Lost River

13

Diane Fry remembered the immediate aftermath of the attack in Digbeth that night. In those first few minutes, her thoughts lost in a turmoil of shock and pain and fear, it had been foremost in her mind to say nothing about what had happened to anyone, or not to report it as a rape, at least. She’d felt so ashamed that it had happened, shuddered at the thought of what people would say — and, worse, what they would be thinking. The idea of going back to the car and telling Andy Kewley, then having to explain it again to her colleagues, over and over again, the way she knew that it went…well, she could hardly bear to think about it.

She recalled standing in the darkness, clinging to the wire fence to support herself, then searching on the ground for her radio handset, finding the pieces crushed into the dirt, feeling in the pockets of her jacket for her phone before realizing that it had been taken.

And then she had sobbed for the first time, feeling herself so desperately alone and helpless in the darkness, terrified of what might be lurking in the shadows, frightened of what lay waiting for her back in the glare of the streetlights. She was scared to be alone, yet more afraid of being with other people. Her skin crawled with disgust, her body’s instinct was to shut down, to turn away from the world and curl up in a ball.

She also remembered hearing the sound of water. The dirty brown River Rea sucking against the bricks, thick and sludged with rubbish, carrying away the dirt and detritus of Digbeth. She thought of the river disappearing under the walls of factories, deep in its own tunnel, water swirling in the darkness where no one would ever see it.

Why not another piece of debris, a bit of rubbish used and tossed aside by the world? It would be so much easier than all the endless hassle and humiliation that faced her. So much more final, so quick, so inviting…

‘Do you think it’s because you’re a cop?’

Angie was doing her best. Understanding didn’t come naturally to her, but even she was shocked by the suddenness of the blow that had fallen, and the effect it had on her sister. They were in Diane’s room in the hotel off Broad Street, the only place Diane could tolerate for a meeting. Thank God for the anonymity of a hotel, where no one knew who she was, or cared.

‘Why would you think that?’ she said.

‘I dunno. I’m just turning things over in my head, and that’s what came out of my mouth. It’s just that it all feels, well…’

‘Wrong?’

‘Yeah. Well, damn it — it’s definitely that.’

‘Yes.’

Diane flopped back on her bed. They sat silently together for a few minutes. If she closed her eyes, she could picture herself back in Warley as a twelve-year-old, telling her big sister her troubles, waiting for Angie to come up with a solution and make everything right again.

‘Diane, you’re not going to let them get away with this, are you? What are you going to do?’

Opening her eyes again, Diane found herself staring at the ceiling, saw the winking red light of a smoke alarm and the sprinkler. A hotel room. Oh yes, she’d forgotten. It was entirely up to her to make her own decisions now.

‘It’s the system,’ she said. ‘It’s as if every victim of rape is given a raffle ticket, and one ticket is pulled out of a bowl. Then the CPS says “We’ll take that one to court, we’ll not take that one, or that one.” The CPS has a lot to answer for. It’s no wonder people who don’t get convictions stop believing in the system. If I met a rape victim right now, I’d tell her to have a bath and get counselling.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ said Angie.

Diane sighed. ‘No.’

She felt so helpless, knowing the men were still out there and would probably do it again. Because most of them did do it again. And so many women who’d gone through the experience still continued to blame themselves. Healing was difficult to achieve. She wasn’t sure whether she’d ever be able to describe herself as healed.

She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d been reduced to a case file. Somewhere there was a charge sheet, a witness statement, an interview record, a list of key exhibits. She was starting to feel like an exhibit herself. I present to the jury Exhibit A. Examine it at your leisure.

The file would also contain a Phoenix print, a PNC print-out of the suspects’ previous convictions and cautions. What she wouldn’t give to get access to that print-out.

‘I might talk to Andy Kewley, see if he knows anything else. I’d like to know more about this William Leeson he mentioned, for a start — what is his connection to this case? He’s a lawyer, so has he put some legal block in the way of a conviction? Andy might be able to tell me, if he dares. But he’s scared of something. Or somebody.’

‘And he’s reporting back,’ Angie reminded her.

‘I know.’

‘I don’t like this Kewley, Diane.’

‘I didn’t say I liked him either. But he’s useful. And he was my old partner. There ought to be some loyalty there still.’

Diane thought back to her meeting with Kewley in the cemetery. Had he been right, after all? Had she been sacrificed for some purpose she wasn’t even aware of? I mean any case, no matter who the victim is. Anybody can get tossed aside, if it suits them. Yes, justice was a slippery concept indeed.

Angie shook her head. ‘I really don’t like him, Diane. And I don’t trust him. I think he’s dirty. I think he probably always was dirty.’

‘Maybe he was. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Like Hell it doesn’t. You suspected him yourself, didn’t you? That was why you wanted to follow him. I know this sort of character. He’s playing both sides. If you don’t watch him, he’ll lead you into a trap, Sis. Someone wants you to mess up big time.’

‘Angie, we don’t have a lot of choice.’

‘Well, I don’t trust him, and that’s that.’

Seeing her sister’s stubborn expression, Diane had a momentary shock when she realized that she was the one arguing against Angie’s scruples. That shouldn’t be the case. It was the wrong way round.

‘But who do we trust? Who is there we can trust?’

Angie laughed. It was a short, bitter laugh that seemed to sum up decades of hard experience.

‘No one, Sis,’ she said. ‘There’s no one we can trust.’

Diane thought about the information that Blake and his team must have, the evidence that she’d never been given access to. She was the IP, the victim. She didn’t get that sort of information. But somewhere there were names in a file — the names and addresses of suspects, and of witnesses. There were DNA profiles and results from a database search. Even the medical examiner’s report on her injuries after the assault. Her file would consist of at least forty pieces of paper, probably over a hundred. It was all there, if she knew how to get hold of it. But then, if she did get her hands on that information, what would she do with it?

