A Darker Domain

by Val McDermid

  ‘Fair enough. Can we go back to Mick? You said Andy had implied there were problems in his marriage?’

  ‘She trapped him into that marriage, you know. Andy always thought she got pregnant on purpose. She was supposed to be on the pill, but amazingly it didn’t work and the next thing was Misha was on the way. She knew Mick came from a decent family, the kind of people who don’t run away from their responsibilities. So of course he married her.’ There was a bitter edge in her tone that made Karen wonder whether Angie had carried a torch for Mick Prentice before her New Zealander came along.

  ‘Not the best of starts, then.’

  ‘They seemed happy enough to begin with.’ Angie’s grudging admission came out slowly. ‘Mick treated her like a little princess and she lapped it up. But she didn’t like it one little bit when the hard times hit. I thought at the time that she’d pushed him into scabbing because she’d had enough of being skint.’

  ‘But she really suffered after he went,’ Karen said. ‘It was a terrible stigma, being the wife of a scab. She wouldn’t have let him leave her behind to face that on her own.’

  Angie made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. ‘She had no idea what it would be like until it hit her. She didn’t get it. She wasn’t one of us, you know. People talk about the working class as if it’s just one big lump, but the demarcation lines are just as well defined as they are among any other class. She was born and bred in East Wemyss, but she wasn’t one of us. Her dad didn’t get his hands dirty. He worked in the Co-operative. He served behind the counter in the store. He wore a collar and tie to his work. I bet he never voted Labour in his life. So I’m not sure how clearly she understood what would happen to her if Mick went on the black.’

  It made sense. Karen understood viscerally what Angie was saying. She knew people like that from her own community. People who didn’t fit anywhere, who had a deep groove across their backsides from a lifetime of sitting on the fence. It lent weight to the idea that Mick Prentice might have gone scabbing. Except that he hadn’t. ‘The thing is, Angie, it looks like Mick didn’t go scabbing that night. Our preliminary inquiries indicate that he didn’t join the five men who went to Nottingham.’

  A shocked silence. Then Angie said, ‘He could have gone somewhere else on his own.’

  ‘He had no money. No means of transport. He didn’t take anything with him when he went out that morning except his painting gear. Whatever happened to him, I don’t think he went scabbing.’

  ‘So what did happen to him?’

  ‘I don’t know that yet,’ Karen said. ‘But I plan to find out. And here’s the question I have to start asking. Let’s assume Mick didn’t go scabbing. Who might have had a reason for wanting him out of the way?’

  Friday 29th June 2007; Nottingham

  Femi Otitoju entered the fourth address into Google Earth and studied the result. ‘Come on, Fem,’ Mark Hall muttered. ‘The DCI’s got his eye on us. He’s wondering what the hell you’re doing, playing around on the computer after he’s given us an assignment.’

  ‘I’m working out the most efficient order to do the interviews in, so we don’t waste half the day back-tracking.’ She looked at the four names and addresses supplied by some DC in Fife and numbered them according to her logic. ‘And I’ve told you. Don’t call me Fem.’ She printed the list and folded it neatly into her unscuffed handbag. ‘My name is Femi.’

  Mark rolled his eyes and followed her out of the Cold Case Review office, flashing a nervous smile at DCI Mottram as they went. He’d been gagging for his secondment to CID, but if he’d been warned that it would mean working with Femi Otitoju, he might have had second thoughts. The word round the station when they were both still in uniform was that, in Otitoju’s case, PC stood for Personal Computer. Her uniform had always been immaculate, her shoes polished to a military sheen. Her plain clothes followed the same pattern. Neatly pressed anonymous grey suit, blinding white shirt, impeccable hair. And shoes still polished like mirrors. Everything she did was by the book; everything was precise. Not that Mark had anything against doing things properly. But he’d always believed there was a place for spontaneity, especially in an interview. If the person you were talking to veered off at a tangent, it didn’t hurt to follow for a while. Sometimes it was among the tangents that the truth was hiding. ‘So these four were all miners from Fife who broke the strike to go down the pits here?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. There were originally five of them, but one of them, Stuart McAdam, died two years ago of lung cancer.’

