Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  'Not a chance,' says Rosie, glancing up from his computer screen at Rimmer's attempt. Both coppers sit at the same desk on either side and both have teetering stacks of paper strewn across the surface. It's gone six now and Rimmer's due to knock off.

  Rimmer sets himself like a pro and lets the paper ball go. It sails across the room and lands – a fucking office b-ball miracle – slam in the centre of Magsi's coffee.

  Hot liquid slops onto Magsi's immaculate trouser leg.

  'Fucking hell, Rimmer, you knob!'

  'He shoots! He scores!' Rimmer gets up from the desk and runs across to Magsi, his arms aloft. 'The crowds go wild!'

  Magsi shakes his head. 'If this doesn't come out you're paying for it, Rimmer. Don't think I'll let it go. Cos I won't.'

  'Sorry, mate,' says Rimmer. 'But you have to admit it was a fucking great shot, yeah?'

  Magsi nods and holds up his hands. 'Yeah, yeah, I'll give you that, man.' He smiles, happy that he's being immersed in the MIT world.

  Still, they are a good pair of trousers.

  Rimmer sits back down and stretches. He's been at this all day and the screen in front of him bears the meagre fruits of his labours.

  He'll be glad to get out of the office. This morning, he and Rose had gone to break the news of her son's death to Quinner's mother in Litherland. After watching her world collapse, and getting what little practical information they could, they'd come back to the office and worked without a break since eleven.

  Dean Quinner's life had been laid bare. Phone numbers, jobs, addresses, bank details, friends, family, education, the lot. And then a secondary list of calls that Rimmer's made that day, almost all of them pointless, repetitive fishing expeditions, wrong numbers, outdated numbers, some recipients shocked, others cagey. His eyes are swimming with the information and he knows that his colleagues are feeling the same way. The important difference for Rimmer is that he's finished for the day.

  'I'm gone,' says Rimmer. He checks his watch. 'Overtime used up and there's someone waiting.'

  Steve Rose simulates a blow job using his tongue to press out the side of his cheek. 'The nurse?'

  Rimmer smiles. 'The nurse.' He notices Manda Davies, a relatively new addition to MIT, regarding them sourly. 'And don't be disgusting,' adds Rimmer. 'Christ, Steve, grow the fuck up.'

  On his way past Manda's desk, Rimmer winks.

  'Dickhead,' she says.

  An hour and a half later, showered and changed into civvies, Rimmer is sitting at a table outside the Baltic Fleet on Wapping. It's a fine evening and the pub is full, even on a Wednesday.

  Rimmer picks up his bottle of micro-brewed ale and clinks it against Hanna's glass.

  'Cheers,' he says and she smiles warmly. Maybe Rosie wasn't so wide of the mark.

  Hanna takes a long pull on her G & T and closes her eyes. 'Jesus,' she says, her eyes still closed. She opens them and looks at Rimmer. 'I needed that.'

  'Long day?'

  As Hanna begins describing the various reasons she needed the G & T, Rimmer sits back contentedly watching her. Hanna's muted Danish accent is a turn-on and she looks great. There's something about a foreign girl. Maybe, because of the job bringing him into contact with the wrong type of local, he's come to associate the Liverpool accent with trouble. Hanna, a triage nurse at A & E in Walton, is leggy, blonde, and dresses with an understated style that Rimmer finds very appealing.

  'Stop it,' she says, breaking off from her story.

  'What?'

  'You're not listening to me.'

  Rimmer holds his hands up in surrender. 'You got me, Hanna. You're so good-looking that it was all I could think of.'

  Hanna laughs. 'Of course.'

  'Anyway, you were telling me about the nutjobs you get coming in?'

  'You were listening.'

  Rimmer smiles. 'I'm a multi-tasker. I can ogle and listen.' He drinks and then gestures with the heel of the bottle. 'Go on. The finger.'

  'Well, like I say, this man came in last Thursday, maybe early morning Friday, with his finger missing. Told us he cut it accidentally when he was laying tiles.'

  Rimmer shrugs.

  'Who cuts tiles at two in the morning?' Hanna has the air of a prosecution lawyer delivering a devastating zinger.

  'Maybe he was one of those shopfitters? They work all night sometimes.'

  Hanna shakes her head. 'No, this man was not like this. He was not a working man.'

  'So you put the finger back on?'

  Hanna shakes her head. 'No, he didn't have it. And this is why I'm telling you, Ronnie. He said he lost it when he spat it out.'

  Now Hanna does have Rimmer's full attention.

  'He spat it out? That's what he said?'

  'Yes. But when I asked him about that he changed his mind. He told me he was getting confused and said I must have not understood him.'

  'What happened?'

