‘I thought I might be able to help you,’ he’d said.
‘How?’
‘Did you know there was an arrest after your assault? I was responsible for that.’
‘You produced a suspect?’
‘Let’s say I provided intelligence. It was good intelligence too, as it turned out. This wasn’t one of the primary suspects, but he knew who was involved all right, and he helped to cover it up. A real piece of work. He was as guilty as anyone I’ve ever met.’
‘So what did you do?’
Kewley shrugged. ‘We needed information, and we didn’t want to spend days dragging it out of him bit by bit, with a brief at his elbow telling him to do the “no comment” stuff. So we fast-tracked the interview.’
‘Fast-tracked...?’
Kewley looked at her, gave her no more than a conspiratorial glance. But she understood.
‘I don’t want to know any more,’ she said.
‘No, of course you don’t. You wouldn’t want to be contaminated.’
Andy Kewley’s career could best be described as chequered. In his early days in CID, before she’d teamed up with him at Aston, Kewley had spent some time in the West Midlands Serious Crime Squad. The squad had been disbanded, more than two decades ago now, following accusations that its members had fabricated evidence, tortured suspects and written false confessions.
For years, lawyers had been demanding fresh inquiries into the scale of corruption, claiming that dozens of innocent people had served time in jail. One had been quoted as saying that the Serious Crime Squad had operated as if they were in the Wild West: They were out of control.
‘But you got what you wanted to know?’ she said.
‘Not entirely. We never got the names out of him.’ Kewley smiled. ‘But if we had... what do you reckon, Diane? Would the ends have justified the means or not?’
‘What was he charged with?’
‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’
‘And what happened?’
‘He got a “get out of jail free” card and a few quid in his pocket and off he went.’
‘It’s hardly the first time, Andy.’
‘And now you’re here in Birmingham again because they told you they’d opened a cold-case rape inquiry,’ said Kewley. ‘But they’ve lost a crucial witness, right?’
‘You’re well informed. How do you manage that?’
He ignored the question. ‘The witness pulled out of the case, decided she didn’t want to testify after all. The old story, eh? Someone got to her, Diane.’
‘One of the suspects?’
‘Or maybe their friends.’ Kewley shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘She was supposed to be on witness protection,’ said Fry. ‘How would they have found her?’
‘Information. It’s easy to get hold of, if you know the right people.’
‘Who?’
Again Kewley seemed to ignore the question. Fry remembered this habit of his, recalled how it had often infuriated her. He always wanted to go around the houses before he responded. But later he would drop the answer in casually, as if he’d never been asked.
She looked at the Victorian graves all around her. According to their memorials, many of them hadn’t actually died but had merely ‘fallen asleep’. If they woke up now, they’d get a shock. And over there was another one. Not lost but gone before.
‘Euphemisms,’ said Fry. ‘Don’t you hate them?’
Kewley looked as though he didn’t agree.
And then he mentioned a name that would come to haunt Fry. It was a name she’d never heard until that moment, but a connection that was to become much too personal.
‘Have you heard of William Leeson?’ he said.
Fry’s ears had pricked up. This was the way it worked with Kewley. He distracted you with something irrelevant. Then the important information was dropped into the conversation like an afterthought. You had to be paying attention or you missed it.
‘Leeson? No. Who is he?’
‘A dodgy lawyer from Smethwick who used to practise here in the city. I thought you might have come across him.’
‘I could have done,’ said Fry. ‘But hundreds of defence briefs come and go through interview rooms. I don’t remember all their names.’
‘You might want to remember this one,’ said Kewley.
‘Why?’
Kewley seemed to be getting more nervous now and jumped when a motorcycle with an unsilenced exhaust roared by on the Middleway.
Recalling that moment, Fry could have laughed at her own naivety. The idea that she wouldn’t remember William Leeson’s name for ever afterwards seemed ludicrous now.
‘Leeson first came onto the scene in a big way during all that bother with the Serious Crime Squad,’ said Kewley. ‘He loved getting the attention, calling for public inquiries and Appeal Court hearings. “Miscarriage of justice” was practically tattooed on his forehead, he said it so often.’
‘Was he the one who said you were operating like the Wild West?’ asked Fry.
‘No. But he would have said it, if he’d thought of it. He was always small-scale, though — and he got pushed out by the smarter, more expensive briefs who elbowed their way in when they saw a lucrative bandwagon rolling. Leeson got really pissed off about it. That was why he turned.’
‘Turned?’
‘He got involved in criminal activities himself. Other than as a legal representative, I mean. His money doesn’t all come from legal fees.’
‘I see.’
Kewley pulled his cap lower over his eyes and wiped the palms of his hands on his jacket.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.’
‘Who says? You’re retired, out of the force. You’re a civilian now, Andy — as free as a bird. Get used to it.’
‘I could still get myself into deep shit. You don’t understand.’
Fry noticed that the memorials nearest to her had names like John Eachus and Walter Peyton Chance. Strange how names like that seemed to have died along with the Victorians themselves. She saw defaced angels, tombs blackened with soot. A statue lay broken and beheaded, an empty vodka bottle on the ground at its feet.
And there was that sickly smell again. She knew she would have to get away from the cemetery soon. It was starting to smell like the scent of death.
‘I’m just telling you, Diane. There are things you need to know. You could ask someone else, but whether you’ll get the truth or not...’
‘OK, OK.’
‘I just want you to know there are political considerations at play right now. Much bigger issues than a successful conviction in any cold case — and I mean any case, no matter who the victim is. You understand me?’
‘I’m not sure I do, Andy.’
‘Damn it, I can’t make it any clearer,’ he said irritably. ‘Look — anybody can get tossed aside, if it suits them. Justice is a slippery concept these days.’
Fry stared at him, wondering whether he’d gone completely off the rails since he retired. Leaving the job took people in different ways. It seemed as though Kewley might have developed a conspiracy obsession, or paranoid delusion. Probably he couldn’t cope with the fact that he was no longer on the inside, not a member of the tribe any more. It was that primal instinct again. A desperation to belong. A craving to be part of the game.
Kewley took a breath, looked anxious at his own outburst.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘who’s dealing with your case now?’
‘Gareth Blake.’
‘Blake? I remember him when he was a young DC, fresh behind the ears. Pain in the neck he was then. I don’t suppose he’s changed much?’
‘I couldn’t say. We worked together for a while, but that was years ago.’
‘Gareth Blake... A DI now, isn’t he? In fact, I hear he’s well on his way to making DCI in the not-too-distant future. Yes, he’s definitely got his foot on the ladder, that one. He wouldn’t want anything to muck up his pristine record at this point, would he?’