Lost River (23 page)

‘I’m looking for William Leeson,’ she said.

Doyle took another drink. ‘You still haven’t told me who you are.’

Fry drew further away from Doyle. Stale alcohol seemed to leak out of his skin in place of sweat.

‘I don’t need to tell you anything,’ she said.

‘Snap.’

‘You don’t sound very Irish, Mr Doyle.’

‘I’m third generation, which makes me practically royalty among this lot.’ He nodded at a crowd of men round the bar.

‘Look at these plastic paddies. Listen to them all, over there in the Irish Club, singing their pathetic rebel songs. They think the old country is some kind of romantic paradise.
Tir na nog,
the land of the ever young. A Shangri-la out in the west, on the edge of the world. My God. Have you been to Ireland recently?’

‘Yes, as a matter fact.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘A lot of pink bungalows, and new shopping developments,’ said Fry.

‘Exactly. And it’s as bad out west in County Galway as it is in Dublin. The Irish government got a shedload of European money, and they spent it building as much tat as could be fit into Ireland.’

Doyle was smiling at her, which she didn’t like. Fry was starting to wish Cooper would appear. How long had she told him to wait? Could he actually tell when five minutes were up, or was he still on country time?

Taking advantage of her silence, Doyle leaned closer.

‘Some of these people started drinking here when another Irish pub up the road was burned down in an arson attack a few years ago.’

‘Oh? Terrorism came a bit close to home, did it?’

‘Ah, well. No one was ever convicted of arson, so it might just have been kids, you know?’

‘Sure.’

‘No, really,’ said Doyle. ‘It was a decent place. Full of Brummie Irish, of course, but it served the best pint of Guinness in Birmingham.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Doyle snorted.

‘Plastic paddies,’ he said. ‘You know what they say – a typical Brummie is the one wearing a shamrock in his turban.’

‘Very funny. You know what, Mr Doyle – I’m starting to get tired of the atmosphere in here.’

‘No, don’t go. We don’t get much female company in here.’

‘I can’t imagine why.’

Doyle looked past her shoulder and nodded resignedly.

‘Oh, how typical. You didn’t say you’d brought the boyfriend with you.’

Cooper stood over him, saying nothing. He did that pretty well, Fry thought. Maybe it would be better if he said nothing more often.

Nervously, Doyle stared into his glass. ‘I suppose you’re the police.’

‘You want to see our warrant cards?’

He flapped his hands anxiously. ‘No, no. Not in here. Let’s keep it friendly, all right?’

‘Suits us,’ said Fry. ‘Perhaps we could buy you another drink? That would look really friendly, wouldn’t it?’

‘Okay.’ Doyle looked up at Cooper, and tried a smile. ‘A malt whisky. Laphroaig would be lovely.’

Cooper didn’t smile back. His fixed stare and slightly unshaven look made him look a bit intimidating, as if he was a borderline psychopath who might lose control at any moment. He was getting good at that, too.

‘You could see if they’ve got anything non-alcoholic for me,’ said Fry.

Doyle waited until he had his drink, and took a swig of whisky that added an extra flush to his face.

‘So. Is this about the ex-copper who got killed last night?’

‘What do you know about that?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just what everyone seems to be talking about today. So I thought…well, obviously I was wrong.’

‘If you do know anything…’ said Fry.

‘Of course.’ He took another sip of his Laphroaig. ‘I’ll be a helpful citizen.’

Fry didn’t altogether believe him. But the news of Andy Kewley’s death had undoubtedly been on the local news today, and would be in the evening papers later on. The murder of a former police officer was likely to create a few waves. It was certainly enough to take everyone’s attention off her for a while, which was a good thing right now.

‘So…’ said Fry.

Doyle frowned at her, as if he’d forgotten the original question.

‘William Leeson. That’s who I asked you about.’

‘Oh, yes. Will Leeson used to be my partner,’ he said.

‘We know that.’

‘Leeson and Doyle. We were small scale, never likely to be among the big boys. But I was quite happy with that. A steady criminal practice, it kept me in whisky. There’s no shortage of crime in Brum.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘But Leeson wasn’t happy with that. He had big ideas, got greedy. You’ve no idea the sort of people he got involved with. Anyone who had money, no matter what they did to earn it. He made a lot of enemies, did Will Leeson. And some worse friends.’

‘He got struck off, didn’t he?’ said Fry.

‘Damn right. It was only a matter of time. Trouble was, he took me down with him. Bastard.’

‘Tell me some of the people he was involved with.’

‘No way. I want to live.’

‘I can’t think why.’

Doyle snapped. ‘There were some of you lot, for a start. Dirty coppers. Birmingham was full of them. Maybe still is.’

