'DS Cooper?' says McElway, holding out his hand. 'John McElway. You spoke to my office earlier.'
He motions for them to come inside. A man sitting at a table rises and shakes hands.
'Ethan Conroy,' he says.
Conroy looks across to Dean Quinner. 'And this is Dean Quinner, our writer.'
Quinner, standing against a plasticky looking wall, pushes himself forward and shakes hands with Cooper. He nods but doesn't speak.
The five people sit around the table. It's a squeeze and there are a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling before everyone is comfortable.
'Very nice,' says Cooper, looking around the caravan. The two producers smile.
'Welcome to the glamorous world of the movies. What can we do for you?'
Cooper addresses herself to Conroy and Quinner.
'In case Mr McElway hasn't told you, I'm leading the Liverpool MIT – Major Incident Team – investigation into a violent crime that took place in Southport somewhere between Friday night and Saturday evening. We want to talk to the people who know Nicky Peters. See if there's any information that might help us find him.'
'He's definitely missing then?' says Conroy. 'We heard that and then . . . well, some people were saying they thought he was . . . well, we thought he was dead or injured. We heard there'd been deaths.'
Cooper nods. 'Nicky's parents were found dead on Saturday, Mr Conroy. We're anxious to find Nicky.'
'Jesus.' McElway sags in his seat. 'Did he . . .?'
Cooper doesn't reply directly. 'We can't tell you much more than that, I'm afraid. But time is a factor. Can we make a start with you three?'
Rimmer puts a black folder on the table and takes out a pen.
'Sure,' says McElway. 'But none of us really knew the boy. He was just doing some runner work for Terry during the school holidays. I saw him around but I don't think I ever spoke to him.'
'Me neither,' says Conroy. 'I can't remember much about him. Seemed pleasant enough. There wasn't any trouble or moaning about his work. But being Terry's nephew that's what I'd have expected. Terry's good.'
'Reliable?'
'He's been with the project from the start of production,' says Conroy. 'A good man.'
'Had you worked with him before?'
Conroy and McElway shake their heads.
'I had.' It's the first time Quinner's spoken. 'He did the location production on a TV thing I was involved in last year. A soap. Piece of shite.'
'You're a local, Mr Quinner?'
Quinner nods. 'Yes. I spoke to Nicky a couple of times. The lad brought me coffee.'
'Did you speak to him on Friday? He was around?'
'Just a word or two. And yes, he was here all day. Not sure when he left.'
'And did he seem his usual self?'
'Far as I could tell. I made some joke about him being out at Maxie's the night before. Said his uncle would grass him up to his ma if he wasn't careful. Something like that.'
'Maxie's?'
'It's a club in town we've been using as a sort of social base,' puts in McElway. 'You usually get a bunch of the crew hanging out after work.'
'But Terry Peters wasn't there on Thursday?'
'Terry was doing some prep work here in the tunnels.' Conroy gestures towards the visitor centre. 'We started filming here early on Friday.'
'Didn't Terry need Nicky to help?'
'I guess not. Maybe he didn't want the kid up too late. Get in trouble with his brother.'
'But Nicky went to Maxie's anyway?'
Conroy smiles. 'He's a teenager.'
'What time did Nicky leave Maxie's?'
McElway shrugs. 'We weren't late. Maybe ten? I was there – we were there until around ten-thirty. I have a feeling most people had left before us.'
'And he showed up on time on Friday?'
McElway nods.
Cooper checks her file again.
'Is Nicky close to anyone in the crew?'
The three men look at one another.
'Not that I know of,' says McElway. 'You'd have to ask the rest of them.'
'We will, Mr McElway. I just wondered if you knew anything that might give us a pointer. Did anything unusual happen on Thursday?'
'Not a thing,' says Conroy. 'The shoot went really well.'
Quinner mumbles something.
'Sorry?' says Cooper. 'What was that?'
'Uh, there was a missing wallet,' says Quinner. 'One of the crew lost a wallet. Chris Birchall I think.'
