Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  'Why? I mean, it's the day before the Birkdale murders, but is there some other reason that makes you think it's relevant?'

  'Pete's gone through his receipts. The feller was methodical – all his taxi receipts are in with the rest of the financial stuff – but this one I found in the pocket of these.'

  Caddick holds up a pair of jeans. 'They were hanging up. Probably indicates he hasn't washed them since the taxi, otherwise the receipt would be with the others. The taxidriver could have something useful.'

  Frank wishes he could be more enthusiastic because Caddick has a fair point. It's just that he has the feeling whoever killed Quinner isn't stupid enough to leave an obvious trail. Like a taxi-driver witness.

  'You're right, Phil, it's something.' Frank hands back the receipt. 'Chase it up.'

  Phil Caddick turns back to the bed.

  Frank leaves them to it. If they haven't found anything at the flat in four hours, there's nothing he's going to do in a flying visit that will make any difference.

  Outside, leaning against one of the sandstone pillars overlooking the dock, he calls MIT and gets put through to Steve Rose. He's hoping there's something on Quinner's computer or iPad that might be useful for him in the meeting with Searle.

  'There's nothing I can see in the emails,' says Rose. 'Nothing obvious. He's got a lot of emails going to the production office, as you might expect. Older ones are more about the money raising and getting the production going. Not many personal ones. Dean doesn't seem to have been much of a socialiser. His Facebook account isn't really used. From what I can see his browser history is fairly predictable. Lot of film-related stuff. Things on Liverpool, the tunnels, that kind of thing. What porn there is is standard stuff. Hetero, if that's any help?'

  'Can you tell me the browser history over the past few days? What was he looking at leading up to this?'

  There's a pause. 'Just checking over it again,' says Rose. His voice is muffled, as though he's tucked the phone under his chin. When he speaks again his voice is clearer. 'OK, it's mainly movie-related stuff, I think. Reference sites, Wikipedia, review sites, movie trailers. Lot of Google searches.'

  'Can we tell what he was looking at?'

  'Mm, yeah, mostly.' Rose's voice is muffled again.

  'Are you eating?' says Frank.

  'Er, no.'

  'For fuck's sake, Rose, put down whatever greasy slab of calories you're shovelling down your fucking throat and concentrate. I can hear your saliva. It's disgusting.'

  'Right. Sorry, sir. Er, OK, Quinner was searching yesterday. The last thing in his history is a search on something called USEARCH.'

  'Which is?'

  'Hold on.' Frank can hear some keystrokes. 'It's a US-based people finder. Background checks, that sort of thing. A pay site, but I can't see anything that indicates Quinner registered.'

  Frank moves out of earshot of a passing group of overeaters munching on brightly coloured buckets of chicken. The head of the family is wearing a pair of three-quarter-length shorts that could easily double as a Bedouin tent. 'What the fuck are you looking at?' he snarls at Frank. His son, a teenage blimp of about fourteen, snickers unattractively. The two of them puff out their chests. It's like watching a pair of hippos do an impersonation of Bruce Willis.

  Frank reaches into his pocket, produces his warrant card and thrusts it close to the man's face.

  'Can you read?' asks Frank. 'Shoo.' He turns and pockets his ID. 'Carry on, Rose. USEARCH?' Behind him, the herd moves on, muttering muted obscenities and slurping soft drinks. Frank turns and motions them away with the back of his hand and the group drift round the corner.

  'Well, there's not much else, sir. It's a people finder site.'

  'What does he have before that?'

  'Some IMDb searches. Mostly on the cast. IMDb is the movie database. Lists previous work, that sort of thing. Couple of searches for Ben Noone.'

  'Ben Noone?'

  'He's one of the actors.' Rose taps some keys. 'The lead actor, apparently.'

  'I know who he is. It's the second time his name's come up today. We're speaking to him tomorrow. Does he come up again in Quinner's computer stuff?'

  'Not really. And Quinner's got lots of stuff in there relating to the other members of the cast.'

  'Yeah. Probably nothing, but we're a bit light on possibilities. Keep digging, Steve.'

