Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  'With your wife?' Harris takes care not to place any stress on the word 'wife' but it can't be helped. Peters looks like a whipped dog. He nods. 'Yeah, with Alicia.' Peters turns to Frank. 'Does she have to know anything about this? About me and Mads, I mean?'

  'If you're being straight with us about this, it should be OK. We can't promise anything. But if you're messing us about –'

  'I'm not!'

  'As I said, if you are, then we can't help. If you are cooperating, then maybe it won't come out.'

  Frank checks the paperwork in front of him. 'You live just around the corner from your brother, right, Terry?'

  'That's right. Sandwell Street.'

  'So it'd take you no time to get to your brother's place in Burlington Road.'

  'I didn't go!'

  'But you did find the bodies, right?'

  'You know I did. I called you.'

  'Right,' says Frank. He looks at the file. 'Eight-forty on Saturday night and you called in? Was there a reason for that?'

  'I do sometimes. Call in, I mean. Just for a drink. Say hello.'

  'And if Maddy is alone you might get a quickie.' Harris is brutal.

  'No!'

  'So that never happened?'

  'I'm not saying it never happened. Jesus.' Peters runs a hand over his face. 'I just called round. I wanted to chat. It's been a long week and I like them.'

  'Do you think your brother knew about you and Maddy? Did he find you with her, Terry? Is that what happened?'

  'Christ, no!' Terry Peters leans forward on the desk. 'Why would I call you if I'd killed them?'

  'People do, Mr Peters. They get clever.'

  'Well, I didn't. I came in and found them . . . like that.'

  'Upstairs?' Harris has her arms folded. Her scorn is palpable.

  'I . . . just looked for them. I'd been upstairs before.'

  'I bet you had,' says Harris.

  Peters shakes his head in disgust but says nothing.

  'So you discovered Maddy first?' Frank's looking at his file.

  'Yes.'

  'But you didn't go in the room?'

  'Not once I'd seen it . . . like it was.' Terry Peters' face is stricken. 'I couldn't. I could tell she was dead.'

  'You know,' says Harris, her tone reflective, 'if you did kill Maddy your story about an affair is quite convenient, isn't it?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'The forensics. You admit to sleeping with your sister-in-law. That would explain a lot of things we might find.'

  'Well, it is what it is,' says Peters. 'I'm trying to tell you everything.'

  'And Paul?' says Harris. 'How did you end up finding him in the garage?'

  'After I called the police I wondered if . . . whoever did it was still around, so I looked everywhere. I also wondered where Paul and Nicky were, so I was looking for them too.'

  Frank's been quiet for a few minutes. There's something about Terry Peters he can't quite figure. He's come up with a story that to him, a seasoned cop, rings true. He's admitted a few things and owned up to some bad behaviour. But Harris is right about this also being a clever story. Discovering the body and being the lover of the victim – or one of them – gives Peters a lot of wiggle room. Hair samples. Fingerprints. Even semen. All explainable, if not palatable.

  But Frank feels there's something they're missing. What that might be, he hasn't the foggiest.

  He looks at the man in front of him. He's seen them all through here. Every size, shape, colour and personality. With Peters he just doesn't know.

  'Look, Terry. I know you've been through a lot and, to be perfectly honest, your story should be easy enough to check out – and believe me, we will get it checked out – but if you're telling the truth about that, I don't want to waste time digging up useless dirt on you. DI Harris, I suspect, doesn't quite share my belief in you, Terry, so you can be certain she will be thorough. In the meantime, we're investigating the deaths of three people and the disappearance of your nephew and, frankly, I don't give a flying fuck if we step on your toes to get some quick answers. I'm sorry for your loss, and I can only imagine how guilty you must feel about what you and Maddy were up to, but I need you to stop fucking about and start thinking. Now, is there anything you can tell us – anything – that might help? Let's start with Quinner. Did Dean know Nicky?'

  Terry Peters takes a deep breath.

  'Well?' says Frank.

  'I'm thinking!' He shakes out his hands like a footballer warming up. Harris is staring at Peters intently. He's keeping something back, she decides. Buying time to figure out a way to frame the story to put himself in the best light.

