Angie was leafing through a copy of Yellow Pages that she’d found in a drawer.
‘Yep, it’s listed.’
‘Nothing like being up front. I’ll phone them.’
‘And say what?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Diane.
But the woman who answered the phone said that Tanya didn’t work at the Rosebud any more. Another missing witness, like Louise Jones? If Diane had been a man, she guessed she would have been offered someone else’s services at this point, probably received the hard sell. But that didn’t happen.
‘Have you got Tanya’s home address, please?’
The woman sounded outraged. ‘No, I soddin’ haven’t.’
‘You must keep addresses on file. It’s one of the conditions of your licence.’
‘There was a moment’s silence. ‘You’re the police aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say so? I always co-operate with your lot. Are you trying to catch me out, or something?’
‘If you could just give me Tanya’s address…?’
Angie had been listening with interest, and stood up when she’d finished the call.
‘Where, then?’
‘Off the Hagley Road.’
‘Naturally.’
At one time, prostitution in Birmingham used to be concentrated around Balsall Heath. A campaign by local residents and businesses had succeeded in driving most sex workers out of the area. But, of course, the problem just went somewhere else.
That somewhere else was the Edgbaston area, in several streets off the Hagley Road. It seemed to reach its peak near the Plough and Harrow. There were also reports of girls still operating around Speedwell Road, Hockley, and even in the Jewellery Quarter. Competition and a dependency on drugs had driven the going rate down to twenty pounds for a quickie in the back of a car. Surveys suggested that most people didn’t really mind the sex trade, as long as it went on behind closed doors, rather than on their street corner. The problems that residents had with prostitution were based on needles and condoms being left in places where they shouldn’t be, and vehicles driving aimlessly around looking for girls.
West Midlands Police now had active patrols in those areas and were taking a tougher line with the problem. Once happy to caution a driver for kerb crawling they were now arresting the offender and carting them off to the police station. A call was then made to their home address to verify the person’s identity, and the police would press charges.
The police said they were acting in the interests of both the girls and local residents. Many of the sex workers were beaten up, abused by pimps, and addicted to drugs. Some had even been murdered. Many were under age. But there were plenty of massage parlours in Birmingham offering sexual services, and these were seldom raided unless problems occurred. The girls at a massage parlour were less likely to be abused, less likely to annoy the locals, and far less likely to be taking drugs.
And getting girls off the streets of Birmingham only moved the problem from one place to another — in this case, the Black Country. Some said that Walsall had become the sex capital of the West Midlands.
‘How do we go about being unobtrusive in that area?’ said Diane. ‘Especially at this time of night. I’m not going to walk up and down Hagley Road like a prostitute. I couldn’t do it.’
Angie looked at her oddly. ‘I could.’
Diane studied her sister. A denial was on the tip of her tongue, but something made her stay silent. She was seeing Angie from a different perspective, picturing her standing on a street corner, looking available, trying to catch the eye of a passing motorist. Yes, she was right. Angie could do it, and wouldn’t look too out of place. Given the right clothes, anyway.
‘I know just what I’d need,’ said Angie.
‘Not for the first time, Diane wished her sister would stop reading her mind.
‘Forget it’, she said. ‘I’m going on my own anyway.’
20
At Five Ways, the road that had been Broad Street crossed the Middleway and became Hagley Road. This was the very northern end of Edgbaston, bordering on the reservoir — a long way from the cricket ground and the Priory Hospital.
J.R.R. Tolkien had lived around here somewhere. They said that the Two Towers were inspired by Perrott’s Folly and the nearby waterworks. There was a Tolkien Trail, Lord of the Rings postcards, and a Middle Earth weekend every May. Fry was glad she hadn’t arrived during that event. Imagine being surrounded by crowds of orcs and hobbits with bad breath and Birmingham accents. Wasn’t that one of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell? Somewhere between Violence and Heresy.
As a rule, enthusiasms didn’t come naturally to Brummies. They were usually careful to avoid emotional extremes, an attitude reflected in their accent. Other urban voices sounded strident, but the natural Brummie tone hovered somewhere between bewilderment and despair. And that was an understandable way of looking at the world, when you thought about it.
Fry could see a couple of tom carders working the phone boxes, sticking up adverts for massages and personal services. There were plenty of people glad to earn a few quid for work like that. So as quick as the council took them down, the cards were replaced. It was all the old stuff.
Andy Kewley called her back while she was standing outside a little Asian-run supermarket called Safebury’s.
‘I’ll talk,’ he said. ‘But not on the phone, obviously. I want to tell you about William Leeson.’
‘What is it about this Leeson?’
‘He’s the man who’s up to his neck in everything. It’s amazing that he’s survived this long, to be honest. I’d like to see you bring him down, Diane. You could be the person to do it.’
‘Okay. When do you want to meet?’
‘Tonight. Late, while there’s no one about.’
‘Andy, you’re getting really paranoid.’
‘You understand, Diane,’ said Kewley. ‘You know the score.’
‘No, I don’t think I do. Explain it to me.’
‘Well, you know what they say about things you don’t like being generally best swept under the carpet?’
‘I don’t have carpets in my house, Andy. I like nice, clean tiles.’
‘Diane, I want to help, I really do. But there are complications. Just take what I can give you and accept it as it’s intended. Don’t ask me too many questions. Trust me, it’s for the best.’
Fry grimaced. There was that word again. Trust. She had a negative reaction every time she heard it.
She sighed. ‘It’s the cemetery again, I suppose?’
‘Unless you’ve got a better idea.’
‘Oh, no. It’s becoming my favourite place.’
Tanya Spiers had an address in a City Estates flat near Perrott’s Folly. As Fry passed the Church of the Redeemer, a black youth stopped her to ask for twenty pence to buy a bag of rice at Safebury’s. For once, she forked out. It was a novel excuse, and twenty pence was hardly enough reward for his imagination. There was always a chance that he was telling the truth, too.
A powerful smell of blossom reached her from the gardens around Perrott’s Folly, reminding her of the cemetery at Warstone Lane.
At least these weren’t tower blocks. These flats were built on a more human scale. But Tanya Spiers wasn’t home — or at least wasn’t answering her door. Maybe she took a pill and slept through the day.
Fry pulled out one of her cards and scribbled a message on the back before pushing it through the letter box.
