‘So how is Vince?’ she said, as Jim sat down with her.
‘Oh, you know – fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, to be honest, he’s always been a bit of a worry to us. But he does his best. He’s a good lad, at heart.’
‘He isn’t involved with a gang, is he?’
‘No, no. Well, we don’t 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 wouldn’t be displaying his gang tattoos and waving a gun around. He’d be well behaved, polite.
And maybe…just maybe, he’d actually turned his life around and moved on. It was possible to do that.
‘Should I look him up while I’m here?’
‘Vince?’ Jim looked doubtful. ‘Oh, you don’t have to, Diane. But –’
‘I’ll see if I have time.’
‘All right.’
She knew she had to broach the one subject they hadn’t touched on, the one the Bowskills were shying away from.
‘You know why I’m here in Birmingham, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, you told us. The case.’
‘You’ll let us know how it goes, won’t you?’ said Alice.
‘Don’t stay out of touch, Diane.’
She sounded even frailer than she looked. Fry hoped Alice wasn’t worrying herself too much about something she couldn’t do anything about.
Fry looked out of the bay window into the street. All the people passing were Bengalis. She hadn’t seen a white face all the time she’d been here.
‘Dad,’ she said, ‘what’s Surti Ravaiya?’
‘Oh, it’s 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 haven’t 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. You’re the same now. You’re still that teenage girl.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t 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 don’t 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.’
‘It’s too long ago, Dad.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve forgotten. We remember everything about you.’
‘Well, you must have kept a photograph album. She’ll be in there, this girl. I bet you’ve been getting it out to remind yourselves before I arrived.’
‘No, no.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It’s all up here. All we have are our memories. They’re 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 wouldn’t tell us. We thought, well…now 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 can’t remember what happened. It can’t 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.
‘So…is 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 album’s 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 cousin’s 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 Jame 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 didn’t really matter.
Fry turned on to Trinity Road and headed towards Aston. In the few hundred yards drive between the Jame 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.
On his way back from
