Dust to Dust

by Patricia Hall

  “Is that where he is?” Baxter asked quickly. “Australia? Are you sure?”

  “Well, no, I’m not sure. The little sod’s never contacted me from the day he left. But that’s where he always said he wanted to go.”

  “He called me, just the other day,” Baxter said quietly, and was surprised at the flash of sheer joy in Brenda’s eyes.

  “You mean he’s alive?” she asked. “So where the hell is he, then?”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me that,” Baxter said. “I thought maybe he’d kept in touch. He seemed to know what was going on here. He wanted to know about the police investigation.” Brenda subsided slightly in her seat and took a swig of her drink.

  “Aye, well, that figures,” she said, her plump features gloomy again now. “He’ll not venture back wi’all that going on, will he, and you lot trying to get your Billy cleared. He’d be a fool to, wouldn’t he? But I’m right glad he’s alive, any road. I lost one son in that bloody strike and I’ve never been sure I hadn’t lost another.” Ian flinched at the desperation behind that remark.

  “Bren,” he said slowly. “Did you know the copper who got killed?” Brenda glanced away for a moment and then shrugged, as if settling something in her own mind.

  “You always were too bloody sharp by half, young Ian,” she said. “But as I told sergeant Mower, it’s all water under t’bridge now. Yes, I knew Andy Fielding. I were sleeping with him on and off. He were a bonny lad, and generous with it, and that mattered back then. Ferguson knew that. He’d have slept wi’me himself, I dare say, if he’d thought he could wheedle summat out of me the way Andy did. But I never liked Ferguson. He were a vicious bastard. But he were Andy’s best mate. And they were working on summat together, summat undercover, that I do know. Sometimes Andy wasn’t in uniform, like the night he were killed. I’d seen him earlier but he dropped me off at t’edge o’t’village that night and said he’d walk across t’fields to his van. I remember thinking that were a bit odd. But it were nowt to do wi’me.”

  “I think you were seen, at least once,” Baxter said slowly. “Maybe Craig or Roy saw you as well.”

  “They never said owt to me about it,” Brenda said.

  “And you never said anything to the police about the affair at the time?”

  “Not bloody likely, no. I wanted nowt to do wi’that. It wouldn’t have brought Andy back, would it, and it might have got my lads into t’frame. Quite apart from making me out to be t’village bicycle. I kept right out of it. I reckoned Jim Ferguson knew what had been going off and would tell anyone who needed to know. I were never questioned, though. Everyone else was, but not me.”

  “Ah,” Baxter breathed, understanding fully at last what lay behind Fielding’s enduring rage. “Do you really not know what Ferguson and Fielding were doing.”

  “Not a clue,” Brenda said.

  “Did no-one guess what you were up to with Fielding?” Baxter asked.

  “I thought for a while your mam might have guessed but she never said owt. And then when Craig disappeared I began to wonder if he’d known all along and decided to do summat stupid. He had the opportunity, didn’t he? He were always mooching about in t’dark, as you know very well yourself. And he had enough motive to kill a copper after Stevie died never mind if he thought Andy were my boy-friend. Did he never say owt to you?” Baxter shook his head.

  “You think he killed him?” he whispered.

  “Oh, I think it’s more than likely,” Brenda said, draining her glass. “I’ve always thought so, and I wondered if you helped him an’ all. But what was I supposed to do back then? I didn’t want Craig in gaol, any more than you wanted your Billy to go down, and I certainly didn’t want the village to know what I’d been at. I said nowt then, and I’ll say nowt now, so don’t you go pushing it. Where-ever Craig is, I hope he stops there.” She buttoned up her coat and got to her feet.

  “I’ll pay my respects to your mam and tell her I’m coming to t’funeral an’ all. We all had a lot of time for your dad before that bloody year. Madge needs to know we haven’t forgotten that. It’s the least we can do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The day of Ken Baxter’s funeral dawned cold and wet and Ian Baxter gripped a large umbrella stoically over his mother as Madge led her family from the car which had carried them from home to the crematorium near Wakefield. Carrie followed close behind with Daisy in her arms and the family party nodded wanly to the small crowds watching outside the house and the smaller group waiting for them outside the chapel.

