Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  'Tell me about your brother's family,' she says to Terry. 'Just a little background.' She takes her notebook from her bag and puts it beside her plate.

  Terry Peters shrugs. 'They're nice people. We were close, me and Paul. Pretty close anyway.' He too looks tearful but coughs and stays in control. 'Lives around the corner. We see them regularly. Not in each other's pockets but enough. Go on holidays together sometimes, and the kids get along.'

  'Nicky's their only child?'

  Alicia Peters nods. 'Thank God,' she says. 'In the circumstances.' Then she brightens. 'You'll need a photograph of him,' she says. 'I'm sure we have a good one.'

  'Thank you, but we have all we need, Mrs Peters. There were some family portraits at your sister-in-law's house we are using.'

  'Oh, OK.'

  'What sort of a boy is Nicky?' Harris finds she hesitates over using the word 'is'. Alicia looks up sharply but doesn't react. She's quick, thinks Harris.

  'He's a nice kid,' says Terry Peters. 'I mean he has the usual teenage things going on but nothing that would cause anyone any problems. Paul or Maddy never said anything otherwise, did they?' He looks at Alicia for confirmation and she shakes her head.

  Harris knows the next one is going to hurt.

  'So there's nothing that you can think of that might make Nicky want to harm his parents?'

  For a second neither of them reacts. Then, as the meaning of the question sinks in, Harris feels the temperature in the warm kitchen drop perceptibly.

  'What? No!' Alicia has a hand to her mouth. 'You can't think that, can you? Nicky wouldn't do something like that, would he, Terry?'

  'That's insane,' agrees Terry. 'Who's saying that?'

  Harris holds up a placatory hand. 'No one at our end, although we have to consider every possibility. Even those we find repellent. With Nicky missing and two people dead we'd be remiss in not considering it. It wouldn't be the first time a teenager has done something like this.'

  Alicia is shaking her head from side to side. 'Uh, uh, no, no way.'

  'I'd have known,' mumbles Terry Peters. 'I mean if Nicky was capable of something like that.'

  'That's what everyone says, Mr Peters.' Harris pushes her plate away. 'Sadly.' She flicks open the file she has set down on the table and picks up a pen.

  'I'll need a list of their friends, and their contact details, if you have them. And any activities Paul and Maddy were interested in. Church groups, book clubs, sports teams, anything like that. My officers will be following up with background.'

  As Alicia and Terry start to list various possibilities, the kitchen door swings open and a boy of about seventeen comes in. His hair hangs down in a fringe over his eyes and he wears an expression of complete disgust with everything he sees. Ignoring everyone in the room he moves towards the fridge and takes out a can of Coke.

  'Liam,' says Alicia Peters. 'I thought you were over at Jonno's?'

  'Changed my mind.' The boy turns to go.

  'This is DI Harris,' says his mother. Liam grunts in Harris's direction briefly before turning back to the door.

  'Liam!' says Terry Peters in a sharper tone. 'Come here!'

  The boy doesn't look back. Instead he mutters something under his breath and half-slams the door behind him.

  'Sorry,' says Alicia. Terry is breathing heavily. Harris notices his neck is flushed.

  'Little shit,' says Terry.

  'He's my son. From my first marriage,' says Alicia. 'Me and Terry have been together five years. Terry and Liam . . . well, it's not always been a happy relationship. And it's hit Liam hard. All this.'

  'Of course,' says Harris. 'Does Liam know Nicky well?'

  Alicia shakes her head while Terry seems lost in thought. For a moment Harris considers Terry Peters. Even under the circumstances there's something off about his reaction to an adolescent strop. The warm kitchen that Harris had been inwardly eulogising suddenly seems off-kilter. She decides to take a different tack with Terry. She's been too friendly. What needs to happen is for her to get him out of his comfort zone.

  Harris gets to her feet. 'I think I've taken up enough of your time at the moment.' She turns to Terry. 'If you could pop along to Stanley Road tomorrow there are a few things I'd like you to go over with my colleagues. Might help with the search for Nicky.'

  Terry Peters looks uncertain. 'I'm not sure what's happening tomorrow to be honest . . .'