'A lost wallet?' Cooper looks puzzled. She waits expectantly for more from Quinner but he stays silent. 'What about the wallet? Are you saying Nicky took it?'
'No! Jesus.' Quinner looks miserable. 'I just thought I should, y'know, mention it.'
Quinner looks out of the window.
'OK,' says Cooper. She leaves a pause.
Now's the moment but it slips past without him saying anything. He's not sure why.
Except he does.
Exposing Noone as a thief might mean recasting his role. With almost a third of the footage shot that's too risky. Not after four years. No need for the coppers to get involved in that. It's not like it's got anything to do with all this murder stuff. And Quinner can't mention the attack on Niall without proof. Even while he's thinking it he knows it's bullshit. The cops need to know but he can't bring himself to say the words, to open the can of worms. Not now. Not when they're so close.
And there's no way Noone's involved in this thing with Nicky.
Is there?
'It's probably nothing,' says Quinner. 'Swede must've dropped it somewhere on set.'
'Swede?' says Rimmer.
'Chris's nickname. He looks Swedish.'
'Was the wallet found?' says Cooper.
'I don't think so.' Quinner leans back against the wall.
Cooper pauses. 'OK.' She looks up at Dean Quinner. 'If there's nothing else . . .' She leaves the statement hanging in the air for a moment but there's no response.
'We'll talk to the rest of the crew in here separately. It shouldn't take too long at this stage,' she continues. 'Thanks for your help. If there's anything you remember that might be of interest, no matter how trivial, we'd like to hear from you.' Cooper hands her card to each of them. 'This has the direct numbers for MIT.'
At the door, Ethan Conroy checks his watch.
'If you wait a few minutes I'll get the crew to wrap things up for today. It'll make seeing everyone easier for you.'
'Thanks, Mr Conroy, that would be good.'
'Anything the production can do to help,' says John McElway. 'We're just as anxious as you to find Nicky and get this dreadful thing cleared up.'
Quinner says nothing and the three men leave the caravan.
As the door closes behind them, Ronnie Rimmer looks at Cooper and raises his eyebrows.
'I know,' says Cooper. 'Quinner.'
Twenty-Nine
Quinner spends the rest of the day feeling like shit. He watches take after take from Noone, who seems as good as ever. Like everyone else, he's been talking about the murders and what it might mean, but Quinner can't see anything different in the American. Surely, even if 'all' he'd done was attack Niall, then he'd be showing something? By the end of the day Quinner's lost some of his certainty about Noone.
And yet if not Noone, then who? Who would have been there waiting for Niall and that little shit Jason? Quinner, a professional writer, would jib at placing someone unknown at the scene who happened to be waiting to slice a finger off. It's too far-fetched, or at least that's how it appears to Quinner in his present mood.
During prep for the final shot Quinner comes up above ground. He gets a coffee from the catering truck and sits in the production office looking at the phone in his hand. DS Cooper's card is on the table in front of him.
After a minute or two, Conroy comes in.
'How's it going?' says Quinner.
'It's going well, considering,' says Conroy.
'Considering what?'
'
The murders.' Conroy can't keep the surprise from his voice. 'And Nicky.'
'I know,' says Quinner. 'That's not . . . look, it doesn't matter. How's Noone doing?'
'Good. We're moving a bit slower without Terry but it's pretty close to schedule. Josh is keeping the takes to a minimum and Ben's hitting the mark every time.'
'He OK? I mean, he's not nervous or anything?'
'About what? No, he's great. He's doing fine and the crew love him. Can't have hurt finding Chris Birchall's wallet, either.'
'Noone found it?'
'Yeah, fallen behind some shit, I don't know. Listen, I have to go back out. John's kicking up about something.'
Quinner slumps back on the chair.
If Noone had handed the wallet back doesn't that mean it's less likely he's been chopping people's fingers off? Maybe that dickhead cousin of his wandered into some drug thing. It's not like Niall's some kind of Special Forces guy. Isn't it more likely that Noone had nothing to do with Niall's finger? Perhaps getting caught thieving was embarrassing, and he'd thought better of it and decided to hand the wallet back. Yeah, that was it, that held together better than this skulking around with knives in back alleys. He's a fucking actor, for Christ's sake, Quinner told himself.