  Frank rings off and calls one of the new guys, Saif Magsi. He doesn't want a main MIT officer tied up on a red herring but he'd like a bit more on Noone before speaking to him. Quinner's searches on the American are unlikely to be important but, judging by the pickings on show at his flat, Frank's grateful for any crumbs.

  'DC Magsi? It's DCI Keane. Yeah, never mind that. Listen, I want details on Ben Noone. He's due in tomorrow for an interview and I'd like some material. Don't spend too long, OK? It's probably nothing, but just get some material to work with.'

  Frank rings off, pockets his mobile and heads for his car.

  He passes the fat man he'd had trouble from earlier, leaning over the edge of the dock looking at something in the water. Frank considers giving him a kick up the backside and sending him over. At least that way the day wouldn't be a total waste.

  He checks his watch. He's been on the clock since six that morning. He could head back to the office; Christ knows there's enough there to keep him busy till Doomsday. Instead, Frank flexes his arms and decides his work-out with Chrissy Cahill is far enough in the past for him to do another work-out in Bootle. He'd been hoping that Harris might suggest a drink but it hasn't happened.

  Boxing it is.

  Thirty-Seven

  Wednesday.

  'DC Magsi!'

  If Frank Keane's reputation hadn't reached Saif Magsi's ears before, he is in no doubt now. The DCI's voice cuts across the office like a pistol shot, jerking the DC's head upright from his monitor.

  'My office.'

  Magsi glances at Flanagan, who shrugs.

  'Need a weapon, Mags?'

  Magsi's tired eyes narrow. 'Pick on the Paki, eh?' he mutters. 'Why don't you get the harsh word?'

  'Luck of the Irish,' says Flanagan. He cuts a look across to where Frank Keane's standing in the open doorway. 'Best get moving, Paki,' hisses Flanagan. He winks at Saif.

  'Fucking Paddy,' says Saif and flips Flanagan the finger.

  Frank gestures for Magsi to follow him into the interview room. As he reaches the door, Harris emerges, heading for the coffee machine at the end of the corridor. She makes a drinking motion with her hand and Frank nods.

  He opens the door of his temporary office and steps through, Magsi close behind.

  'Is there a problem, boss?' Magsi's nervy but pissed off too. He's a good copper and, as far as he knows, hasn't done a thing to deserve the sharp end of Keane's tongue.

  Frank sits down and indicates that Magsi should do the same. When they are settled, Frank prods the file on the desk in front of him with the end of a pencil, as if it were infectious.

  'What do you call this?'

  Magsi rotates the file and reads the name on the top inside sheet.

  'You asked for this material, sir. As much as I could get on each member of the production.'

  'So what the fuck is going on with Ben Noone?'

  Saif Magsi looks puzzled.

  'Everything's there, DCI Keane.'

  Frank picks the file up and reads. 'Benjamin Noone. Age twenty-nine. American. Born Los Angeles, California, 10 July 1983. Current address Flat 213, River Towers, Old Hall Street, Liverpool.'

  He looks up from the paper and regards Magsi. Sour doesn't begin to describe Keane's expression.

  'I don't know if you think this is some sort of fucking game, Mr Magsi, or if this is how you do things over in your crappy little department, but I don't accept this kind of sloppiness, is that clear?'

  Magsi nods but his face is hard. 'That's all there was, sir.' He sits back and folds his arms. 'I know why you're angry and I see now I should have talked to you abou
t this before I gave it to you.'

  Harris comes back in carrying two paper cups. She puts them down on Frank's desk and looks at her watch. 'Shouldn't we be meeting Superintendent Searle?'

  'It's later,' says Frank, trying not to look too happy in front of Magsi. He takes his coffee and sips it cautiously. Last week he'd burnt his tongue on a brew the temperature of a thermonuclear reactor.

  'Have you seen this?' Frank puts down his cup and proffers Harris Magsi's file.

  'What?' Harris takes a seat and picks up the file.

  Frank dips his head in Magsi's direction. 'This one's had since yesterday to dig up as much info as he could on the production.'

  'And?'

  'Look at what he's managed to find on Ben Noone. He's one of the actors. Have a read of that.'

  Harris reads the single sheet in the file. Her eyebrows rise and she looks over the edge of the paper at Saif Magsi.

