In some ways, those small Black Country communities were far worse than the estates of inner city Birmingham. Some of them were completely cut off, isolated by the collapse of the manufacturing industries from the affluence evident in the new apartment blocks, the new Bull Ring shopping centre, stacked to the roof with consumer goods and designer labels. It was in places like West Bromwich, rather than Birmingham itself, that the BNP were getting a foothold. It was there they found the disaffected white working classes, desperate to find a voice.
Jim sighed. Moved allegiance altogether, I suppose. Its Derby County, then. Tragic
Dad, I dont even like football.
There werent many people like Jim and Alice, who would be willing to take on other peoples children, especially when many of those children were deeply troubled and disruptive. It took a lot of dedication and commitment. A lot of love.
She wondered about some of the other foster children whod passed through the Bowskills lives. There must have been many of them. She supposed that most of them kept in touch better than she ever had. It had been too easy for her to forget the debt she owed them. Shed been too quick to put everything behind her when she moved from the West Midlands, cast the good aside with the bad when she started a new life in Derbyshire.
Fry remembered the Bowskills reluctantly producing her birth certificate when she needed to register at college. They themselves had obtained it from her social worker, by special request. Only her mothers name had been on the certificate, the space to record the father left blank. It seemed her parents had never married, so the surname she carried was her mothers, not that of an adoptee.
Then she thought about the one child the Bowskills had adopted. Perhaps tired of saying goodbye to those theyd cared for over the years, they had fought to keep one particular boy, a few years younger than Fry. He was called Vincent, a quiet boy born to an Irish mother and a Jamaican father. He had been with Jim and Alice after Fry had left to set up home on her own and pursue her career in the police. The Bowskills last commitment, the one final object of their love.
The childrens charity Barnardos had said recently that there was too much focus on trying to fix families, when it would often be in the best interests of the children to put them up for adoption straight away when there was a problem. And by straight away they meant at birth. Parents whod failed to care properly for older children would not be allowed to bring up younger ones. It seemed to Fry that there was a definite logic in the argument.
And yet, Vincent Bowskill had made the wrong friends, been attracted to a way of life the Bowskills deplored. Something had still gone wrong, despite their best efforts. Despite what the experts said, could there be some genetic influence that would always flow in the blood? Blood, they said, was thicker than water.
Or maybe it was because there was no easy way for a boy like Vince to fit into a society that liked to put everyone in a category.
Fry knew that mixed-race people were an elephant in the room the fastest-growing ethnic minority in Britain, more numerous than black Caribbean or black African. Yet it was only in the 2001 census that they were given an ethnic category of their own. They were obvious to anybody living in a large British city, yet invisible at a political level. In multiculturalism Britain, the fact that more and more people were having children across racial divides was an inconvenient truth. It didnt fit with the concept of neat communities of black, white or Asian.
And that could be a problem for boys like Vincent Bowskill. These days, black and white kids tended not to call each other racial names. But the mixed-race kids got it from both sides. Many of them were fated to spend their entire lives searching for an identity.
So how is Vince? she said, as Jim sat down with her.
Oh, you know fine.
Really?
Well, to be honest, hes always been a bit of a worry to us. But he does his best. Hes a good lad, at heart.
He isnt involved with a gang, is he?
No, no. Well, we dont think so.
Fry realized Jim Bowskill might find it difficult to tell what sort of circles his adopted son moved in. When Vincent came here to visit, he wouldnt be displaying his gang tattoos and waving a gun around. Hed be well behaved, polite.
And maybejust maybe, hed actually turned his life around and moved on. It was possible to do that.
Should I look him up while Im here?
Vince? Jim looked doubtful. Oh, you dont have to, Diane. But
Ill see if I have time.
All right.
She knew she had to broach the one subject they hadnt touched on, the one the Bowskills were shying away from.
You know why Im here in Birmingham, dont you? she said.
Yes, you told us. The case.
Vince? Jim looked doubtful. Oh, you dont have to, Diane. But
Ill see if I have time.
All right.
She knew she had to broach the one subject they hadnt touched on, the one the Bowskills were shying away from.
You know why Im here in Birmingham, dont you? she said.
Yes, you told us. The case.
Youll let us know how it goes, wont you? said Alice.
Dont stay out of touch, Diane.
She sounded even frailer than she looked. Fry hoped Alice wasnt worrying herself too much about something she couldnt do anything about.