The talk with Conroy has gone a long way to soothing Quinner's mind. He's glad he hasn't called the cops.
He checks his watch.
Six o'clock. More than late enough for a drink.
Thirty
Before his mother had died and he'd found out everything and changed his name to what it was now, Noone had often thought he was golden. There was nothing to suggest otherwise. He had it all. Money was just there. He couldn't ever remember thinking about it. The best schools, clothes, vacations. Whatever he wanted.
As a boy he hadn't thought too much about being different. You don't at that age and he had been sociable enough not to stick out. No loner, he found it ludicrously easy to make friends and, later, to find lovers. You just had to say the right words in the right order and have the right teeth, the right skin, the right clothes. No trick to it.
But only Noone knew it was a con. It was no surprise to him that he'd been good at acting when he finally gave it a try. He'd been acting all his life, saying what was required and putting the accepted expression on his face.
He knew that most people did what they did naturally. He'd never found being human natural. In any situation he would have his own thoughts and then a second layer: how would a human react? He would imitate human behaviours. If he appeared normal, then wouldn't that make him normal? It worked most of the time.
His mother had tried but she wasn't cut out for the life she ended up living. She loved him but didn't know what to make of the creature who'd arrived unexpectedly. The money had never been an issue – now Noone knew why – and love hadn't been in short supply either. At least not from her direction. But control and discipline and structure? That hadn't been there. And then later, when drink and then cancer had reduced her to a shell, it was too late. Noone was what he was.
And he'd never forgive her for not telling him the truth. Finding that out had unlocked something in him.
Most of his twenties were spent allowing his desires and impulses to rule, and though there had been violence and there had been arrests, responsibility and blame slipped off him like dead skin from a snake. Until his mother's death he'd never questioned why.
Five years ago in Toronto he'd cold-cocked a guy who came home early and found Noone loading his Ducati motorcycle into a van. The guy – some lightweight hipster biker wannabe Noone was working with in a sports bar on West Queen West – had hit his head and spent serious time in the hospital but never testified, never filed the complaint. Noone had put it down to luck.
In Madrid a year later he'd got in the habit of rolling a few tourists for their wallets – nothing planned, just on the fly when he needed quick money – and there'd been an arrest after he'd threatened the wrong guy who didn't want to be rolled. The case didn't get to court – some mix-up with the chain of evidence – and Noone walked again.
Even the worst time, in London, when that young chick had died on the bad junk he'd given her, had come to nothing when the investigating officer had been implicated in a corruption case. Once that had happened, Noone's supplying charge just seemed to dissolve.
It all fitted in so smoothly with Noone's view of his unassailable place in the world that he'd never stopped to think too hard about how trouble seemed to have difficulty attaching itself to him.
But his mother's death provided the answers and since then Noone's blood has been fizzing with the idea of killing. There's been an energy building in him that he always knew would only end one way. It's something that's been coming his entire life, and since his mother died the question has been coming more urgently, and more often. What does it feel like to be a killer?
Since Saturday morning he'd known the answer.
It was wonderful and it was easy and it is only just beginning.
The big question is: who's next?
Thirty-One
Frank gets to Canning Place early on Tuesday and spends the day coordinating the various strands of all the MIT cases.
With so many on his desk, plus an afternoon in court giving evidence in the ongoing Perch corruption trial, most of the scheduled interviews for the Peters case are postponed until the following day. Frank speaks to Harris about her coordinating efforts at Stanley Road. There's no mention of Linda but Harris does ask him how he's doing. Frank tells her he's fine, which is true. They are beginning to get back to normal, although Frank isn't sure that's what he wants. Drunk or not, last Thursday is fresh in his mind and, stripping aside all the rest of the bullshit, he enjoyed every moment. Em seems to be intent on erasing it from history.