  Laura Ackroyd stood beside her grandmother, both of them in dark coats against the chilly wind from the Pennines, and they followed the coffin and the family mourners into the barely better heated interior. They were not the first there, to Laura’s faint surprise. On the back row, a gaunt middle aged man with graying hair she recognised sat between two uniformed guards. Billy Baxter had somehow persuaded the authorities to allow him to attend his father’s funeral.

  As the music Madge had chosen swelled, a rousing march by one of the old colliery brass bands to see an old warrior out, and the curtains closed on the coffin, Laura glanced at Ian Baxter. He looked, she thought, as if his world had come to an end, in spite of his hand being held by the attractive woman with a child in her arms who sat beside him.

  “It should have been Vic Randall who gave the eulogy by rights,” Joyce whispered fiercely to Laura as they waited for the family mourners to file out. “That stand-in was a waste of space. And look at that. They’re not letting Billy talk to his mother even. It’s not right.” In fact, the security guards were evidently hustling their prisoner out of the door as fast as they could in spite of Madge’s audible cry for them to wait. The prison van drove away at speed even before the rest of the family had left the chapel.

  The village was crowded with parked cars when Laura drove her grandmother back for the wake, and there were crowds of people waiting in the rain to get through the doors of the welfare hall.

  “Let’s wait in the car for a minute,” Laura said. “You don’t want to get into that scrum.”

  “Whole village is here by the look of it,” Joyce said. “Ken would have been pleased with that.”

  To her surprise, Laura saw Thackeray sitting with Sergeant Kevin Mower in an unmarked car just outside the packed car park. As as they watched the Baxter family make their way down the short hill from their own house to the hall, Madge leaning heavily on Ian’s arm, and Carrie pushing her baby daughter in a stroller, Thackeray got out of the car and approached Ian, who moved slightly away from the rest of the family to speak to him. Laura let the window down and could just hear Ian Baxter’s surprised reaction.

  “It would be good to be left alone today of all days, Mr Thackeray,” Baxter said.

  “That’s what I had hoped,” Thackeray said. “But I thought you should know, after what happened to your wife before she came up here, the Met believe that ex-sergeant Ferguson may have a weapon and he may be the person who fired at your house. I’m sorry. We’re looking for Ferguson as a matter of a top priority.”

  “I told you that man was bloody dangerous,” Baxter said angrily. “Are you saying you don’t know where he is? With all these people here, gathered in one place, don’t you think you should?”

  “We’ve no reason to believe he’s back in Yorkshire, but we will be keeping a discreet eye on the club for you,” Thackeray said. “The Met are looking for him with everything they’ve got, obviously. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but I thought you deserved a word of warning. When this is all over, we’ll put a watch on your mother’s house and the Met will look after you when you go back home. If Jim Ferguson’s really flipped, we’ll find him, don’t worry about that.”

  Laura could see Ian turn away and watch his wife, his mother and his daughter making their way through the crowd, which parted for them, to the swing doors and go inside.

  “I hope to God you’re right, chief inspector,” Baxter said. “I r
eally do. To my knowledge, he’s given me a good thumping, tried to drive me off the road in a car and now terrified my wife and child with a gun. Three times he’s been unlucky but the odds must be heavily in his favour for attempt number four.”

  “We’re still working on the more serious incidents,” Thackeray said with what Laura thought was uncharacteristic restraint. “We still don’t know for sure that these incidents are down to him, or even that they’re connected, but we’re working on that assumption. We’ll keep you informed.”

  Baxter’s attention turned to a heavy figure he seemed to recognise making his way between the parked cars towards the hall.

  “That’s Pete Atkinson, the only scab in the village,” he said grimly to Thackeray. “You may find you need to keep the peace inside the hall as well as out if he kicks off with some of the lads. God, this is turning into a war instead of a wake. What did my dad do to deserve this?”