  'This is it?'

  'That's all,' says Magsi.

  'See?' says Frank, looking at Harris. He picks up the coffee and, forgetting, takes a healthy slurp, burning his tongue once more. 'Fuck!'

  'Always wait,' says Harris. She narrows her eyes at Magsi. 'Seriously? This is everything you can find on Noone?'

  Magsi sits forward. 'I'm not dicking anyone around, DI Harris. There's nothing else.'

  Magsi looks at Keane, whose expression is shifting from scorn to one of growing interest. Frank thinks Magsi, from the little he's seen, has the makings of a really good police officer. Perhaps that's why he has been so hard on him.

  'I checked all the usual channels. The movie company had his address and date of birth. I managed to get his passport details from Immigration Services. He doesn't have any other records. No driving licence, at least not in the UK, no arrest sheet, no parking tickets, no educational records. I checked with the US State Department and found he was born in LA. I did some digging around in the US records that are available online. Same story. No arrest sheet. No employment record. No educational records. No Facebook account. He's not a registered voter. There's nothing more they could give me. Or would give me. He hasn't committed any crimes, is travelling on a valid visa, so the word I'm getting from the Americans is that unless he's a suspect that's as far as they'll go. Is he a suspect?'

  Frank screws up his face. 'No. But this has got my interest. What about money, rent, credit cards? Anything on that?'

  DC Magsi leans forward. 'His flat is one of the new ones over at Old Hall Street – the big glass box, River Towers? He's been there since it opened six months ago. The place is owned by an American company, Nerex Holdings. Noone isn't listed as a tenant or owner or anything. He's there legitimately, though. I called the company that administers the building and he's staying there with Nerex's consent, apparently. I didn't go any further because there wasn't time. He doesn't have a credit card or a bank account that I can find.'

  Frank sits back and looks at the sheet of paper. There's silence in the office. After more than a few seconds have ticked by, Frank rubs the side of his nose and speaks.

  'Let's get Mr Noone in tomorrow morning, shall we? Should be interesting at least; In the meantime, DC Magsi, you work on Mr Noone some more. Concentrate on the financials. Credit cards, bank accounts. As much as you can get, within reason. The more we have before we talk to him, the happier I'll be.'

  DC Magsi gets to his feet. At the door he pauses and glances in Frank's direction.

  'If you're waiting for an apology,' says Frank, 'don't. You should have flagged this sooner. It stinks.'

  Saif Magsi says nothing and slips out.

  Harris sits in the chair vacated by Magsi. 'What do you think?' she says, tapping a nail on Noone's file. 'Saif's pretty thorough from what I hear, but there must be more on Noone than this.'

  'There will be. But I don't want to waste too much time on Mr Noone just yet. Magsi can do some more checks and we'll talk to Noone tomorrow. I want to work through the production and background crew today. You follow up Terry Peters. I'm not happy about him and Maddy Peters. At the moment he's looking our strongest bet, agreed? I'll do a bit of work on Noone's background. It's probably nothing but it's worth looking at. We had something similar with Col North last year, remember?'

  'Have you had much experience with the American system?'

  'No, not really.' Keane stands up and takes his mobile out of his pocket as he heads for the door. 'But I know a man who has.'

  Thirty-Eight

  'What did he say when you told him?' asks Menno Koopman.

  He and Warren Eckhardt are sitting on the deck at Menno's place drinking whisky. As usual, Warren is wreathed in a thick plume of smoke. Koop tolerates it because to deprive Warren of cigs would be like depriving a fish of water. With Koop living in the lush hills in northern New South Wales there are hardly any neighbours within sniffing distance and most of those who are seem to exist on a diet of dope. They're not going to notice Warren's solo war on the ozone layer.

  Since he met the Queenslander during last year's drama – Eckhardt being an investigating officer on the Australian side – Koop has been enjoying his company more and more often. Especially these days, the way things are between himself and Zoe.

  Koop doesn't know where Zoe is exactly. She left yesterday afternoon and mumbled something about Brisbane. Business or pleasure, Frank's not sure. Maybe both. Her design company is up there but Frank noticed she'd taken her heels. The bedroom ones.

