He was in his sixties, with a miner’s broad shoulders and compact body, and a mane of grey hair which made him look statesmanlike. He sat down, glanced around him, then slammed his big hand down on the table to call for quiet.
‘Point of order, Mr Chairman,’ shouted a man from the left, pro-strike half of the room.
The chairman sighed. ‘We’ve not even started yet, Walter,’ he said. ‘How can you have a point of order already?’
‘I want to know why they’re here,’ Walter said, pointing to the four uniformed constables standing by the door.
‘This is an open meeting,’ the chairman explained. ‘Anybody who wants to attend is perfectly entitled to.’
‘Even if they’re capitalist running dogs?’
‘I suppose so, although all I can see back there is four bobbies,’ the chairman said wearily. ‘Now before we get properly started, I want to lay down a few rules. Anybody who wants to speak will be given the chance to speak, and if you don’t want to listen to them, then you can just bugger off out. And as for your behaviour in general – I don’t want to pull down anybody’s pants and smack their bare arses for them, but I will if I have to. Is that clear?’ He scanned the room for something like assent. ‘Good. Then let’s get cracking.’
‘I thought you were talking rubbish earlier when you said he was a bit like the Queen, but it turns out that you were quite right,’ Beresford told Mellors with a grin. ‘If I’d closed my eyes just then, I could almost have believed that was Her Majesty talking.’
They were back in the kitchen, and Becky was starting to look uncomfortable again.
‘What was it that made you feel you had to go and see your granddad last night?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘I wanted to talk to him about my boyfriend.’
‘Do your parents know you have a boyfriend?’
Becky looked down at the table. ‘No, it’s a secret.’ She raised her head again, and there was a look of panic in her eyes. ‘It really is a secret – and you mustn’t tell them.’
‘I won’t,’ Paniatowski promised. ‘But I would like it if you told me a little about him.’
‘His name’s Gary,’ Becky said. ‘He’s . . . he’s older than me.’
‘How much older? A year?’
‘No, a bit more than that.’
‘I see,’ Paniatowski said thoughtfully. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s fabulous. He’s very handsome, but he’s – you know – nice as well.’
‘I bet all your friends are jealous that you’ve got him, and they haven’t.’
‘They don’t know about him. Like I said, it’s a secret.’
‘But you must have dropped a few hints to them. I know I would, if I was in your place.’
‘I haven’t. Gary wouldn’t like it.’
‘Is he still at school, too?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Or has he already started work?’
‘He’s a student,’ Becky said proudly. ‘He’s going to be a doctor. He’ll be brilliant. He’s going to travel all around the world, curing sick people wherever he goes, and he’s . . . and he’s . . .’
‘And he’s going to take you with him?’
‘Yes.’
You poor bloody girl! Paniatowski thought.
She wanted to hold Becky – to comfort her, and to tell her softly that boys were not always what they seemed to be. And then she reminded herself that she was not a social worker but a senior police officer who was investigating a rather nasty murder.
‘So what I still don’t quite understand is why you felt you had to go and see your granddad last night,’ said the senior police officer part of her.
‘Pardon?’
‘Well, I remember that when I went to talk to my granddad about my boyfriends, it was because there was something wrong between us,’ lied Paniatowski, who had never known her granddad, and, by the time she was Becky’s age, had been living with an abusive stepfather. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure.’
‘I went to him because I had a problem with my boyfriends and needed his advice, but from what you’ve just told me about you and Gary, everything’s going just fine.’
‘I . . .’ Becky began. ‘I . . .’
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski coaxed.
‘I thought something was wrong, and then I found out this morning that it wasn’t,’ Becky blurted out.
‘Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Now there are just a couple of other things I’d like to ask you.’
But Becky had had enough.
‘I don’t want to say any more,’ she announced, folding her skinny arms across her skinny chest.
‘I promise you, it won’t take long,’ Paniatowski said softly.
Becky burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to say any more,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t want to say any more!’
Paniatowski nodded, and – fighting back the urge to cuddle the child – gave in to the inevitable.
‘I’ll leave through the back door, so as not to disturb your mum,’ she said softly. ‘And if I were you, Becky, I wouldn’t go and see her myself until I was feeling a bit less upset.’
‘She wouldn’t notice,’ the girl said miserably. ‘She doesn’t care. Nobody cares – except for Granddad and Gary.’
Paniatowski crossed the backyard, and stepped into the alley.
For a moment, back there, she had thought of breaking her promise to Becky and telling her mother all about the boyfriend who claimed he was training to be a doctor.
But what would be the point of that? Becky’s mother would be less involved with the drama in her own family than she was in that being played out in Coronation Street. And if Becky’s father did anything at all, it would probably be just to give her a good thrashing – which would only make matters worse.
Once this case was over, she might perhaps track down this boyfriend and warn him off, she thought.
You’re not a bloody social worker, Monika, a voice in her head reminded her sharply.
No, she wasn’t. She was a bobby, and it was her duty – her only duty – to analyse the information she’d just collected.
