computer, and Cooper could see why. The subject was quite different — the first picture he’d seen with people in the shot. The spires of the Twelve Apostles were visible in the background, and opposite the steep scramble up to the arch in front of Reynard’s Cave, with a glimpse of glittering water where the River Dove flowed in between.
There might have been an intended pattern in the shot, the juxtaposition of the two sides of the dale. But the composition was spoiled by the accidental human subjects. On the bank of the river stood two figures, distant but recognizable. They were recognizable to Cooper, anyway.
One of them was Robert Nield, tall and slightly stooping, dressed in the blue shirt and cream slacks he’d been wearing at the hospital that day. He was talking to another man, older and less tall, one shoulder slightly raised as he turned towards Nield, an expression of appeal on his face. That other man was Sean Deacon.
17
When Fry awoke in her hotel room that morning, she knew from the state of the bedclothes that she’d been dreaming. Dreams always made her toss and turn restlessly, kicking out at the duvet and crumpling the bottom sheet. She had a dim recollection of being lost in a strange city. No, that wasn’t right — it wasn’t a totally strange city, it was like Birmingham in some ways, but unlike it too. She’d known where she wanted to get to, but couldn’t find the way. All the roads had changed, and none of them went where she expected them to. As a result, she’d been getting further and further away from her destination instead of nearer to it. And of course, she’d been running out of time. In every dream she ever had, she was always short of time. Forever in a hurry, and always destined to be late.
As she exercised and showered, Fry slowly began to realize that fragments of real memories had been scattered through her dream. They were elusive recollections, pebbles in the sand, which slithered away when she tried to grope after them. Like the drops of water bouncing off her body, they had pinged against her mind and whizzed away again.
Was this what Rachel Murchison had meant when she talked about hidden memories? But these were more than hidden. These memories were playing a game with her, continually sneaking close enough to be almost within her grasp, then eluding her like slippery balls of soap.
Of course, you brought along a lot of baggage as you went through life. Some of it clung to you so persistently that it weighed you down for years. But surely there was even more baggage that you left behind, wasn’t there? Memories and experiences, and failed relationships, that you shrugged off and left at the roadside when you moved on. She pictured a mass of sagging cardboard suitcases, sealed with grubby parcel tape and bulging at the corners. A long row of them, standing at the edge of a pavement, as if awaiting collection by the binmen, but destined never quite to reach the tip. There wasn’t ever any point in going back and poking open the lids to look at what you’d left behind. The accumulated mould was likely to choke you, the dust to get in your eyes.
Now her body craved action, something to focus the pentup tension, some target to hit out at. Her old shotokan master in Warley had taught her to recognize that feeling and use it. Very soon, she would have to get that release, or the dark well of anger would boil over and the wrong target would be in the way.
An hour later, Fry had eaten her usual light breakfast and was standing on the walkway over the fountains, near the eye-shaped Costa Coffee outlet in Central Square. Office workers in dark suits strolled through the square, past the steps in front of the Italian-style arcade of the 3 Brindleyplace office block.
It was unseasonably warm again. More like July than early June. The weather shouldn’t be quite so humid this early in the summer, not in England. But maybe this was the climate change they’d been warning her about for years, and Birmingham was turning into the new Provence. Soon there’d be vineyards on the slopes of the Lickeys, and olive trees growing on the banks of the Rea.
Well, not really. There’d just be more office workers sweating in their glass towers. Mosquitoes swarming on the scum of the canal. Huge, pale women showing far too much flesh in their halter tops and baggy shorts. Brum would never be Cannes, no matter how much it tried.
Tower blocks were going up again in Birmingham. But now they were high-rent, city-living apartments. The inhabitants of the Chamberlain Tower would never be able to afford to live on the top floors of the Beetham, above the Radisson SAS. She could imagine them having a good laugh when Beetham Tower residents’ cars were trapped in their underground car park for three days by a breakdown in the computerized access system.
When Angie arrived, she was carrying a black shoulder bag.
‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Can we go to your hotel room?’
‘Yes, if you like.’
They went back to the hotel, checking that the housekeeping team had finished with her room, and locked the door.
‘There’s some stuff for you,’ said Angie.
Diane looked at the folder she put on the table.
‘Stuff?’
Angie flicked it casually. ‘Oh, names and addresses, witness statements, signatures of investigating officers, PNC print-outs. Forms and more forms, I don’t know what.’
‘A copy of the case file? You’re kidding.’
‘You’ll be able to tell what it all is, I suppose. I hope it’s what you need.’
Diane opened the file, and read the cover sheet. ‘How on earth did you get hold of all this?’
‘I have my abilities. I’m always unappreciated, of course.’
Leafing through the file, Diane felt her sense of astonishment fighting with a feeling of guilt — guilt at the knowledge she was handling confidential information that should never have left Colmore Circus.
‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask,’ she said, hardly able to look her sister in the eye.
‘That’s usually the best advice.’
‘Are their Phoenix prints here?’
‘Probably. You’ll have to look, won’t you?’
Diane closed the file. She had hardly read a word of it, simply scanned the headings. Case summary, Witness Statement, Record of Interview. And on all of the pages was the familiar black bar — ‘RESTRICTED WHEN COMPLETE’.
‘I’m not sure I can take them,’ she said.
‘This stuff has all the names, doesn’t it? You’ve seen enough to tell that. Suspects, witnesses, alibis — it’s all there, I know it is.’
‘Angie, I’m sorry, but it goes against the grain even to handle something like this, when I know it’s been obtained illegitimately.’
Throwing herself back on the bed, Angie blew out one long, exasperated breath. ‘Oh, you have got to be kidding. What — you’re suddenly going to go all upright and honourable again? You don’t want to put a foot wrong, in case you upset your bosses? That’s the old Diane. Things have changed, Sis. Haven’t you noticed? We’re not playing this game by the rules any more. And that was your decision. Don’t forget that.’
Diane shook her head.
‘Okay, so what are you going to do? Shop me? Betray the only people who are trying to help you? Because it’s either that, or you become an accessory.’
Angie stood up. Finally, Diane forced herself to look at her.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to leave you to think about it. There’s the file. It’s all yours. Now it’s up to you whether you read it or not.’
‘Angie — ’
But her sister was on her way to the door.
‘You know how to get hold of me, if you want to talk about it.’ Angie paused in the doorway. ‘But if you don’t want to, Diane — well, that’s fine too.’
So Angie knew someone who worked West Midlands Police headquarters in Lloyd House. She knew them