  Harris smiles. 'Well, I'm sure you'll understand that this investigation takes priority. Shall we say ten o'clock?' She holds Terry's gaze and there it is: a tiny flicker of anger and annoyance buried deep below the surface, rising like a fish to a fly.

  'Ten o'clock. Of course.' Terry Peters gets to his feet. 'I'll show you out.'

  'That's not necessary,' says Harris. 'I'd like a word with Liam before I go.' She turns to Alicia. 'Thanks so much for the food.'

  'You're welcome,' says Alicia Peters. The Nigella vibe has gone now and she's watching Harris warily. 'Do I need to be there when you talk to Liam? He's a child, after all.'

  'How old is he?' asks Harris.

  'Seventeen.'

  'Then I think we're fine. This is simply information gathering, Mrs Peters.' Harris points upstairs. 'That way?'

  Alicia nods.

  Harris leaves the Peters standing on either side of the kitchen table. As the door closes she sees Alicia begin collecting the plates. She doesn't look at her husband.

  Harris heads upstairs. On the walls are family photographs. Terry and Alicia's wedding with a younger, sulky-looking Liam. Harris pauses and looks closer at the group of people. Paul and Maddy and Nicky are there in the background, all smiles. There are holiday photos. Portugal, Florida. Liam and Nicky on a boat somewhere, Terry fishing in the background. Liam playing football. One image in particular catches Harris's eye. It's taken on the verandah of a hotel and shows both families. They are dressed in light clothes and have suntans, their arms draped around each other as they pose for the camera. Terry is between Alicia and Maddy. His left hand dangles carelessly over Maddy's shoulder. It may be a momentary illusion, a frozen moment as the pose is formed, but to Harris it seems that Terry's thumb appears to be fractionally under the strap of Maddy Peters' bikini top. Only a cynic would see it as anything other than accidental but Harris, like most cops, falls squarely into that demographic. She lifts her iPhone from her bag and takes a shot of the photograph. You never know.

  Liam's not hard to track down. At the top of the second turn in the stairs is a landing and from behind the first door comes the throb of electronic music. Harris knocks and after a few seconds the volume is turned down. Liam opens the door and blinks at her. Harris doesn't wait for an invitation. Instead she pushes open the door and steps into the teenager's room.

  'Terrible thing,' says Harris. Up close, alone in his room with a woman of Harris's beauty and authority, Liam's adolescent bravado disintegrates. He sits down on his bed and offers Harris the use of the chair sitting in front of his computer desk.

  'Thanks,' says Harris. She looks around the room. It's cleaner than she expected but has the faint rank tang of any teenage boy's environment.

  'Have you found anyone yet?' says Liam.

  'No, not yet. That's what we're doing now, getting some background to help us find Nicky as quickly as possible. What can you tell me about Nicky, Liam?'

  Liam shrugs. 'He was my cousin. Sort of.'

  'Was?'

  'I think he's dead,' says Liam miserably. 'They don't let them go, do they?'

  'Who doesn't?'

  'Psychos. Must have been a psycho that did . . . that. I heard it was bad.'

  'How did you hear that?'

  'Just . . . heard. I dunno. From people.'

  Harris lets it go. From past experience she knows it's next to impossible to contain a crime scene in a place like this. Anywhere, really. And it was Liam's stepfather who found the bodies, after all.

  'So you haven't heard from him? On Facebook? Text?'

  Liam shakes his he
ad. 'Last time was on Friday. He posted a photo on Instagram.'

  'Can you show me?' Harris knows that DC Rose will be compiling a detailed dossier on Nicky's online presence, but she wants Liam to warm to her. She may get something more useful that way.

  Liam clicks open his Instagram account and scrolls to Nicky's pages. Liam opens a photo showing an arty-looking shot of the outside of a nightclub. Even with the distortions of the filters Nicky has applied, Harris recognises it as Maxie's, a club in the city.

  'Nicky was here on Friday? At this club?'

  Liam shrugs. 'Guess so.'

  'Did he go to many clubs?'

  'Dunno. Maybe. Some. He's been going more since working on the film.'

  Harris makes a note. If they do ever find Nicky's phone they'll be able to confirm some of his movements but the photo of Maxie's on Instagram is a reasonably precise confirmation of where the boy was on Friday night. It's a small piece of information but a good one.