  How did she remember that stuff? And why did she bother? ‘And who are we going to see first?’

  ‘William John Fraser. Known as Billy. Fifty-three years old, married with two grown-up children, one at Leeds University, the other at Loughborough. He’s a self-employed electrician now.’ She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. ‘I’ll drive, I know where we’re going.’

  They emerged in the windy car park behind the station and headed for an unmarked CID pool car. It would, Mark knew, be full of someone else’s rubbish. CID and cars were like dogs and lampposts, he’d discovered. ‘Won’t he be at work now?’ He opened the passenger door to find the footwell held plastic sandwich containers, empty Coke cans and five Snickers bar wrappers. Something white snapped at the corner of his peripheral vision. Otitoju was waving an empty carrier bag at him. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘Stick the rubbish in there and I’ll take it to the bin.’

  Mark reminded himself that she did have her uses after all. They hit the main ring road, still busy even after the worst of the morning rush, and headed west. The road was flanked with dirty red-brick houses and the sort of businesses that managed to hang on by a fingernail in the teeth of classier opposition elsewhere. Convenience stores, nail studios, hardware shops, launderettes, fast-food outlets and hairdressers. It was depressing driving past it. Mark was grateful for his city-centre flat in a converted lace mill. It might be small, but he didn’t have to deal with this crap in his personal life. And there was a great Chinese just round the corner that delivered.

  Fifteen minutes round the ring road and they turned off into a pleasant enclave of semi-detached brick cottages. They looked as if they’d been built in the 1930s; solid, unpretentious and nicely proportioned. Billy Fraser’s house was on a corner plot, with a substantial, well-established garden. ‘I’ve lived in this city all my life and I didn’t even know this place existed,’ Mark said.

  He followed Otitoju up the path. The door was answered by a woman who couldn’t have been much over five feet. She had the look of someone just past her best; silver strands in her light brown bob, jawline starting to soften, a few more pounds than was comfortable. Mark thought she was in pretty good nick for her age. He dived straight in before Otitoju could scare her. ‘Mrs Fraser?’

  The woman nodded, looking anxious. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Local accent, Mark noted. So he hadn’t brought a wife from Fife. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘I’m Mark Hall and this is my colleague Femi Otitoju. We’re police officers and we need to have a word with Billy. It’s nothing to worry about,’ he added hastily, seeing the look of panic on Mrs Fraser’s face. ‘Someone he used to know back in Fife has been reported missing and we need to ask Billy a few questions.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘You’ll be wasting your time, duck. Billy’s not kept in touch with anyone from Fife except the lads he came down here with. And that was more than twenty years ago.’

  ‘The man we’re interested in went missing more than twenty years ago,’ Otitoju said bluntly. ‘So we do need to speak to your husband. Is he at home?’ Mark felt like kicking her as he watched Mrs Fraser’s face close down on them. Otitoju had definitely been behind the door when sisterhood got handed out.

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘Can you tell us where he’s working, flower?’ Mark said, trying to get back on a conversational keel.

  He could practically see the mental debate on the woman’s fac
e. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said at last. She returned with a large-format diary open at that day’s date. She turned it to face him. ‘There.’

  Otitoju was already scribbling the address down on her precious sheet of paper. Mrs Fraser caught sight of the names. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘Johnny Ferguson’s working with him today. You’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.’ From the expression on her face, she wasn’t convinced that was a metaphor.

  The two ex-miners were working a scant five minute drive away, refitting a shop on the main drag. ‘From kebab shop to picture framing in one easy move,’ Mark said, reading the clues. Fraser and Ferguson were hard at work, Fraser chiselling out a channel for cables, Ferguson demolishing the bench seat running along one wall for the takeaway’s customers. They both stopped what they were doing when the two police officers entered, eyeing them warily. It was funny, Mark thought, how some people always recognized a cop instantly, while others seemed oblivious to whatever signals he and his kind gave off. It was nothing to do with guilt or innocence, as he’d naïvely thought at first. Just an instinct for the hunter.