  'We patched him up and cleaned the wound, and then we wanted to keep him for observation. This is a big thing, losing a finger, right? But this man won't stay. He left right after we fixed him up.'

  'Did you call us?'

  Hanna nods. 'The duty manager called the police to report it, but they didn't arrive until after the man has gone.' Hanna fixes him with a pair of large blue eyes. 'What do you think, Ronnie? Drugs? Or maybe the man cut his own finger? Some sex thing, maybe?'

  'I don't know.' Rimmer's distracted by Hanna using the word 'sex'. All thoughts of the fingerless low-life disappear as she leans across the table. Rimmer looks at her glass. It's empty, and Hanna is idly playing with a chunk of ice.

  'Fancy another stiff one?' Rimmer leers.

  Hanna smiles seductively and pulls him forward, her half-closed eyes locked on his. She drapes a hand round his neck, licks her lips and drops the ice straight down the back of his shirt.

  Forty

  Frank leans back in his chair and rubs the sides of his face.

  'Bring him in.'

  After a morning checking on any overnight progress – frustratingly there's none to speak of – and driving the rest of MIT's caseload, by the time he's back in J7 at Stanley Road with Harris it's past one, with the actor due in in five minutes.

  Em's brought a couple of coffees in from Marco's on the corner of Hardman Street. Another step on the road to peace? Frank's not sure but he's grateful anyway. He slept well last night, feels sharp, and after the bureaucratic slog this morning, the coffee sets him up nicely for what he hopes will be a more satisfying afternoon. He considers asking Harris how Linda's doing but he hesitates and then the moment is gone. He knows he'll have to talk about it soon but this probably isn't the right time.

  Focus.

  He and Harris have already been through the angle they're going to take in the interview. Harris is yet to be convinced that Noone represents even a remote avenue for the investigation. So far there isn't a shred of anything to connect Noone with either the Peters family or Quinner. In fact, as someone from outside the country, he is, in her opinion, a long way down the list of possibilities. But Harris knows Frank well enough to respect his instinct and there's no denying that Magsi coming up short on Noone's sheet has piqued her interest in the American too. Their experience with the ex-IRA guy on the Stevie White case has left an impression. Like Noone, Declan North had a sketchy paper trail. It's worth throwing a hook in, anyway.

  The uniform comes back into the interview room, a tall, athletic man behind him.

  'Mr Noone,' says the uniform and leaves. Frank's tidying up his paperwork so doesn't look up at first.

  As Noone takes his seat, Harris's first thought is that he's ridiculously good-looking. Clooney when young. No surprise he got the Tunnels movie.

  'DCI Keane?' The rich American voice rolls around the shabby room. An alien sound in here – Hollywood on the Mersey. A few years back, only just out of uniform, Frank had once briefly met Samuel L. Jackson when the actor was shooting a movie in the city. It had been an oddly unnerving and dislocating experience, a
s though by being there in the flesh, Jackson was breaking some immutable physical law. Noone's voice has something of Jackson in it.

  Frank takes a few seconds to study the man. He looks his twenty-nine years, but that is not a criticism. In fact, thinks Frank, he'll look better with age. His face is open, approachable. He's dressed well, but not overly so. Boots, black jeans, an expensive shirt under an equally expensive-looking jacket. Frank's eyes flick towards Noone's hands and he flashes on the scene in the Peters' house.

  What do you think you'll see, Frank? Blood?

  Frank puts out his own hand, which Noone shakes warmly. There's no attempt at any masculine posturing by the American, no excessive grip. Neither is there any limpness. His skin is warm, dry.

  'Thanks for coming in, Mr Noone.' Frank indicates the chair across the desk. Noone looks at Harris, smiling. 'This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Harris.'

  Noone extends his hand. 'Wow,' he says, holding Harris's hand a fraction longer than he had Keane's. Harris doesn't smile back but she has to force herself. I like him, she thinks.

  And then: he's an actor.

  Frank leans across the table towards the interview room digital recorder.

  'We record everything these days,' he says, looking at Noone. 'You have no objection?'

  Noone shakes his head as he pulls back a chair. 'No problem.'

  'DCI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris. Interview with Benjamin Noone.'

  'How can I help you?' Noone says. He sits down, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. 'Any news on the boy?'

  Frank waits a few moments, regarding Noone. He ignores the question.

  'We're talking to everyone involved with The Tunnels, Mr Noone. As you are aware, Dean Quinner was found dead yesterday morning. Since Mr Quinner was the third death connected with the production – leaving aside the issue of Nicky Peters – we are of the opinion that the killer is one of the members of the production team.'

  'You're kidding?'

  'No, I'm not. The chances that Nicky Peters and his parents and Dean Quinner were randomly attacked are so slim as to be dismissed. The killer is one of you.'