  'Well, once he'd stopped yakking about how shit I am – the usual stuff – he didn't say anything,' says Warren, taking a drink and a drag, seemingly simultaneously. 'I just put a hand inside me jacket and pulled out the little white envelope that'd been sitting there for a week. "Stop talking for two fucking minutes, will you," I said, and pushed the fucking thing across the desk. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to punch the air or punch me.'

  'Big moment,' says Koop. He raises his glass in salute. 'Not every day you retire from the force, Wazza. Even a mickey mouse Aussie one.'

  'Molly Minchin never forgave me after I got seconded to the Organised Crime Group. He was pissed off because I didn't bring the dead rat back to his office. No glory. My days were numbered from that point.'

  'You made the right decision. I mean, look how it's working out for me.'

  Warren pauses and then bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard Koop thinks he might pass out and, love him though he does, he'd rather not have to give Warren mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  'To retirement,' says Koop and raises his glass.

  Before Koop can say anything more he hears the hum of his phone vibrating on the surface of the coffee table. He clambers from the depths of the sofa and reaches across.

  'Never a good sign,' says Warren Eckhardt as Koop clumsily manoeuvres his lanky frame upright. 'Phone calls at this time of night.'

  Koop puts down the tumbler of scotch and holds the phone at arm's length to read the ID. 'Frank Keane,' he says, looking at Warren.

  'Are you going to answer the fucking thing or just look at it?'

  'Right.' Koop presses his finger on 'answer'. 'Frank.'

  Warren hears a yap of dialogue and then Koop answers.

  'Do you know what time it is, Frank? Here, I mean?'

  Koop looks at Warren and shakes his head. Dickhead, he mouths, waving his watch. The phone squawks again.

  'Well it's a nine-hour difference, not seven, and yeah, I am awake as it happens, but that's not the point . . . No, it's OK, might as well talk now as tomorrow. My head won't be right.' Koop takes a sip of malt and listens to what Frank has to say. As the conversation unrolls, Koop's expression sharpens.

  'Yeah, maybe. I was in LA for a while. Listen, I'm here with Warren Eckhardt who you know from last year. No, we're not in bed. It's not that kind of relationship. I'm going to put you on speaker. Warren might have something useful to add. He spent some time in the States too. New Mexico, I think.'

  Koop puts the phone down on the coffee table and presses the
speaker button.

  'Warren.' Keane's voice is clear, his Liverpool accent amplified in the Australian setting.

  'I have to warn you, we're half-pissed,' says Warren, his smoker's voice softened by the scotch. 'And it was Washington State. I did eighteen months on secondment just after 9/11. Global policing was all the thing.'

  Koop raises his glass to the phone and turns to Warren. 'Frank's got a weird one.'

  Frank sketches out the lack of information on Noone for Koopman and Eckhardt.

  'He's just a witness, right?' says Warren after Frank's finished.

  'Correct.'

  'But . . .?'

  'It smells wrong,' says Frank. 'Don't you think?'

  'It does to me.' Koop is looking at Warren.

  'Maybe,' says Warren. 'The bloke might just be clean. It happens. But I admit, it does look like there's got to be more.'

  'There's nothing in the UK we can find. Not with the resources we've got, anyway. I was hoping you might have a friend I could call. Or you could call. We're getting nowhere through the normal channels and I want some more solid background before we talk to him. That's why I called so late.'

  'I can try,' says Koop. 'But I'm not sure I'll get anything more than you can. There's a guy I know who might be able to tell me if the lack of information means something. Sam Dooley. Maybe this Noone is ex-military, something like that?'

  'Don't think so,' says Frank. 'He's an actor. But if you can give it a try, Koop, that'd be great. Don't spend too much time. This feller's just a side issue at the moment.'

  Thirty-Nine

  DC Ronnie Rimmer glances over to Frank's office and, through the open door, sees him yakking on the phone. He's heard Frank mention Koop a couple of times but can't imagine why he's talking to their old boss.

  Rimmer balls up a wodge of emails and tries to flip it across the MIT office into Saif Magsi's coffee cup. It's almost ten metres away and Magsi's concentrating furiously on the work in front of him. After the run-in with DCI Keane he's not going to be caught lallygagging.