  Otitoju introduced them and explained why they were there. Fraser and Ferguson both looked bemused. ‘Why would anybody think he’d have come with us?’ Ferguson said.

  ‘More to the point, why would anybody think we’d have taken him?’ Billy Fraser wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a gesture of disgust. ‘Mick Prentice thought the likes of us were beneath him. Even before we went scabbing, he looked down on other folk. Thought he was better than us.’

  ‘Why would he think that?’ Mark asked.

  Fraser pulled a packet of Bensons out of his overalls. Before he could get the cigarette out of the packet, Otitoju had placed her smooth hand over the rough one. ‘That’s against the law now, Mr Fraser. This is a place of work. You can’t smoke in here.’

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake,’ Fraser complained, turning away as he shoved his smokes back in his pocket.

  ‘Why would Mick Prentice think he was better than you?’ Mark said again.

  Ferguson took up the challenge. ‘Some men went on strike because the union told them to. And some went on strike because they were convinced they were right and they knew what was best for the rest of us. Mick Prentice was one of the ones who thought they knew best.’

  ‘Aye,’ Fraser said bitterly. ‘And he had his pals in the union taking care of him.’ He rubbed fingers and thumb together in the universal representation of money.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mark said. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I’m too young to remember the strike. But I thought one of the big problems was that you didn’t get strike pay?’

  ‘You’re right, son,’ Fraser said. ‘But for a while, the lads that went on the flying pickets got cash in hand. So when there was any picketing duty available, it was always the same ones that got the nod. And if your face didn’t fit, there was nothing for you. But Mick’s face fit better than most. His best pal was an NUM official, see?’

  ‘It was harder for some of us than others,’ Ferguson added. ‘I expect Prentice’s pal slipped him the odd fiver or bag of food when the picketing money ran out. Most of us weren’t that lucky. So no, Mick Prentice didn’t come with us. And Billy’s right. We wouldn’t have had him if he’d asked.’

  Otitoju was prowling round the room, scrutinizing their work as if she were a building inspector. ‘The day you left. Did you see Mick Prentice at all?’

  The two men exchanged a look that seemed furtive to Mark. Ferguson quickly shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said.

  ‘How can you “not really” see somebody?’ Otitoju demanded, turning back towards them.

  Friday 14th December 1984

  Johnny Ferguson stood in the dark at the bedroom window where he could see the main road through the village. The room wasn’t cold, but he was shivering slightly, the hand cupping his rollie trembling, interrupting the smooth rise of the smoke. ‘Come on, Stuart,’ he muttered under his breath. He took another drag off his cigarette and looked again at the cheap watch on his wrist. Ten minutes late. His right foot began tapping involuntarily.

  Nothing was stirring. It was barely nine o’clock, but there was hardly a light showing. People couldn’t afford the electricity. They went down the Welfare for a bit of light and heat or they went to bed, hoping they might sleep long enough for the nightmare to be over when they woke. For once, though, the quiet of the streets didn’t bother Ferguson. The fewer people the better to witness what was happening tonight. He knew exactly what he was about to do and it scared the living shit out of him.

  Suddenly, a pair of headlights swung into sight round the corner of Main Street. Against the dim street lights, Ferguson could make out the shape of a Transit van. The old shape, not the new one that the police used as troop carriers in their operations against the miners. As the van drew closer, he could see it was dark in colour. Finally, Stuart was here.

  Ferguson pinched out his cigarette. He took a last look round the bedroom where he’d slept for the last three years, ever since he’d taken the tenancy on the tiny house. It was too gloomy to see much, but then there wasn’t much to be seen. What couldn’t be sold had been broken up for firewood. Now there was just the mattress on the floor with an ashtray and a tattered Sven Hassel paperback beside it. Nothing left to regret. Helen was long gone, so he might as well turn his back on the fucking lot of them.

  He clattered downstairs and opened the door just as Stuart was about to knock. ‘Ready?’ Stuart said.

  A deep breath. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ He pushed a holdall towards Stuart with a foot and grabbed another holdall and a black bin bag. Ten fucking years at the coal face, and that was all he had to show for it.