  'The only time I saw the two of them together was a couple of days before . . . before it happened. We were shooting at Huskisson Street, a couple of days before we went into the tunnels. Dean was talking to two guys behind the security barrier. They looked at Nicky and said something. That's why I noticed. I try and look after the lad on the set, y'know? Nicky told me later that Dean had pretended to these guys that Nicky was famous. He signed an autograph. I think Dean wanted to get rid of them.'

  'What did they look like?' says Harris.

  'Pair of dickheads, to be honest. One big one, stupid-looking. One smaller. Also stupid-looking. Dressed like your average scally. Trackies. Caps. Bad skin. Early twenties, maybe?'

  'You see them again?'

  Terry Peters frowns, concentrating. 'No. That was it.' He holds up his hands. 'If I knew anything else, I'd tell you. Nicky didn't see much of anyone on set. All he wanted to do was watch the shoot. Nicky's a bit starstruck that way. He hasn't been around actors as long as I have. Thinks they're special.'

  'And aren't they? Special, I mean?'

  Peters grimaces. 'Oh, aye, they're special, all right. Just not in the way you mean. Haven't met one of them who isn't special in one way or another.'

  'Who does Nicky like on the set?' says Harris. 'Anyone in particular?'

  Terry Peters frowns. 'Not sure.'

  'Really? There's no one you can think of who Nicky admires?'

  'Well, he wants to be a writer, so maybe Dean. I don't think they ever spoke much, though.'

  'Anyone else?'

  'No.'

  'No one at all?'

  Terry Peters frowns as if concentrating. The movement doesn't look right to Frank. A tell?

  'He likes Ben Noone, I suppose. Nicky thinks he's the next big thing. But I don't think they know each other.'

  'Noone?' It's Frank's turn to frown.

  'The lead actor,' says Harris. 'American.'

  'Famous?' Frank looks at Harris. 'Should I know him?'

  Peters shakes his head. 'No, he's new. Came out of nowhere.'

  'You recommended him to Ethan Conroy, didn't you, Terry?' says Harris.

  Frank's impressed. Harris had clearly been digging around in some of the witness statements taken by the team.

  Peters shrugs. 'I might have.'

  'You knew Noone from somewhere else?'

  'Not sure where I met him. Just around. When this gig came up, I mentioned it to him.'

  Both Frank and Harris pause. A silence falls in the interview room.

  'Does Noone know Nicky?' asks Frank eventually.

  Peters shakes his head. 'Don't think so.'

  'You got anything else, DI Harris?'

  'No, I don't think so.'

  Frank, arms folded across his chest, his back against the wall, is silent for almost a minute, during which time he's looking at Terry Peters. Eventually he pushes himself upright and then sits back down. 'You can go now, Mr Peters. If you think of anything else, please let us know.' He smiles grimly. 'And if you're fibbing about anything you've said today – if your alibi for Friday isn't as watertight as a fucking submarine – we'll be letting you know. Right?'

  Terry Peters gets to his feet. He looks like he's been in a war zone.

  'You're not going to say anything to Alicia about . . . about me and Maddy, are you?'

  'Goodbye, Mr Peters,'
says Frank without looking up. 'I can't promise anything.'

  Peters opens the door and shuffles out.

  For a few seconds Harris and Keane say nothing before Frank breaks the silence.

  'Fuck me.'

  'Here?' says Harris, deadpan.

  It's lines like that that remind Frank how much he likes her.

  Thirty-Five

  Nicky's out of the box. The monster's moving him.

  'It's too close, here,' he says. 'We need to go deeper.'

  He's a bit more ragged this time, distracted.

  Nicky's weak after another two days in the box. The monster had left water but Nicky had eaten nothing since the sandwiches. After the monster had gone, Nicky had tried banging on the sides of his tomb but no one had heard.

  Now, half-delirious, Nicky is pushed up the sloping rubble leading to a dark opening ahead. In his free hand Nicky's captor holds the torch. With the beam of white light bouncing in front of them, they scrabble up and into a narrow shaft. Crouching awkwardly, they shuffle along for about ten metres until they reach a solid-looking wall. Nicky has to stop to be sick.

