‘Yes,’ said Fry.
It was on the tip of her tongue to deny that Andy Kewley had been her friend. That wasn’t the way she had ever thought of him. A colleague, once. An ex-colleague. But a friend? No.
She held her tongue, though. She sensed it would be the wrong thing to say to Cooper just now.
‘Who do you think killed him?’ he asked. ‘Any theories?’
‘No idea, Ben. I have a feeling he was mixed up with a lot of people, and probably knew too much. Andy always liked to know things. When he was in the job, he hoarded intelligence like a miser. I suppose it made him feel important.’
‘And out of the job?’
‘He still wanted to feel important. Andy was dropping all kinds of hints to me the day before he was killed. I’m willing to bet he did that with other people too.’
‘So if he knew something about the wrong person, or they thought he did…?’
‘They wouldn’t trust him not to share it around. I wouldn’t trust Andy Kewley myself, come to that.’
‘Really?’ said Cooper. ‘But he was your partner.’
‘Ye-es.’
Cooper was silent for a moment as she negotiated the traffic to get on to the inner ring road.
‘Diane,’ he said finally. ‘Do you trust me?’
For a second, Fry opened her mouth to laugh. Then she stopped herself. She was surprised by the knowledge that her own instinctive reaction was wrong.
‘As a matter of fact, Ben,’ she said. ‘I do.’
Satisfied, he stayed quiet as Fry managed to find her way across Digbeth via a few back streets behind the wholesale markets, past warehouses that mostly seemed to be occupied by Chinese bean sprout suppliers.
At the end of Lower Essex Street, workmen were still dismantling the main stage after the Birmingham Pride parade. Cleaners were sweeping up small mountains of brightly coloured streamers and balloons.
Fry had helped police Birmingham Pride once. The parade had set off from Victoria Square on a Saturday afternoon, following an official civic send-off in front of the art gallery. The procession had headed down New Street towards the main shopping area, but had diverged on to Temple Street and returned to the square via Colmore Row, passing the cathedral along the way. When the parade had dispersed, most of the participants made their way half a mile south to continue the celebrations. Many simply walked down Hill Street and crossed Queensway in a sort of ragged, bizarrely dressed crocodile.
And this was the area they had all been heading to — Birmingham’s gay village. Hurst Street and the roads around it, full of bars and clubs, sex shops, the Hippodrome and the National Trust. The council had widened the pavements here to let the bars put tables outside, and they’d planted trees and shrubs, aiming for a more cosmopolitan feel. Barcelona was said to be the model they were aiming for. If only there was a bit of sun.
The bar they wanted was next door to an ex-catalogue furniture warehouse. Inside, a drag act by the name of Lola Lasagne was performing a medley of James Bond theme songs. ‘Diamonds Are Forever’, ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’. Posters advertised next week’s coming attractions. Lady Imelda, Topping and Butch, Miss Thunder Pussy. This is a gay venue said the signs just inside the door.
Cooper stopped suddenly.
‘Diane — ’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
Fry laughed. ‘We could just wait for her to come out, if you like.’
A few minutes later, Angie opened the car door and slipped in.
‘Well?’ asked Diane.
‘Vince is going to get one of them to a meeting tonight.’
‘How did you persuade him to do that?’
Angie smiled. ‘I threatened him.’
‘What with?’
‘Now, Sis, you’re better off not knowing that.’
‘Was he surprised to see you?’
‘You might say that. He looked as though he’d seen a ghost. You didn’t tell him I was dead, did you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Anyway, he’s set up Darren Barnes for us. The one they call Doors.’
‘Good.’
‘We ought to be careful, Di. According to Vince, this bloke has been a hardened criminal since birth.’
Fry’s eyebrows rose. ‘Since birth? Oh, really?’
‘Well…’ Angie shrugged. ‘Maybe he stabbed his midwife with the forceps. I don’t know.’
‘Okay, so this isn’t some casual tea-leaf. What difference does it make?’
‘He’ll have the contacts, that’s the difference. You don’t spend a lifetime in crime without bumping into a few serious players along the way. He’s had several spells inside, for a start. He’ll know pretty much anyone who’s anyone in the Winson Green old boys club.’
‘Including Ozzy Osbourne, then?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Sharon’s husband,’ said Cooper.
‘I said never mind.’
‘What is this, anyway?’ asked Cooper. ‘Who’s Vince?’
‘My foster brother, Vincent Bowskill. He has contacts in some of these street gangs.’
Cooper looked concerned. ‘What are you getting into, Diane? This sounds very dangerous.’
‘Gangs control everything that goes on in some of these areas, Ben.’
‘Yes, I know that. I’ve heard of some of them. The Johnson Crew, the Burger Bar Boys…they shoot people on the streets. Innocent bystanders, sometimes.’
‘Congratulations, you’ve read the Daily Mail.’
They left Angie heading for the gay village Tesco Express on the corner of Hurst Street. An emergency point was located at the bottom of Kent Street, a CCTV camera pointing up the road, ready for trouble. But not even Angie could get into much trouble in Tesco’s.
‘I’d better get back to Derbyshire,’ said Cooper. ‘I have lots of things to do tomorrow.’
‘Fine. I’ll take you back to your car. And thanks for coming, I guess.’
‘No problem. You’re pretty much finished here, aren’t you?’
‘Do you think so?’ said Fry, tempted to cross her fingers behind her back. He really didn’t need to know what she was going to do next.
Earlier she’d told Cooper that she trusted him. And that was true, wasn’t it? The knowledge made her feel guilty that she wasn’t telling him everything. One day soon, she would have to sit down with him and tell him the whole story. He was, after all, the only person she could do that with. It had taken her a long time to come to the realization. And now was the wrong time for it.
‘I mean, you’re not going to do anything?’ said Cooper.
‘I’ll probably just say goodbye to a few people,’ she said.
Cooper frowned. ‘Well, okay. I’ll see you back in Edendale, then.’
‘Probably.’
Cooper turned to look at her, halfway to his car. He shook his head, as if brushing off an annoying fly, and climbed into his Toyota to drive back to Derbyshire.
Cooper steered his car towards the Aston Expressway and the M6. His last sight of Birmingham was the concrete pillars supporting the tangle of slip roads at Spaghetti Junction.
Diane Fry might think the violent gang culture of the city was something alien to him that he would never understand. But gang warfare had come to Derbyshire. Less than two years ago, the first killing had happened in the city of Derby, when a fifteen-year-old boy died in a drive-by shooting, blasted twice in the chest at close range as he walked into a park with friends. The first fatality in a dispute between the Browning Circle Terrorists and the A1 Crew.