Fry looked out of the bay window into the street. All the people passing were Bengalis. She hadnt seen a white face all the time shed been here.
Dad, she said, whats Surti Ravaiya?
Oh, its a type of Indian eggplant. You serve it stuffed.
Thanks.
Why? Are you developing an interest in cooking?
No.
Jim Bowskill looked at her oddly. You know, you havent changed, Diane.
She turned back to the room. What do you mean?
I remember you when you were a teenager. You were always a very distant girl so self-contained. It was hard for anyone to get you to open up. No matter how hard we tried, Alice and me, we never really understood what you were thinking, or feeling. Youre the same now. Youre still that teenage girl.
Im sorry, Dad. I dont know what to say.
Do you remember that friend you had at school? Janet Dyson. Your best friend, she was.
Fry shook her head. Janet?
Dyson. Pretty girl, with long dark hair. Her father ran the taxi firm.
I dont remember her.
You must do, said Jim. She was your best friend. You used to walk out of school holding hands sometimes. It was very sweet.
How old was I?
Eight or nine.
Its too long ago, Dad.
I cant believe youve forgotten. We remember everything about you.
Well, you must have kept a photograph album. Shell be in there, this girl. I bet youve been getting it out to remind yourselves before I arrived.
No, no. He tapped his temple. Its all up here. All we have are our memories. Theyre what make us the people we are.
Fry was puzzled. Why are you bringing this girl up now?
Janet Dyson? Well, we wondered why you fell out with her. You suddenly stopped being best friends with her, and we never found out why. You wouldnt tell us. We thought, wellnow that so much time has passed, we thought you might tell us what happened.
Dad, I have no idea.
He sighed. Still the same Diane.
Dad, honestly I have no idea. I cant remember what happened. It cant have been anything very important, can it?
If you say so, love.
After a while, Fry looked at her watch and decided it was time to prise herself away. Refusing all offers of more tea, she got up to leave, then hesitated in the doorway.
Sois there a photograph album?
Well, I think so, said Jim. Do you want to see it?
She thought for a moment, mentally recoiled as she imagined the albums contents. Happy, laughing snaps of herself and Angie, skinny teenagers in jeans and puffa jackets. Sunburned on holidays in Weston-super-Mare, dressed up in their best frocks for some cousins wedding.
Another time, Dad, she said.
On the corner of Trinity Road stood a masjid, a community mosque. This was the one that had originally been named the Saddam Hussein Mosque, after the Iraqi leader donated two million pounds to build it. During the first Gulf War, the masjid had been fire-bombed, and excrement wrapped in pages of the Koran had been pushed through the letter box during prayers. So elders had decided to change the name, and now it was simply J ame Masjid, the main mosque.
Just behind it, Fry could see the little parade of shops where Burger Bar Boys in a Ford Mondeo had sprayed bullets from two MAC-10 machine pistols, killing Letisha Shakespeare and Charlene Ellis as they left a New Year party, and putting the city firmly in the headlines.
She supposed it was natural for her to worry about Jim and Alice Bowskill living in this area. Everyone worried about their parents. For a moment, she wondered if she ought to check whether they were registered with the Birchfield Dental Practice or the Churchill Medical Centre, if they used the post office here, or the one in Perry Barr. But it didnt really matter.
Fry turned on to Trinity Road and headed towards Aston. In the few hundred yards drive between the J ame Masjid and Villa Park, she passed the Ozzy Osbourne birthplace. The mosque, football, and heavy metal. Well, that came as close to summing up Birmingham as anything she could think of.
7
On his way back from the Nields, Cooper called at the Ashbourne section station on Compton. He spotted the blue lamp over its door right next to the Wheel Inn.
Seeing the Wheel reminded Cooper that hed once had a memorable duty in Ashbourne, many moons ago, when he was drafted in to help police the worlds oldest, largest, longest and maddest football game. Several thousand people turned up every year for Ashbournes Royal Shrovetide Football and that was just the players.
From an objective point of view, the event was basically a moving brawl, which seethed backwards and forwards through the streets of the town, across fields, and even along the bed of the river. The game lasted for two days, with goals three miles apart on opposite sides of the town. If you visited Ashbourne on those days, you had to be careful where you parked your car. Of course, the pubs remained open all day, all the shops and banks boarded up their windows, and some closed completely, making the town look as though major civil unrest was taking place. Which, from a policing point of view, it was. There had been intermittent attempts to ban the game because of its violent nature. But it had been going on for a thousand years now. So that was that.