Becky hadn’t lied when she’d talked about Gary – she hadn’t exactly told the truth, either, but that was only because she didn’t realize what a little shit he was – and there was no doubt that he existed, Paniatowski thought. But the girl hadn’t been telling the truth when she’d claimed she’d spent the previous night with her grandfather, which was why she had burst into tears when the questions started getting tough.
Paniatowski felt nothing but contempt for Tommy Sanders, and wondered just what kind of man would ask his young granddaughter to lie for him?
And if he could do that – if he could so easily betray the trust a child had in him, and so readily abandon the responsibilities that being a grandfather imposed on him – would it be such a big step for him to rob another man of his life?
She sighed to herself. Maybe she had been wrong all along, she thought – and if she had been wrong, that probably meant that Colin Beresford had been right.
FIFTEEN
The meeting at the Miners’ Institute was well into its second hour, and Beresford, searching for a way to describe the proceedings to himself, had come up with the term ‘formal-informality’.
It was formal in the sense that good behaviour was being maintained – and there had been no reason for the chairman to smack any bare arses yet – but informal in that anyone who wished to make a speech did not go to the front of the room, but merely stood up so everyone could see him.
The man standing up at that moment was called Barnes, and was one of the managers from the colliery.
‘All you lads know me,’ he was saying. ‘I’m not some stuffed shirt from Manchester or London. I started down the pit, like the rest of you, and worked my way up.’
‘And how do you like the view from the top, Dick?’ one of the miners from the left called out.
Dick Barnes grinn
ed. ‘I like it just fine,’ he said.
At first, Beresford had been surprised at how basically good-natured the meeting had been, but now he was beginning to see that it should have been no surprise at all.
After all, these men lived together, worked together and played together. They had shared triumphs, like the victory of Bellingsworth Colliery brass band. They had shared tragedies – there had been accidents at the pit, and miners had been killed. The relationships they had been building their entire lives were important to them, and while they might disagree – sometimes vehemently – about the proposed strike, they did not want to do or say anything which might imperil those relationships.
Now if they could just get through the evening without anyone mentioning Len Hopkins’ murder . . .
‘I want to see a decent life for every man jack of you – and for his family,’ Dick Barnes was saying, ‘and progress is being made. I’d like the men of my age to think about what conditions were like when we first went down the pit. We’re much better off now than we were then, and while mining is still a dirty, dangerous job, you have to admit the wages are pretty good as they are.’
‘If they’re that good, why are six hundred men a week leaving the pits?’ one miner called out.
‘The National Coal Board is restrained by the Government Pay Policy,’ Barnes argued, ‘and even if it wasn’t, it couldn’t pay what some of you are asking, because there simply isn’t the money available.’
‘Then why doesn’t it raise the price of coal?’ another miner shouted out. ‘Coal does the same work as oil – why shouldn’t it cost as much?’
‘Because the country can’t afford it,’ Barnes said.
‘And the miners can’t afford for the country not to afford it,’ the other man countered.
Listening, as he was, to the arguments being knocked back and forth, was a bit like watching a tennis match, Beresford thought. And it was a match in which those playing were displaying no obvious signs of weakness, and those that were merely watching were showing no signs of shifting their allegiance to someone who was emerging as an obvious winner.
Victory at the strike ballot, he decided, was still up for grabs.
The Suttons lived in a large detached house, and Ellie’s party had taken over the whole of the ground floor. There were flashing lights everywhere, and music boomed out of a dozen speakers. Everyone who’d been invited – and plenty of kids who hadn’t, but were there anyway – seemed to be having a real ball.
Or nearly everyone!
It had been a mistake to come to this party, Louisa thought miserably, as she sat alone on the floor, in one corner of the lounge. Everything about it was wrong, or rather – if she was honest with herself – everything about her was wrong!
When she’d examined herself in the mirror at home, her party dress had seemed fabulous, but here, surrounded as she was by people wearing jeans, it just looked silly and very little-girlish.
And she was a little girl compared to all the other guests. The girls were all wearing a lot of make-up, the boys were smoking and drinking beer straight from the can. And whenever she made the effort to talk to any of them – when she asked them, for example, what their favourite subject at school was – they simply laughed and walked away.
Well, what did you expect? she asked herself angrily. Ellie’s older than you, so why wouldn’t her other friends be older, as well?
She was starting to think that she simply didn’t understand her new friend at all.
Why had Ellie even invited her to this party, where she must have known she would stick out like a sore thumb?
And she hadn’t just invited her, had she?
She had insisted that Louisa come – had gone so far as to make it a test of their so recently established friendship.
Yet now that she was here – now she had burned her bridges, and would have to face the consequences later on – Ellie was virtually ignoring her. In fact, it was worse than that – she was acting as if she didn’t want to know her!
None of it made any sense at all!
‘Is this party boring you as much as it’s boring me?’ asked a voice.