  'What else does he post?'

  Liam flicks through Nicky's account. There are images of the movie sets mostly. Actors, technicians, the ephemera of film-making. What comes through is the boy's enthusiasm and his straightforward pleasure in being involved in this world. Harris recalls his bedroom.

  'Nicky seems like he knew what he wanted to do,' she says.

  'He likes movies.'

  'But you don't?'

  A faint cloud passes over Liam's face. 'Not as much as Nicky.'

  'Your stepdad works in the movie business.'

  Liam shrugs again but doesn't say anything. The movie angle isn't getting much response from Liam. Harris changes tack and gets an immediate bite.

  'Does Nicky get on with his parents?'

  For the first time, Liam is animated.

  'It wasn't Nicky, if that's what you're thinking. Nicky wouldn't have done anything like that. He wasn't like that.'

  'We hear that a lot,' says Harris. 'But . . .'

  'But nothing.' The boy brushes his fringe from his eyes and looks at Harris. There's no awkwardness about him now. 'Nicky wouldn't have done that. Not to his parents, anyway.'

  'Excuse me?'

  Liam sinks back on the bed.

  'Liam?' Harris leans forward, her elbows on her knees, and lowers her voice. 'What do you mean by that? Is there someone who Nicky would have harmed?'

  Nothing. The fringe returns to its natural function as curtain.

  'Liam?'

  'No! I didn't mean anything.'

  'Was someone harming Nicky?'

  'I don't know anything.'

  Harris sits back. 'It'll all come out eventually, Liam. Best to tell me if you have any suspicions.'

  Liam looks towards the door. 'I don't have any.'

  Harris stands. She needs to let Liam get it out himself. Pushing won't do much right now. 'I'll go now, Liam.' She hands him a business card, which he glances at and lets fall to the bed. 'But someone will be back to take a full statement from you tomorrow, OK? And I need you to have a think if there's anything else you'd like to tell us, no matter how insignificant, that could help us find Nicky. We don't have much time. Your cousin needs all the help he can get right now.'

  Liam says nothing, burying his head lower between his shoulderblades.

  Harris leaves and walks down the stairs. From the kitchen she can hear nothing except the clank of plates being washed. There's no conversation and upstairs Liam has not turned the music back on.

  Harris opens the door and notices the bigger of the cars has gone. She walks away from the silent house.

  Twenty-Seven

  After talking to Menno Koopman Frank heads to The Royal and the morgue. He's already late but that's fine with him. Anything that rubs Ferguson up the wrong way is a bonus.

  He calls Cooper from the car but she doesn't pick up and he assumes that's because she's at the hospital already. Even Frank wouldn't use his mobile in Ferguson's autopsy room.

  After signing in at reception, Frank heads to the examination room, remembering to put on the protective paper bootees – Ferguson being very insistent about protocols – and pushes open the doors.

  Ferguson is bent over the body of Paul Peters, Theresa Cooper standing a respectful metre behind him. Ronnie Rimmer is behind Cooper. Maddy Peters is on another slab being prepped by an assistant. The contrast between the dead couple is stark: Paul Peters' naked form almost unmarked, his wife a horrifying bundle of damaged flesh. Frank is dismayed to realise that the autopsies are far from over. He had hoped to arrive near the end but, judging by the work the assistant is doing on Maddy, they are only just getting started.

  'Sir.' Cooper raises a hand to Frank as he walks across to the examination table.

  'Dr Ferguson is running late today,' she says as if reading her boss's thoughts.

  'DCI Keane,' murmurs Ferguson. 'Change of schedule, I'm afraid.'

  'Great.'

  Ferguson glances up from his task, a scalpel in hand, and checks Frank's feet for code violations before turning back to his task.

  'You don't have to stay, Frank – don't you trust DS Cooper?'

  Behind the pathologist Frank sees Theresa Cooper stiffen fractionally. Frank's sharp eyes dart to Rimmer for any sign of a smile but the freshly promoted DS's face is neutral.

  'Tactful as always, Fergie.' Frank doesn't expand on or respond to the jibe from Ferguson. Never explain. Theresa will have to deal with any disappointment Frank's appearance may have aroused. Christ, compared to the treatment he'd been on the receiving end of in his career, she's being treated like a princess.

