a while. I thought everyone knew that.” Mower nodded cautiously.
“In uniform, you mean?” he asked.
“Once or twice, yes, sometimes not. I never knew what they were up to,” Brenda said. “Him and Andy Fielding were there on duty the night our Stevie died. That’s how I got to know them.”
“And later?” Mower asked very quietly, knowing how thin the ice was beneath his feet. Brenda glanced away and Mower suspected that there were tears in her eyes.
“I suppose it’s all water under t’bridge now,” she said. “I had a little fling, not wi’ him, with Andy. He were a right good-looking lad and I always had a soft spot for them. I used to meet him away from t’village, and he’d be in plain clothes so no-one knew he were a copper. It didn’t last long. He were killed before it got serious. Not that it would of, any road. He had a fiancee back in London, he told me, but he hardly ever saw her, the hours they were working then.”
“You were taking a hell of a risk, weren’t you?” Mower asked.
“Aye well, there weren’t much fun in Urmstone that year. No-one had tuppence to rub together and the coppers were coining it. Loads o’money, as they used to say. It were just a bit of fun. If it hadn’t been for him I’d have been in pieces after Stevie went. He were a bonny lad, were Andy, and generous with it. Ferguson knew about it, and didn’t like it, for some reason. He and Andy were around the village in plain clothes some nights. I don’t know what they were up to, summat undercover, was all Andy would ever say. So I never understood why Ferguson were so against me and Andy being together. He were so against the strike that I’d have thought he’d have slept with me himself if he’d reckoned he could wheedle summat out of me
like Andy did once or twice. But I never liked Ferguson. He were a vicious bastard, even then, and he doesn’t look as if he’s changed much.”
“So what did you tell Fielding? What did he wheedle out of you, for God’s sake?” Mower said, not able to keep the amazement out of his voice.
“Oh, nowt much,” Brenda said. “I weren’t really in touch with what the NUM were up to, was I? It were just gossip, from t’women in t’shop mainly. Sometimes I had an idea where the men were headed to picket. Ken and Vic tried to run a tight ship but the lads would chatter when they’d had a few pints in t’welfare. It were all a great game for them.”
“You were taking a terrible risk, even so,” Mower said, knowing how volatile tempers on both sides had been back then, all of it part of the folklore of the Metropolitan Police as well as the coalfields.
“I suppose we were. It seemed worth it at the time.” She smiled faintly to herself.
“Did your husband ever find out about your affair?”
“He were too dozy to notice if I’d been having it off on t’living room sofa,” Brenda said, contemptuously. “He relied on me for beer money and he put plenty of that away, I can tell you. I’d come in and find him fast asleep wi’t’telly still on, snoring. I reckon t’whole village knew I weren’t the most faithful wife on t’block, but no-one knew who I were going out wi’ that year. I made sure o’that.”
“Not even your sons? Could they have found out?”
“Especially not them, as far as I know. Why would they? We were careful to keep well away from t’village. The lads thought about nowt except bloody pickets and how much nosh my wages would buy them. Everyone else had an empty belly except my lads. They hated me for that, but they still scoffed every crumb I put on t’table, and sneaked a bit out for their mates an’all. I felt quite proud of myself, as it goes.” Mower nodded.
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