‘I guess you’re not up on hip-hop music. Never heard of Dead Prez?’
‘You got that right.’
‘Dead Prez are a political hip-hop duo. M-1 and Stic Man.’
‘Well, I suppose that could be it,’ said Diane. ‘Or the Ml carbine. But that’s an antique weapon, World War Two vintage. Not the sort of thing our Birmingham gangsters are likely to use, when they have access to MAC-10 machine pistols.’
‘No. It would be far too uncool.’
The Connemara was spilling out customers into the night. There were lights at the end of Heath Mill Lane, but they only made the railway viaduct looked blacker, the shadows of the factories darker. A stretch of fence by the waste ground glittered like a pattern of slug trails. The river ran under the road here, but you would never know it existed.
‘So, would you be able to get hold of a gun, if you needed to?’ asked Diane.
‘What? Can’t you?’
‘Well, not officially.’
‘You mean an illegal firearm, then?’ said Angie. ‘Is that it, Di? And you think I might have the contacts, I suppose.’
‘I hear it’s not too difficult, if you know the right people.’
Angie gazed out of the window. ‘No, it isn’t. Everyone knows you can get hold of a gun in a couple of hours. It’s a piece of cake.’
Diane felt she ought to be reading something into the tone of her sister’s response.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ said Angie. ‘I’ve just realized that you’re finally starting to know me a bit better.’
A man walked past their car, stopped, and looked back. He hesitated for a moment, then hurried on, his neck hunched into his collar, as if to avoid the evil eye.
‘So, did you actually want a gun?’ asked Angie.
‘No.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Illegal firearms are too easy to trace now,’ said Diane. ‘There’s a NABIS hub right here in Birmingham.’
Angie laughed uneasily. But a few moments later, she seemed, to pick up on the train of thought.
‘Diane, it’s supposed to be just Darren Barnes, but you know…’
‘His mates might not be far away, of course. The first rule is not to trust anyone. He’ll know that.’
‘If this goes wrong, we’re dead.’
‘No,’ said Diane. ‘You’re not dead until three minutes after you stop breathing.’
‘That’s good to know. Oh, and by the way, it’s getting near time.’
‘Okay.’
Diane twisted in her seat and strapped on the scabbard for her extendable baton. Police officers called the baton an ASP, after the name of the American manufacturer. It consisted of six inches of heavy-duty steel, extending to sixteen inches when fully racked. It was supposed to have an unparalleled deterrent effect.
Most CID officers simply carried the weapon in their pocket, but on Diane’s slender build the bulge of the closed ASP was noticeable. So she’d bought herself a back pocket scabbard with a Velcro flap which stopped the baton falling out when she ran. When she put on her jacket, the outline was barely visible.
She’d brought the baton with her from Derbyshire. But the one thing she didn’t have with her was a stab vest. She realized she was thinking like a police officer again now, performing a mental risk assessment before an operation. It felt wrong to be putting her sister in jeopardy, just as she would worry about sending one of her team into a dangerous situation without proper back-up and the right equipment. Once you learned those ways of thinking, they were difficult to get out of. Habits were so hard to break.
She had no personal radio tonight either. But a mobile phone turned to vibrate was almost as good. She looked at her sister. Whether she could rely on her back-up, she wasn’t so certain. She ought to accept that she was alone from the word ‘go’.
‘I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing,’ said Angie. ‘But I’m trying to think of it as restorative justice.’
Angie looked at her sister, surprised by her silence, and blinked at her expression.
‘Diane, say something. You’re scaring me again.’
Trouble was waiting for Ben Cooper when he arrived home in Edendale. Liz was in his flat in Welbeck Street. Had she used the front door key he’d given her, or had Mrs Shelley let her in? He didn’t get a chance to ask.
Liz stood up when he came in. Her body was tense, her eyes challenging. She had come ready for an argument.
‘So. What’s going on, Ben?’
‘Not even a hello?’ said Cooper.
‘Answer me.’
He wanted to move towards her and put his arms around her. It was what he would normally have done. If he could do it now, everything would be all right. But her attitude held him back. It was as if she’d erected some kind of force field between them that pushed him away.
‘I’ve been to Birmingham,’ he said. ‘I told you.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Yes, I — ’
‘No. You haven’t told me the truth. I know you too well, Ben. I can tell when you’re keeping something from me. I’m just wondering now how long this has been going on.’
Her face was a mask, her lips set in a hard line. Cooper could feel the chill in the air. He looked around for the cat, but it was hiding somewhere. Sensible animal.
‘How long what’s been going on?’
‘You tell me. That’s what I’m here for.’
Cooper tried to think of a way of getting Liz to relax, to persuade her to sit down at least. There had to be a means of defusing the situation somehow. Otherwise the conversation would follow a predictable script, accusation following denial, suspicion becoming anger, until it had degenerated into an exchange of insults.
‘Look, Liz, let me get you a coffee. A drink, maybe? And then we can talk about things calmly.’
‘I am calm.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Her voice was beginning to rise. Cooper winced as a shrill edge entered her tone. He paced the room nervously, hoping against hope that she wasn’t going to throw the one accusation at him that would take the situation beyond recovery.
‘I want to know about you and Diane Fry,’ she said. ‘I know there’s something going on. Ben, I want to know whether it’s the end of the road for you and me.’
And then Cooper knew there was nothing he could say that would avoid a blazing row.
On a back street in Digbeth, Angie Fry sat up suddenly, adjusting the car’s rear-view mirror to look over her shoulder.
‘He’s here,’ she said.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ asked Diane.
‘Well, he doesn’t look as though he’s going to the poetry reading.’
‘How many?’
‘Just him.’
‘Darren Barnes?’
‘If Vince has done his job right.’
‘Well, he’s not exactly Mister Reliable.’
Diane remembered the description in Louise Jones’ witness statement. The first male was white, skinny build, I would say probably approx five feet eight inches tall. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt and jeans. She recalled that the other man, Marcus Shepherd, had been much bigger, a six footer, and more powerfully built. She hoped Vince had made the right choice.
Barnes had parked down the street, beyond the pub and the car park. His vehicle looked like some kind of convertible.