By eight-thirty he's battered the overnight mountain of emails and paper into some sort of shape and is ready to head down to Stanley Road before Searle gets another chance to give him one of his gruesome pep talks. As it is there's a memo fixing a meeting at Stanley at two this afternoon.
Frank gets out of headquarters without running into Charlie Searle and arrives at Stanley Road just before nine. He grabs a cup of coffee from the machine downstairs and wanders into the office. The place seems emptier than it should be.
'Where is everyone?' says Frank. He means, primarily, Harris and Cooper. They have a meeting at nine-thirty and there are the ongoing interviews with the movie people and the other witnesses to be ploughing through. Frank's already had a text from Harris signalling something she wants to discuss regarding Terry Peters. Harris is due to interview Peters with him at ten and he wants to get his head together with her beforehand.
It's Steve Rose who answers. 'They only left ten minutes ago, sir. I called Canning Place to let you know but they said you were on your way down so I figured I'd wait for you to arrive. DS Cooper's at Garston with DI Harris.'
'What the fuck are they doing there?' Frank says, and goes to take a sip of his coffee.
Rose tells him and Frank's hand freezes halfway to his mouth.
They've found a body.
Thirty-Two
The white and orange EasyJet A380 morning service to Amsterdam rumbles west towards the Mersey, gathers speed and, improbably free of gravity, lifts its load of hedonists clear of the ground before banking south for Schiphol, skunk, and skin. Below the tilting aircraft, too far away for the passengers to see, the body of a young man lies stark against the gunmetal grey mud at the edge of the river.
Frank pulls his Golf in behind a line of police vehicles on a service road running between the south end of John Lennon Airport and the river. He watches the jet curving past the Welsh hills, which seem closer than usual in the clear summer air.
It's a beautiful day.
Frank hasn't noticed before. He takes a second and draws in a lungful of air. Even the dieselly taint of aircraft fuel can't spoil the bouquet. With the rumble of the aircraft engines still loud enough to have to
raise his voice, Frank sees Calum McGettigan sitting on the open tailgate of his vehicle, struggling to get free of his rubber boots.
'You finished already, Cal?'
McGettigan pulls off a reluctant boot, and a fat gob of mud flobs onto one of his photography cases. He talks as he pulls on his shoes. 'Easy one today, boss. Only took ten minutes. In. Out.'
'Can I borrow those?' Frank gestures at McGettigan's discarded boots.
'What size are you?'
'Does it matter? I'll only be ten minutes.'
As Frank starts pulling the boots on, a small man in jeans and a leather jacket approaches. He has a bag slung across his shoulders and is carrying a phone. Frank looks up.
'DCI Keane?' The man is about thirty-five, a little pudgy, his hair gelled, skin poor. His eyes are set deep, black shadows underneath like mascara. His accent is estuary English, Frank's least favourite. 'Steve McSkimming, The Sun.'
He holds out a hand. Frank regards it blankly, unsmiling. McSkimming withdraws it like he's used to the reaction. The Sun is about as popular as the plague on Merseyside since the Hillsborough tragedy. Frank knew a couple of the ninety-six dead and he's never forgiven or forgotten The Scum's role and the lies about his team, his city. Even Charlie Searle's entreaties to step lightly won't force Frank to play nice with vermin like McSkimming.
'What do you want?' says Frank. 'This is a crime scene. You'll have to leave.' He looks round towards a uniform and beckons him over.
'Come on, Frank,' says McSkimming. 'Work with me and it could be useful. We can help.' He jerks his head towards the body. 'Is it Nicky?'
'Don't call me Frank. How did you get here?'
McSkimming looks at him like the question is beneath contempt. 'It's my job, DCI Keane. We get told things.'
'Been phone hacking again?' Frank hopes he is. The idea that any of his officers are feeding people like McSkimming information makes Frank feel ill.
The uniform arrives. Frank points at McSkimming. 'Get him away from here,' he says. Frank looks at the reporter. 'There'll be a press conference today, I'm sure. The relevant information will be given to you then, Mr McSkimming.'
Down Among the Dead Men Page 12