  'Get up,' says the monster. His voice is husky, emotional, and, even over his own filth, Nicky can smell a sour tang on the monster's breath.

  'Push it,' says the monster, indicating the wall.

  Nicky leans forward and presses his hands against the surface. To his surprise it isn't masonry but grey-painted wood and it falls back easily, revealing a larger cavern beyond. Nicky is pushed roughly through the opening and he stumbles.

  'Get up,' says the monster. A hand drags Nicky to his feet. The monster turns and replaces the door across the opening.

  The space they're in is piled high with rubble. With the painted wood in place it would take luck to locate the opening to the shaft and the room where Nicky had been held.

  Nicky is directed to the left, where there is another, larger shaft which bends upwards and to the right. At the end of this is a space which seems to be a dumping ground for all manner of debris. The floor is under water; Nicky can see the reflected gleam from the torch.

  'There,' says the monster. He points the light towards a dilapidated iron box about the size of a small caravan. It's some sort of industrial fridge with thick walls. The tunnels are awash with the debris of past times: piles of smashed china, decayed wooden boxes, old car batteries. How and why the fridge is there Nicky has no idea. It doesn't matter. It is here and he is here and that's enough.

  The door is pulled back. Inside the fridge is dry. When the monster places the torch on the floor and takes a knife from his pocket, Nicky steps back, his eyes wide.

  'Easy,' says the monster and cuts the plastic looped around Nicky's wrists. He gestures for Nicky to step inside. There's some food and water and a bucket. A blanket. A big improvement. Hope.

  'The door and walls are insulated. No one can hear you.'

  'I'll suffocate,' says Nicky.

  'I think there are some gaps. You might be OK.' The monster's voice indicates that it's all the same to him.

  Nicky wants to know what is happening but something tells him not to ask. Curiosity killed the cat, his gran used to say. He never really knew what it meant but it comes back to him now. The less he says the safer he'll be. He just knows it. Besides, not asking, not pleading, is the only thing Nicky has left. And he's puzzled about being moved.

  Then the monster does something strange.

  He hugs Nicky.

  The boy can feel the monster's stubble scraping his young skin and he tenses, fearing a knife in the ribs as he's being held.

  'Sorry, Nicky,' comes a whisper in his ear and then he's released. The monster steps away and picks up his torch. Nicky stands naked at the rear of the fridge watching him close the heavy door. It sticks at the last, leaving a sliver of light until the monster kicks it into place. In the dark, Nicky can hear a padlock being placed in position.

  'I didn't mean it all to end like this,' says the monster. He's crying. As Nicky listens in the pitch dark to the receding footsteps he lifts a hand to his face to the spot where the monster brushed against him.

  He can still feel the rasp of Terry's cheek against his own.

  Thirty-Six

  It's almost six by the time Frank gets out of the interview with Peters.

  A good interview, opening up some lively threads and possibilities and it's gone a little way to lifting Frank's mood. He drives to Dean Quinner's flat at the Albert Dock in golden evening sunshine. The day that had started so brightly – unless you were Dean Quinner – had been a peach. Frank wishes he'd seen a bit more of it instead of being in J7 or behind his desk. Still, some good things had happened.

  The meeting with Charlie Searle has been postponed, for one. That felt like a result.

  As far as dealing with the press goes, Frank's hoping that Searle may feel it worth stepping in, despite being cautious not to be seen as the man to blame if things go wrong. Frank's mishandling of the persistent McSkimming might be enough for Charlie Searle to take over.

  Which is just fine with Frank.

  Peter Wills and Phil Caddick are at Quinner's when Frank arrives. It's only ten hours since the body washed up at Garston but it already seems like a side story to the main event of the double killing in Birkdale. Frank thinks this could prove to be a problem, which is why he's making sure the MIT team know that the Dean Quinner murder is no less of a priority. Showing up at the dead man's flat is a way of demonstrating that.