Diane’s muscles tensed and her fists clenched as her body responded to the thought.

‘What are you thinking, Sis?’ said Angie. ‘I don’t like the look on your face. You’re scaring me.’

Diane sat up. ‘I need to know the names of those witnesses. Why did the key witness change her mind and decide not to testify? If only I could get my hands on their statements.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. I need to get details of those two men — Marcus Shepherd and Darren Barnes. Addresses, aliases, their known associates. And photographs. I need photographs.’

‘You can get that sort of information from the police computer, can’t you?’ said Angie.

‘The PNC, yes. But I can’t do that here in Birmingham. I can hardly go to Gareth Blake and ask him to look it up for me.’

Angie nodded. ‘Right. Well, it’s a pity you can’t just nip back to Derbyshire, then. Or…have someone up there do it for you?’

Cooper was surprised to get the call from Diane Fry. He’d thought about trying her number a couple of times, but changed his mind when he considered how unlikely it was that she’d want to talk to him. Now, when he took the call, he was so taken aback that he thought she must have the wrong number.

‘You’ve been wandering around Birmingham?’ he said. ‘On your own?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Is it safe?’

‘Yes, of course it’s safe. You just need to have your wits about you, that’s all.’

‘All right.’

‘Besides, I’m not on my own.’

‘Oh, is that West Midlands DI with you?’

‘Gareth Blake? No, not him. I meant Angie.’

‘Oh.’

Cooper felt cold at the idea of Fry teaming up with her sister in Birmingham. He wondered if Fry really knew what she was doing.

‘Actually, I’m calling to ask for a favour,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

Fry asking him for a favour? Had things really come to this?

‘Why do you need me to do this? What’s wrong with your friends in the West Midlands?’

‘Ben, I just want it done discreetly, okay?’

That sounded more like the Diane Fry that he knew. He could hear the edge of irritation in her voice, the tone that she almost always used to him. Back to normal.

Fry explained to him what she wanted. It was a simple enough request, details that he could access easily enough.

But Cooper was frowning when he put the phone down. Something didn’t feel right about this. Diane Fry had always insisted on doing things by the book, and she was his supervising officer. If he’d done this on his own initiative, he would have been in trouble. Being asked to do it by Fry was completely counter to his experience.

Was it safe? Fry laughed at the recollection of Ben Cooper’s ignorance. She could almost see the pictures that had been going through his head. The mean streets, violent drunks and aggressive vagrants, junkies and psychopaths. Drug dealers with nine millimetre Glocks shoved down the waistbands of their baggy trousers. The Peak District had ruined him. Cooper would never now move into the twenty-first century.

Angie had left the hotel, gone back to wherever it was she came from. Still she hadn’t offered any information about herself. She never said where she went or where she came from, what part of the city she was living in, who she might be sharing her life with. Her sister was determined to keep a distance between them. And that was perfectly okay with her.

Fry hated sitting around, doing nothing. But what was there that she could do while she waited for information?

She dialled the number in Perry Barr, picturing Jim Bowskill on the doorstep in his Harrington jacket, sorting out his wheelie bins.

‘Dad?’

‘Hello, love. How are you doing?’

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘I just wondered if you could tell me where Vince lives now.’

‘You’re planning to go and see Vincent?’

‘Yes.’ She tried to detect the tone of his voice, and wished she could see his face. ‘There’s no problem with that, is there?’

‘No, no. He’s around. I’ll find you the address.’

He put the phone down on the table, and Fry heard him fussing about the room, then saying something quietly, Alice’s voice replying. She wondered if Jim really needed to go and look the address up. His memory wasn’t that bad yet, was it?

‘Yes, here we are,’ he said cheerfully, when he came back. ‘He managed to get a flat in one of the old tower blocks, Chamberlain Tower. Flat 1620. That’s quite a way up, on the sixteenth floor.’

Fry made a note. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

She could hear him breathing, trying to think what else to say. She wondered whether she could prompt him to get whatever it was off his chest. Or would she just make him clam up?

‘Diane, are you sure you want to go and see him?’ he asked finally.

‘Yes, of course. I haven’t seen Vince for ages.’

‘Well, you ought to know then…’

‘Yes? What, Dad?’

‘You see…he has this girl living with him.’

Fry laughed. ‘Is that all? I thought it was going to be something terrible. So Vince has got himself a girlfriend. That’s perfectly normal.’

‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose so.’

Cooper could not explain the sudden surge of pleasure at being asked for his help by Diane Fry. It was something he had thought would never happen. Probably that was why it meant so much — the pure rarity value of it.

Some of the information she wanted was easy enough to access. Marcus Shepherd and Darren Joseph Barnes were well documented on the PNC. Intelligence provided their addresses, known associates, and aliases. These two were called S-Man and Doors by their friends. He printed out their previous convictions. There were photographs, too. He hoped it was what Fry needed.

The solicitor, William Leeson, was more difficult. He only had an expired conviction for minor fraud, and a note of disciplinary action taken against him by the Law Society.

Cooper did a search on the Law Society’s database, found several Leesons practising around the country. But most of them were female, and almost all of them partners in firms in London or the South of England. It looked as though William Leeson had been struck off.

He tried for a while longer, but failed to come up with anything else. There was no William Leeson in the phone book, or on any of the electoral registers for the West Midlands. He wasn’t listed at Companies House as a director of any company. Left the country, perhaps. Taken his ill-gotten gains and fled to the Costa Brava. Well, it happened.

If Diane Fry had been here with him in the office, he could have talked it over with her, bounced ideas around, asked questions, challenged each other’s opinions. It had always worked well in the past.

But Fry wasn’t here. She was a long way from Edendale. And without her, he was only operating like half a man.