  There's silence in the examination room, broken only by the sluice taps being turned on and off by the assistant working on the woman's body. Keane rests his backside against a lab bench and feels a wave of nausea wash through him. He eyes an empty examination slab with something like envy. After a couple of minutes, Ferguson straightens and arches his back, groaning slightly. He turns to the three observers and beckons them over.

  'There's nothing dramatic to add, from first examination.' Ferguson points a latex-covered finger at the marks on the dead man's neck. 'As we thought, he's been tasered. If you look closely you'll see extensive localised burning around the contact points. I'm prepared to say that probably means multiple charges. Once we open up his chest and get a proper look at his heart I think there's every chance we'll find he was dead prior to being hung. There's some suggestion of that from the lack of lividity around the rope burns.'

  'Had he had sex?' Cooper's eyes flick down to the dentist's groin. 'There was some talk about sex games.'

  'No,' says Ferguson. 'Not that I can detect.' He straightens and looks at Frank. 'I don't want to tell you how to do this, but most of the good stuff will be in my report.'

  Ferguson resumes his work on Paul Peters. 'And that is still some way off, DCI Keane.'

  Frank nods to himself.

  Quite suddenly he can see himself as Theresa's seeing him: a helicopter boss. Ferguson's right. It kills him to admit it, but this – delegating – is something he still hasn't grasped.

  'Makes sense,' says Frank. He sketches a wave to Cooper. 'All yours, Theresa. Fill me in later, OK?'

  As Frank exits, Ferguson turns to Cooper.

  'You saw that, right?' says the Scot. 'If anyone argues with me later?'

  Cooper nods.

  'I saw it,' she says. 'But I'm not sure I believe it.'

  Twenty-Eight

  After the autopsies, Cooper and Rimmer grab a sandwich at The Majorca before heading to the movie location. On the short journey across town all Rimmer can talk about is the vinegar attack on Frank Keane and what it means. Cooper does her best to shut him up but it's difficult. It's a choice bit of gossip which gives Rimmer a chance to indulge in fevered fantasies. The tacit agreement that the matter is closed has clearly not been accepted by everyone.

  'Roy must have crapped himself. I heard she drenched him.'

  'Are you still banging on about that?'

  'Banging. Very good, Theres
a.'

  'Jesus. And don't let Keane hear you calling him Roy.'

  Keane's nickname at MIT is 'Roy'. He not only shares a surname with a former Manchester United captain, he looks like him too. As a lifelong Liverpool supporter, Frank doesn't take this kind of thing – being named after a United player – in good spirit.

  Rimmer's smiling. 'You think he and Harris . . . you know?'

  Theresa Cooper shakes her head. 'No, I happen to know they didn't.'

  In fact, Cooper strongly suspects that DCI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris shagged each other senseless last Thursday night, but she's so sick of this juvenile crap that she can't resist throwing a small spanner in the works.

  'Bollocks,' says Rimmer. 'You don't go around throwing acid at someone because you don't like the look of them.'

  'Vinegar.'

  'What?'

  'It was vinegar, not acid.'

  'Well, Roy didn't know that,' says Rimmer. 'The desk sergeant at Canning Place said he looked like a ghost.'

  Cooper doesn't respond but it does no good. Like an early-morning barking dog, Rimmer won't quit.

  'Hey,' he says, his face taking on a leery slant, 'you ever see DI Harris's, er . . .?'

  'Partner?' says Cooper. 'Her partner, you mean?'

  'Yeah, partner.'

  'Yes, why?'

  'I heard she's really good-looking. Plod who saw it all at Canning Place reckons she could be a model.' Rimmer's eyes take on a faraway gleam and it's not difficult to deduce what he's thinking about.

  Theresa hits the brake harder than she needs and Rimmer's head jerks forward painfully against the car's window post.

  'Ow!'

  'We're here,' she says. 'Dickhead. Now try and at least act like a grown-up. And remember, I'm the fucking DS, got it?'

  With Rimmer grizzling in her wake, Cooper heads for a security guy at the gate who directs her towards a long caravan standing among the catering and equipment trucks. Before they reach it the door opens and John McElway steps out.