  The place has been photographed and dusted on Frank's order, even though there's nothing to suggest this is where Quinner was killed. In fact, Frank's certain that Quinner wasn't killed here. But, with this murder, the focus is now firmly fixed on the Tunnels production cast and crew and, so far, there is no crime scene. The river location of the body won't give them much. Quinner wasn't killed there. Current and tide suggest he was put in the water further east but there are marks on the body that suggest Dean Quinner may have been snagged on a passing boat and dragged upstream. Nine times out of ten a body would drift seawards, but the chance of it being different is there so Frank doesn't want to make an assumption that will get in the way of the investigation. He's only sprung for the extra forensics at the flat from his tight budget because now that they have a narrower range of potential suspects, there is more chance of those forensics being useful. With the forensics team having left, Wills and Caddick are going over the flat in detail. They'll take material they find potentially interesting back to MIT for further analysis.

  'Anything?' says Frank by way of greeting.

  Wills is on his knees next to a stack of blue plastic evidence boxes. He's surrounded by every piece of paper that he could find in Quinner's flat.

  'Not much, sir.' Wills looks up. 'Looks pretty clean at first glance. What paperwork he's got is mostly related to the production. Scripts, shooting schedules, that kind of thing. Haven't been through them in detail yet. A few domestic things, the normal stuff. Bills, banking. Nothing obviously personal so far. Phil's sent the computer over to Rose to see what he can get.'

  'Just the one?'

  'There was only one here, along with an iPad. We had a quick look but there was nothing that sprang out. Might have more luck once Rosie gets into the emails.'

  'Phone?'

  'No sign of one. There's a landline. Rob Flanagan is accessing the records for that.'

  Frank's not sure they'll get much from the landline. Quinner seemed to have been tech-savvy, someone who used his mobile and internet wi-fi to communicate. Increasingly, MIT are finding it's only mobiles that prove useful.

  Frank leaves Peter Wills to the paperwork and wanders round the flat.

  Quinner seems to have been a tidy man. The place is pleasant but nondescript. It faces the city – the cheaper side. Through a window Frank catches a glimpse of the back edge of the Mann Island monolith. He and Quinner were almost neighbours.

  On the walls are movie posters. Mostly indie flicks. Frank recognises some but doubts th
at Quinner had anything to do with them. The Tunnels was his first film.

  Ethan Conroy had told them that Quinner had been working on this project for years. His baby. Frank thinks that could be an important piece of information. Parents would do anything to protect their offspring. Perhaps Quinner tried too hard to protect his movie.

  From what?

  That was the question. Frank's team will investigate money issues as a matter of course, but he doesn't believe that will be a tree that bears fruit. Conroy and McElway are the money men on this film and there's nothing so far to suggest that money troubles, or lack of them, have any bearing. Money's always worth investigating, but with the murders of Paul and Maddy Peters, and Nicky's disappearance, Frank doesn't expect this to be about money.

  The Peters murders were personal.

  Quinner's murder doesn't feel like that so far, but Frank knows they're connected. You don't have to be a copper to know that. What is interesting, he thinks, is that if you accept that the murders of Paul and Maddy and Quinner are linked, then it means that Nicky shifts firmly into the 'potential victim' category. Frank can't come up with a convincing theory that has Nicky killing his parents, evading capture and then killing Dean Quinner so efficiently. And the fact that the murders of the Peters couple were made to appear, at least temporarily, as a domestic murder-suicide, and that Dean Quinner was just flat out killed, means to Frank that they are investigating a crime more complex than it appears on first inspection.

  In the bedroom, Phil Caddick has taken out the contents of Quinner's wardrobe and cabinets and laid them on the bed.

  'Phil,' says Frank. He looks at the neatly arranged piles of belongings on the bed. Caddick's going through everything piece by piece.

  'Sir,' says Caddick. He straightens up and gestures towards the bed. 'Not a lot, to be honest. No drugs, no sexual material to speak of, nothing.' Caddick lifts a small piece of paper from the bed. 'The only thing that might have anything to do with it is this, but it's a long shot.'

  He hands the paper to Frank. It's a taxi receipt dated Thursday, 13 June. Frank shrugs.