  “I’ll ask Tom Becket to pop in,” Thackeray said, before turning back back to his car, glancing only briefly in Laura’s direction and giving her and Joyce a nod while Ian Baxter strode to the hall, where he marched through the swing doors with what was obviously considerable dissatisfaction. Laura smiled ruefully at her grandmother.

  “Shall we go in?” she said. “I’ve got a special dispensation from Michael to be here, but I don’t think he’s looking for a friendly chat just now. This whole business is turning very nasty.”

  “It always was,” Joyce said. “Folk round here have long memories and they still haven’t forgotten.” When they got inside, Joyce leaning heavily on Laura’s arm, they found most of the tables already taken by families, most of them with drinks already in front of them, but Madge spotted Joyce and made space for her at a corner table where the Baxter family was gathered. There was a scrum around the bar, and through the serving hatch Laura could see women piling plates high with sandwiches and sausage rolls ready to be carried into the main hall. Madge looked somewhat overwhelmed by the size of the gathering. Almost the whole village must be here, Laura thought, and realised that Ian, in spite of all the anxieties he must have, was looking absurdly pleased. He nodded to Laura as she squeezed into a seat beside him.

  “He’s getting a grand send-off,” he said. “My mam’s satisfied at least.”

  One by one, men and women came up to express their condolences, among them the bulky figure of Roy Atkinson, his dark suit straining at the seams as he leaned over to kiss Madge’s pale cheek. He turned to Ian and glanced at Laura with some puzzlement, obviously not understanding why she was there.

  “All reet?” Roy asked Ian. “I sorry it came to this wi’ your dad. Did he ever get his compensation for the dust?”

  “Nope, not a penny,” Ian said. “I see you’re back safely from Turkey then. I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Aye, it’s a rum do, to lose your dad and old Vic so close together. There’ll be none of o’t’old guard left soon. They’re going too bloody young.”

  “I saw your dad come in,” Ian said cautiously.

  “Aye, I’ve seen him,” Atkinson came back, his face darkening. “Told him to bugger off an’all. I don’t know what makes him think that he’s likely to be welcome at Ken’s wake after what he did.”

  “They were good mates at one time,” Ian said. “Maybe it’s time to let bygones be bygones.” But Atkinson shook his head at that and glanced around the crowded room again.

  “My mam’s here too, with her new man. That’ll kick off in a minute if they bump into my dad.” Baxter put his drink down and pulled Roy close.

  “I had a call from Craig,” he said, watching Roy’s eyes widen in surprise. “Someone’s told him what’s going on here and I wondered if you’d kept in touch on the quiet?”

  “Not me,” Roy said. “More likely to be my mam if anyone did. She’s a secretive cow and Craig were always her favourite. Broke her heart when he buggered off. Even more than losing Stevie, I always reckoned.”

  “She says not. I saw her when she came to see my mam the day after dad died. She seemed amazed when I told her.”

  “Didn’t the little toe-rag say where he were?”

  “No, not a hint, and I don’t think he’s heading to Urmstone any time soon. But someone’s keeping him in touch and I thought it was most likely family.”

  “Not me, mate,” Roy said again. “Have you told t’police?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ian said. “I’ve been in enough bother keeping things to myself. I’m not doing that any more for anyone.”

  “Aye well, I’m glad if t’lad’s alive after all,” Roy said. “But with all this new stuff going on he’s right to keep away. Less trouble all round. Now I’m off to get a pint. I’m right clemmed.” And with that Atkinson turned away and headed to the bar without a backward glance. Ian Baxter watched him go with a puzzled expression and then turned to Laura.

  “You’d think he’d be a bit more pleased. What would you feel if a long lost brother suddenly turned up again?” Laura shrugged slightly.

  “He didn’t look that surprised,” she said. “I reckon he was lying. He knew he was alive.”

  “I told you, I’ve always wondered about Craig, all these years,” Ian said. “Just that niggling doubt, you know? Wondering whether he took me down that lane because he knew the body was there…”

  Suddenly their attention was distracted by a growing shout of “Out, out, out”. When they glanced across the room they saw Pete Atkinson and his former wife Brenda, resplendent in a black silk blouse and short skirt, red-faced and head-to-head.