Names?’ said Fry.

He shook his head. ‘Bollocks.’

Fry could see that one more drink would put Doyle beyond use.

‘All right. I need to talk to William Leeson. Tell me how I can find him, and we’ll leave you alone with your plastic paddies.’

Doyle looked from her to Cooper, and drew a beer mat towards him. Fry handed him a pen, and he scrawled an address and a mobile phone number in an unsteady hand.

‘That’s all you’re getting.’

Fry read the address. ‘It’ll do.’

Then he peered at her again, his eyes suggesting that his brain cells might finally be working properly.

‘I know who you are now,’ he said. ‘Listen – you’re better
off staying out of it. Don’t chase after Will Leeson. You’ll regret it.’

‘Thanks for offering the legal advice, Mr Doyle. But I just dispensed with your services.’

He sighed.

‘All right, it’s up to you. Only – don’t punish the monkey, okay?’

Cooper hesitated on the pavement when they left the pub.

‘“Punish the monkey”? What did he mean?’

‘I’ve no idea, Ben.’

But Fry thought about it as they walked back to the car. There was an expression that people used when they didn’t want to deal with a minion, but only the boss.
I’ll talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey.
Was that what his reference meant?
Don’t punish the monkey.
Was it his way of saying that he was only a minion, doing what he was told? A bit like
Don’t shoot the messenger.

Okay, then. But if Eddie Doyle was only the monkey, who was the organ grinder?

‘So how are you going to follow this up?’ asked Cooper. ‘You don’t know William Leeson, and he doesn’t know you.’

Fry wasn’t so sure about that. She had a feeling that Leeson knew who she was, only too well. She suspected that the mention of her name might send him running. And would he recognize her if he set eyes on her?

‘This is going to be a big favour, Ben,’ she said. ‘I’ll understand if you want to bail out now. You’ve done more than enough.’

‘Just ask,’ said Cooper.

She gave him the beer mat with the mobile phone number scrawled on it. ‘He definitely won’t know who
you
are.’

An hour later, they were sitting in Fry’s car on Lodge Street, near Winson Green Prison. Leeson had told Cooper that he would be ‘at the Green’. It didn’t mean much to Cooper, but this was a familiar location to Fry.

In fact, Winson Green prison was synonymous with Brum in certain parts of society. Recently, the old Victorian institution had undergone an investment programme and was now officially known as HMP Birmingham. Its capacity had been expanded to cope with the influx of prisoners sent there by
judges and magistrates on the regional circuit. There were fourteen hundred prisoners currently enjoying the benefits of a new sports hall and health-care facilities while they counted down the days to their release.

‘Is there a lifer unit here, then?’ asked Cooper.

‘No. The highest level is Category B.’

‘No convicted murderers serving their time?’

‘Not here. They’re shipped out of Brum.’

In fact, Fry knew that most of the Green’s population were unconvicted, prisoners on remand or awaiting trial. There were some convicted Category B and C men, and a few retained Cat Ds. But since society had become so celebrity-obsessed, the only thing many Brummies knew about Winson Green was that Ozzy Osbourne had served a couple of spells there in the 1960s, and during his stay had tattooed smiley faces on his knees to cheer himself up.

She told Cooper this while they were waiting.

‘Is that Sharon’s husband?’ he said.

‘Right. I supposed I should have known you’re not a Black Sabbath fan.’

Oh, and the prison had accommodated Fred West too, who’d hanged himself in his cell one New Year’s Day. You could consider him a celebrity of sorts, she supposed. Serial killers were the kind of people who had books written about them, after all. She supposed she ought to call him an ‘alleged’ serial killer, since he never came to trial. Unlike Ozzy Osbourne, West was one of the unconvicted.

Fry could see the bright red-brick walls of the prison, and the two blue pepper-pot towers either side of the main entrance on Winson Green Road. Somewhere beyond those walls was the cell where West had sat polishing his boots, waiting for his trial and planning how to end his life. Hated by every thug in the prison, and fearing that a life sentence would actually mean life in his case. She wondered if his ghost still haunted the prison. Or did a place like the Green not even need a ghost?

It was three o’clock on a Friday – visiting time at Winson Green. Family members would already have booked in at the visitor centre and had their identities checked, their photographs taken, their personal belongings stored away in a locker. Only loose change to be carried into the prison. And God help you if that dog got a sniff of drugs about your person.

If you wanted a taste of what life in jail was like, all you had to do was find someone on the inside to visit.

On Lodge Road, a cricket ground stood in front of the psychiatric hospital, almost in the shadow of the prison wall, with a children’s play area backing on to the canal. The play area was deserted now – the younger kids weren’t home from school, and the older ones hadn’t yet arrived to hang out for the night.

