Lane — the Old Crown, its fourteenth-century origins written on the back wall. Fry noticed a martial arts academy in a yard under one of the railway viaducts, close to the campanile of Father Lopes’ Chapel.
The buildings of the Custard Factory were painted in pastel colours. Blue, green, pink. A metallic dragon guarded a small lake. A giant living tree statue of a green man loomed over Pagan Place, with empty eye sockets and rain water dripping from his mouth.
Some entrepreneur had taken a massive punt on this project. Scattered around the area now were trendy venues and exhibition spaces. Barfly, Vivid, the Medicine Bar. All tucked in among the old factories, like wild flowers blooming in a desert.
‘Louise Jones was leaving the publisher’s offices in the Custard Factory,’ she said. ‘They’d been holding some kind of public event — a book launch party, or something like that. People had been drinking until quite late. Miss Jones probably stayed behind to help clear up.’
‘And to chuck out the drunks, from what I hear about publishing.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And as she came out to get her car, she looked down the street, and she saw two males running away from the patch of wasteland.’
‘That’s it. One black male and one white.’
‘Marcus Shepherd and Darren Barnes.’
Fry looked around. ‘That means they must have been on the other side of the river, though.’
As they went up the steps into Heath Mill Lane, the paving under the walkway was treacherously slippery after the fresh rain.
‘What was the piece of wasteland?’
‘I don’t know. Some old disused factory yard, or a demolition site.’
The Connemara wasn’t the only pub in this area. She noticed the Floodgate Tavern standing on the corner of Floodgate Street and Little Ann Street.
‘So, if the DNA results are correct, there must have been a third person.’
‘I do have a vague recollection, but it’s too confused for me to be certain.’
The entrance to the car park on Heath Mill Lane was bordered by a twenty-five-foot wall made of compacted cars — crushed engine mountings, ripped tyres, even the old carpets from footwells, still full of the debris left by their drivers. Another symbolic statement of some kind?
In the nearby streets, taxis were parked by the kerbside waiting for repair. A small engineering workshop stood under the arch of the railway viaduct, now hung with weeds and saplings re-colonizing the brickwork. Every yard and alley was protected by steel security fencing.
‘I’m not sure this is going to help,’ said Fry.
‘Memories emerge gradually. The more reminders you get, the better.’
Fry stood on the brick steps leading down to the river, watching the oily flow, touching the tall stems of the wild plants that she knew would burst into purple flowers later in the summer. She turned the page of her A to Z, trying to trace the river’s route. It wasn’t an easy task — the line on the map was narrow, and broken in places, weaving between a network of roads and canals.
She found the Lickey Hills to the south of Birmingham. It was from here that the Rea came into the city, meandered its way through Canon Hill Park, skirted Edgbaston cricket ground, and crossed Belgrave Middleway, before being swallowed up by the industrial belt. From there, it was pretty much a forgotten river — visible only from derelict factories, or glimpsed from the car park of Maini’s cash and carry. Even train passengers might fail to notice it as they crossed the viaduct over Floodgate Street. Boaters on the Grand Union Canal might be aware of the dirty brown river flowing beneath their aqueduct at Warwick Bar. But within a few metres it had disappeared again under the freightliner terminal in Montague Street.
Somewhere north of Washwood Heath, the Rea finally merged with the Tame under the shadow of Spaghetti Junction. Along the way, the river had picked up a tide of industrial debris, sucking the grime out of miles of crumbling brickwork and nineteenth-century foundations.
The purple flowers were rosebay willowherb, she recalled — a weed that had been the bane of life for her foster parents, who’d run a plant nursery in Halesowen, a bit too close to a railway embankment that had been allowed to run wild. All of those clumps of weed were an unwelcome intrusion from the countryside. Their seeds must drift in on the wind from the Lickeys, or cling to the feathers of birds roosting in the parks. Maybe they even floated in on the rivers too, swept past Longridge and under the factories of Digbeth on the muddy surface of the Rea. Left to itself, she supposed willowherb would re-colonize the city, cover the whole of Birmingham in purple flowers and clouds of white seed-heads.
Thank goodness for the parks department with their backpacks full of weed killer, spraying a barrier of poison against the forces of nature.
Fry looked round for Cooper. Angie had backed out of coming with her on this visit, claiming that she had other things to do.
‘Does that mean I have to do this on my own?’ Diane had said.
But Cooper had stepped forward. ‘I’ll come with you.’
And that had been that. Fry hadn’t commented on her sister’s attitude, but Cooper couldn’t resist.
‘I would have thought that Angie could be with you,’ he said. ‘Now, of all times.’
Fry had shrugged then.
‘You know, Ben,’ she said, ‘I don’t care any more.’
Fry gestured at the water as Cooper came alongside her.
‘There you go,’ she said. ‘That’s the River Rea. Birmingham’s forgotten treasure.’
Cooper was startled by the change in her. This wasn’t the Diane Fry he knew. The look she gave him when she said ‘I don’t care any more’ was almost a challenge, as if she wanted him to provoke her, to push her too far. She was turning into a different person in front of his eyes, and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. Perhaps he hadn’t really got to know her very well in these past few years. This side of her had been pretty well hidden, anyway.
Now, standing in Digbeth, he looked down at the dirty brown water, trying to see it as a treasure. But the River Dove was still in his mind, clear and cold, flowing down from the hills.
‘People associate London with the Thames, Liverpool with the Mersey, and Newcastle with the Tyne. But to generations of Brummies, the River Rea is a mystery. Most of them don’t even know their city possesses a river. They think they just have canals.’
‘To be honest, it’s not very impressive,’ said Cooper.
‘Maybe not,’ admitted Fry. ‘But it’s not the river itself that’s important, is it? It’s what’s on the banks of the river that matters.’
Fry’s phone rang. She could see from the caller display who it was.
‘Do I want to talk to her?’ she said out loud.
‘Who?’ asked Cooper.
‘My sister.’
‘Perhaps you’d better.’
Cooper walked away a few yards, to give her some privacy. Perhaps he thought they were going to have a row. If so, he was disappointed.
‘You need a bloke called Eddie Doyle,’ said Angie.
‘Who’s he?’
‘William Leeson’s partner. Or ex partner, at least.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘I looked him up on Facebook.’
‘What?’
‘Well, ask a stupid question…’
Fry turned impatiently, scowled at Cooper as if it was his fault.
‘What was that name again?’
‘Eddie Doyle. They say you might find him at the Irish Club, if the bar’s open.’
‘Thanks, Angie.’
‘You didn’t sound all that pleased to hear from me, Di. Were you expecting someone else?’
‘I was hoping for a call from Vince. He hasn’t been in touch yet about getting me within arm’s length of