She turned. The person who’d spoken was a boy – well, almost a man really – who had just squatted down beside her. He had a nice smile, and hair which was the same colour as her mother’s – and almost as long.
‘Is it boring you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, confused.
‘Well, you certainly don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself very much,’ the boy said.
What was the point of pretending?
‘I’m having a horrid time,’ she admitted.
‘What’s your name?’ the boy asked.
‘Louisa.’
‘And mine’s Colin,’ the boy said, and his eyes flickered – but so briefly that Louisa did not even notice it.
‘I’ve got an uncle called Colin,’ Louisa said, pleased that this boy had the same name – though not quite sure why.
‘Is that right?’ the boy asked.
‘He’s not really my uncle,’ Louisa admitted. ‘He just works with my mum – but I’ve known him for ever.’
‘What I’ve been trying to work out is why, if this party makes you so miserable, you’re still here,’ the boy said.
‘I’ve no choice in the matter,’ Louisa said glumly. ‘Ellie’s dad is going to drive me home, and he’s gone out for the evening, and I’ll have to wait until he gets back.’
‘I could take you,’ the boy suggested. ‘I was just about to leave this terrible party, anyway.’
‘I’m not sure I should,’ Louisa said, uncertainly.
‘And on the way to your house, we could stop off for a burger – if you’re hungry, that is.’
Louisa realized that she was hungry. With all the excitement and nervousness, she had hardly been able to eat anything at home – and now she was ravenous.
‘I’d better let Ellie know I’m going,’ she said.
‘Don’t do that,’ the boy told her.
‘But I have to!’
‘No, you don’t. I’ve been watching both of you all night, and she’s been completely ignoring you. It’d just serve her right if you decided to leave without saying goodbye.’
Yes, it would, Louisa agreed. It really would.
‘Where’s your coat?’ the boy asked. ‘Hanging up in the hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go and get it, then.’
Louisa stood up and walked to the door, with the boy following just behind her. She didn’t go over to say goodbye to Ellie, but she got the eerie impression that Ellie’s eyes were following her every step of the way.
The chairman had just called on a new speaker. This man didn’t simply stand up and have his say. Instead, he negotiated his way between the chairs until he had reached the chairman’s table.
He didn’t look much like the rest of the miners in the room, Beresford thought. For a start, he was much bigger – nearly six feet tall. And though his jacket and trousers were clearly bought off the peg, he seemed to wear them with much more confidence and style than most of the people there could have mustered.
‘Who’s he?’ Beresford asked Mellors.
‘I don’t know,’ the constable replied. ‘I don’t think that I’ve ever seen him before.’
Most of the previous speakers had said what they had to say in a slightly hurried tone, as if they did not want to take up too much of their fellow miners’ precious time, but when this man reached the table, he turned around and took a few moments to survey his audience.
‘My name’s Ed Thomas, and though this might come as a surprise to you, I’m not from round here,’ he said.
There was some laughter – as he’d obviously intended there would be – because no one could ever have mistaken his accent for a Lancashire one.
‘No, comrades, I’m not local, I’m from Kent,’ he continued, ‘and I’m here to convey the fraternal greetings of the
Kent branch of the NUM.’
The announcement brought applause from both the left and right sides of the room.
‘Thank you, comrades,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s great to see that even in these troubling times – even when we might have our disagreements – there can still be real solidarity among miners.’
He was a good speaker, Beresford thought, not just in the words he used, but in the way he used them, and he already had the men on both sides of the room exactly where he wanted them.
‘Now, to be honest with you, I’ve said all I was sent here to say, and I was going to leave it at that, but after what I’ve seen and heard while I’ve been up here in Lancashire, I don’t think I can,’ Thomas told the miners. He paused. ‘Did you catch the television news today? Did you hear what that woman reporter – who certainly seems to know which side her bread’s buttered on – had to say about Len Hopkins’ death?’
Heads were nodding, and Thomas waited until they’d stopped before he carried on.
‘The capitalists – and their lackeys who work in Northern Television – are claiming that Len was killed because he opposed the strike. They don’t have any proof to back that up – none at all – but they’re still using it as an opportunity to paint us miners as black-hearted villains.’
‘Bastards!’ someone called out from the right side of the room.
‘Typical bosses’ tricks,’ shouted a voice from the left.
‘But what if, for once, they’ve got it right?’ Thomas asked. ‘What if Len Hopkins was killed because he opposed the strike?’
‘Nobody in this village would have killed Len Hopkins,’ said a voice from the left.
‘All right,’ Thomas agreed. ‘You know the place better than I do, so I’ll take your word for that. But what if he was killed by some other miner, from Yorkshire say – or even from Kent?’
An uneasy quiet had settled over the room.
‘I say this,’ Thomas continued. ‘If he was killed by a miner, then good for that miner – because he wasn’t just killing for himself, he was killing for all of you.’
Several miners – from both the left and the right sides of the room – had risen to their feet and were shouting at Thomas to shut up. Some were even waving their fists.
Lambs to the Slaughter Page 13