‘He definitely said he would meet you?’ said Fry.

‘Yes, I persuaded him,’ said Cooper. ‘Calm down, Diane.’

He was right, of course. She was starting to get edgy, and she couldn’t explain the reason for it. William Leeson has begun to take on a form in her mind, a shadowy figure that she believed she might have seen before, but only in the darkness, an indistinct outline lurking in the shadows of her memory.

‘He said he’d be at the Green, visiting a client,’ said Cooper.

‘But he’s going to meet me outside the prison when he’s finished.’

‘He shouldn’t have clients any more,’ said Fry.

‘I’ll ask him about that, if you like.’

Fry watched a narrow boat glide past on the canal, passing under Asylum Bridge to Winson Green Wharf. She looked back at the walls of the prison, traffic passing under the two towers.

Oh, Lord – was that the number 11 bus again? Was the thing haunting her? Of course, the number 11 was the legendary Outer Circle route, more than twenty-six miles long, taking over two hours to ride, delivering passengers undiscriminatingly
to Cadbury World, Birmingham University, and Winson Green Prison. They said it was the longest route within one city anywhere in the country. The only bus route with its own website. A joke and an icon at the same time. People hated it, and loved it. But that was Brummies for you.

Fry had seen the number 11 at Perry Barr, at Aston, at Handsworth, and now at Winson Green. She remembered it from living in Bearwood, where the route diverged briefly into the Black Country. The one she was looking at now was the 11C, the clockwise service, heading for all the places she’d already been to. And there were bound to be two more behind it. Three buses always came along at once.

‘It’s nearly time,’ said Cooper. ‘What do you want to do?’

Fry opened the car door, suddenly anxious to be out of sight.

‘I’ll wait over there, by those trees. He won’t see me, but I’ll be able to hear what’s going on.’

Cooper looked at her quizzically, but said nothing.

She was hardly in position before a man walked down the road from the prison, paused at the entrance to the cricket ground and walked towards the car. She’d chosen a bad spot, because she could only see his back as he approached Cooper. He was a tall man, dressed in a dark suit, carrying a file case like a real professional. Cooper spoke clearly, so that his voice reached her.

‘Mr Leeson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Acting DS Cooper.’

‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m not sure whether it is, yet.’

‘So who were you visiting at the prison?’

‘A client. I can’t say any more than that.’

‘But you don’t have clients any more, Mr Leeson. You’re not practising, according to the Law Society.’

‘I don’t represent clients in court, so I’m not bound by the Law Society’s rules any more. I’m an independent legal advisor.’

‘Those are just words, aren’t they?’

Leeson laughed. ‘Words are my stock in trade, Detective Sergeant. It’s what the law is all about, the interpretation of words. You know that, I’m sure.’

Listening to the conversation, Fry decided she didn’t like his laugh. But perhaps she was already prejudiced against him.

‘First, I’m afraid,’ said Leeson, ‘I’ll have to ask to see your identification.’

Cooper produced his warrant card. Leeson spent a few moments looking at it. ‘Derbyshire Constabulary,’ he said.

‘What an honour. And to what do I owe this pleasure, Acting DS Cooper?’

Fry took a step away from the tree, making sure Cooper saw her.

‘I have a friend who’s anxious to talk to you,’ he said.

Leeson turned, and saw Fry walking across the ground towards him. Their eyes met for the first time. And Fry was disappointed.

Though he was probably no more than sixty, William Leeson was gaunt and pale. The jacket of his dark grey suit hung from his shoulders without making any other contact with his torso. His height and gaunt cheeks made Fry think of an undertaker, but the impression was spoiled by a mane of fair, wavy hair, thinning at the front but left to grow too long at the back. His bony fingers moved restlessly against the file case, as if reading a Braille inscription on the black leather.

And Leeson knew her. She could see it in his eyes, that moment of shock and recognition. And, best of all, she saw his expression turn to fear.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not stopping for this,’ he said.

He turned quickly away, and almost broke into a trot, stumbling on the grass verge as he took the most direct route away from her. When he reached the road, he pulled out a phone and pressed it to his ear, gesturing with his free hand.

Fry stood next to Cooper, and they watched Leeson striding
back towards the prison, without a single glance over his shoulder.

‘So,’ said Cooper. ‘That went well.’

Fry drove back into the city in response to a call from her sister. A short diversion took them through the Jewellery Quarter, where she glimpsed the crime-scene tape and the police vehicles still closing off the streets around Warstone Lane cemetery.

‘What was your friend’s name again?’ asked Cooper. ‘Kewley?’

‘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.’