  They took two steps of the four that would bring them to the van and suddenly they weren’t alone. A figure came hustling round the corner like a man on a mission. A couple of yards closer and the shape resolved itself into Mick Prentice. Ferguson felt a cold hand clutch his chest. Christ, that was all they needed. Prentice ripping into them, shouting the odds and doors opening all the way down the street.

  Stuart threw his holdall into the back of the van, where Billy Fraser was already settled on a pile of bags. He turned to face Prentice, ready to make something of it if he had to.

  But the rage they expected wasn’t raining down on them. Instead, Prentice just stood there, looking like he was going to burst into tears. He looked at them and shook his head. ‘No, lads. No. Dinnae do it,’ he said. He kept on saying it. Ferguson could hardly believe this was the same man who’d chivvied them and rallied them and goaded them into staying loyal to the union. It was, he thought, a measure of how this strike had broken them.

  Ferguson pushed past Prentice, stowed his bags and climbed in beside Fraser, who pulled the doors closed behind him. ‘Fucking amazing,’ Fraser said.

  ‘He looked like he just took a punch to the gut,’ Ferguson said. ‘The guy’s lost it.’

  ‘Just be grateful,’ Fraser said. ‘Last thing we needed was him going off like a fucking rocket, bringing the place down about us.’ He raised his voice as the engine roared into life. ‘Let’s go, Stu. The new life starts here.’

  Friday 29th June 2007

  ‘Were there any witnesses to this encounter?’ Otitoju said. ‘Stuart’s dead now, so I’m the only witness left,’ Fraser said. ‘I was in the van. The back door was open and I saw the whole thing. Johnny’s right. Prentice looked gutted. Like it was a personal affront, what we were doing.’

  ‘It might have been a different story if it had been Iain in the van and not you,’ Ferguson said.

  ‘Why might that have made a difference?’ Mark said.

  ‘Iain and him were pals. Prentice might have felt the need to try and talk him out of it. But Iain was the last pick-up, so I guess we were off the hook. And that was the last time we saw Prentice,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve still got family up there. I heard he’d taken off, but I just assumed he’d gone off with
that pal of his, the union guy. I can’t remember his name -’

  ‘Andy something,’ Fraser said. ‘Aye, when you told me they were both on the missing list, I thought they’d decided to bugger off and make a fresh start somewhere else. You have to understand, people’s lives were falling apart by then. Men did things you’d never have thought they were capable of.’ He turned away and walked to the door, stepping outside and taking out his cigarettes.

  ‘He’s right,’ Ferguson said. ‘And mostly we didn’t want to think too much about it. Come to that, we still don’t want to. So unless there’s anything else, we’ll say good day to you.’ He picked up his crowbar and returned to his task.

  Unable to think of anything else to ask, Mark started for the door. Otitoju hesitated briefly before following him to the car. They sat in silence for a moment, then Mark said, ‘It must have been bloody awful.’

  ‘It doesn’t excuse their lawlessness,’ Otitoju said. ‘The miners’ strike drove a wedge between us and the people we serve. They made us look brutal even though we were provoked. They say even the Queen was shocked by the battle of Orgreave, but what did people expect? We’re supposed to keep her peace. If people don’t consent to be policed, what else can we do?’

  Mark stared at her. ‘You scare me,’ he said.

  She looked surprised. ‘I sometimes wonder if you’re in the right job,’ she said.

  Mark looked away. ‘You and me both, flower.’

  Rotheswell Castle

  In spite of her determination to deal with Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant on precisely the same terms as she would anyone else, Karen had to admit her stomach was off message. Anxiety always affected her digestive tract, putting her off her food and precipitating urgent dashes to the toilet. ‘If I had more interviews like this, I wouldn’t need to think about going on a diet,’ she said as she and Phil set off for Rotheswell Castle.

  ‘Ach, dieting’s overrated,’ said Phil from the comfortable vantage point of a man whose weight hadn’t wavered since he’d turned eighteen, no matter what he ate or drank. ‘You’re fine just the way you are.’