  “Get that bloody scab out of here,” someone shouted, and a couple of burly men grabbed hold of Pete’s arms and hustled him towards the door, while Bren forced her way through the crowd towards the Baxters.

  “I’m right sorry about that, love,” she said to Madge. “I’d no idea he’d turn up. Bloody cheek in t’circumstances. And we’re sorry for your loss, love.” And she turned away towards a well-tanned man in a well-cut suit who took her by the arm and led her solicitously to a table on the other side of the room.

  “That must be the latest husband,” Ian said to Laura wryly. But his attention was soon distracted by his wife, Carrie, who squeezed her way out of her seat next to Madge with the baby on her shoulder.

  “I’m just going back to the house with Daisy,” she said. “She needs changing and I can’t really cope with that here.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, love?” Ian asked but his wife shook her head.

  “No, you should stay with your mum.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Laura offered, thinking a little baby experience might be good for her.

  “I’ll see you through this crush,” Ian said, taking his baby daughter in his arms and leading the two women through the crowd to the doors and walking across the car park with them to the road, where he was reassured to see Sergeant Tom Becket sitting in a police car watching the comings and goings at the hall. As Carrie and Laura set off up the hill with the push-chair Ian shivered slightly and crossed the road.

  “I know I must seem paranoid,” Ian said to the sergeant as he wound his window down. “But my wife’s gone back to my mother’s house. You couldn’t watch out for them, could you, till they get back safely?”

  “No problem,” Becket said. “You’re not daft to be careful. “I’d not trust that beggar Ferguson as far as I could throw him myself.” He glanced across at the hall and the parked cars in front of it. “You asked us to look for a dark car with a scraped wing,” he said. “There’s plenty here to choose from.”

  “It must have been Ferguson,” Ian objected. “Who else would want to kill me?”

  “Aye, well, happen you’re right,” Becket said as he slipped the car into gear and pulled away to follow Carrie and Laura up the hill.” Ian turned back to rejoin his mother but before he had taken more than a couple of steps he was hurled backwards by a sudden powerful blast which drove the breath from his lungs and threw him flat onto his back from w
here he watched in horrified disbelief as part of the roof of the miners’ welfare hall rose up from the walls and disintegrated into a hail of tiles and bricks and lumps of concrete which descended into the carpark and nearby gardens with a roar which almost deafened him. After the lethal hail came flames and thick dark smoke billowing from the back of the building, and from inside, eerily, nothing but a long and pregnant silence, as if the whole world was holding its breath. Then the screaming began.

  It had been a small bomb, the forensic experts eventually decided, but lethal, planted in one of the ovens in the kitchen at the back of the building. Their conclusion was no comfort at all to the families of the two women who had been killed, or to the dozens of guests who had been hurt by the blast as it ripped through the crowded bar.

  Ian Baxter had scrambled to his feet, ignoring the blood which he could feel running down his face, and rushed back into the building, his heart pounding, and fearing the worst. Inside he found the less badly hurt were beginning to pick themselves up from amongst the debris, and to his relief he found his mother and Joyce Ackroyd covered in dust but relatively unscathed, protected from the worst of the blast by the walls which were still standing in the corner where they had been sitting. He led them to safety and to handed them over to the care of Laura, who had come running back down the hill to the welfare hall when she had heard the blast, her face distorted in fear.

  “Thank God,” she said, when she saw the two elderly women. “I’ll take them home.” Baxter had watched them hobble slowly away, looking totally confused, and then turned back into the thickening smoke again and again to help out the walking wounded through the jumble of splintered wood and smashed glass until eventually a fireman had pulled him away and told him to get the gash on his own head looked at by one of the paramedics who had appeared by then.

  Patched up, he found himself somewhat dazedly making his way home up the hill, leaving the emergency services surrounding the cordoned off rubble of the welfare hall. He found his wife and daughter waiting for him in the hall of his mother’s house and could do no more than fling his arms round them and bury his blackened face in Carrie’s hair.