  Noone raises his eyebrows. 'You don't mess around. I like it.'

  Frank glances at Harris. You getting this?

  'We're not overly concerned with your feelings about anything, Mr Noone.'

  'Of course.' Noone looks contrite.

  'We can get the obvious questions over first.' Harris looks down at her file. 'Taking things in order, do you have any idea where you were on the evening of Friday the fourteenth, Mr Noone?'

  Noone folds his hands in his lap. 'The fourteenth?'

  Frank starts to get the curious feeling that the man in front of him is enjoying this encounter.

  'The evening the Peters family were killed,' says Frank. 'You must have heard about it. It was the talk of the town.'

  Noone pauses before answering and looks at Keane. He holds the pause just long enough for Harris to glance from him to Frank. The animal challenge is there; that instinctive moment that's so hard to disguise and that both Frank Keane and Em Harris have seen a million times.

  'Well, of course, we all heard something had happened that weekend, but none of us were sure exactly when.' His words sound sincere but to Frank's ears there's something a little 'off buried deep in the sentence.

  He's on stage. The fucker's giving us a performance. Frank's got an ear for pretence that wouldn't be out of place at a top-flight acting academy. Most decent detectives have it, developed over long hours of listening to every nuance of human behaviour.

  'Try and remember,' says Frank.

  Noone concentrates. Or appears to. It's hard for Frank to tell. Maybe this is how he is all of the time. People in here react differently. Noone's composure may simply be a defensive reflex, something that's done well for him in the past.

  All it's doing in J7 right now is setting Frank Keane's teeth on edge. Which is good. It means that there's something in Noone that Frank's senses are telling him to examine. He wonders if Harris is feeling the same way.

  'Friday the fourteenth, last Friday.' Harris consults a sheet of paper in front of her. 'According to your shooting schedule, you were on set that day. The location was the Williamson tunnels. The first day of work in that location, I think.'

  Harris looks up. 'That help you, Mr Noone?'

  Noone leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. 'Yes, it does. It was the second day in the tunnels, though. We'd started on the Thursday down there. I remember feeling cold – it's damp underground – and I asked Nicky to get me my coat from the truck.'

  'You knew him well enough to call him by his first name?'

  'He's a good kid. Everyone calls him Nicky. It's a small unit.'

  It's Frank's turn. 'Unit?'

  'A movie term. Means the whole thing. Everyone shooting the movie.'

  'You're not an actor, though, Mr Noone. Not an experienced one. Right?'

  Noone smiles. 'Depends on your definition of experienced.'

  'What I mean is that this is your first movie. Tell me a little about how you got the role.'

  Noone raises his eyebrows fractionally. 'If you think it will help.'

  'I do.'

  'I've been travelling for a couple of years. Been in the city for the past eight months. The crowd I'd been hanging out with are artsy. One of them knew Dean and mentioned his movie. I thought it would be kind of interesting. I'd always been good at goofing around. So I tried out and here I am.'

  'The person who recommended you was Terry Peters, isn't that right?' Harris's voice is even – just someone getting confirmation of something she already knows.

  'That's right,' says Noone. 'It was Terry Peters who put a word in for me.'

  'Did you know Terry Peters well at that point?'

  Noone shrugs. 'Not really. I'd met the guy a coupla times along with a bunch of movie and TV people. Seemed OK. I don't really know him that well now, if I'm honest. How's he doing? With all this, I mean? Must be tough.'

  'He's doing as well as you might expect,' says Harris, shortly. She looks down at her notes, rubbing her finger against her lip, and Noone glances in Frank's direction. Although Noone keeps his expression bland, there's something knowing in the gesture that Frank doesn't like, as if the American is inviting Frank to share a male secret at Harris's expense.

  'Let's get back to the fourteenth, Mr Noone,' says Harris. 'We've been talking for five minutes since I asked and you haven't told us anything. I'd still like to get your movements.'

  Frank curses himself inwardly for not noticing how smoothly Noone had deflected the question. I need to raise my game here, he thinks, and straightens his spine, the fighter coming out of his corner. Chrissy Cahill pops into his mind and he remembers how easily the boy had caught him napping.

  'I'd need to check with a few people but I'm pretty sure we'd have been out at Maxie's if it was a Friday. That's been pretty regular since we started the shoot.' Noone frowns as if concentrating. 'If I had to make a guess, I think I left before Nicky.'

  'You remember that?' Harris's voice is quizzical.

  'I remember thinking that in the US he wouldn't have been at the bar. What is he, sixteen, seventeen? You gotta be twenty-one back home.'

  'It's eighteen here,' Frank says.

  'Coulda fooled me. Liverpool's pretty easygoing on that score.'

  'Can you give us the names of the people you were with that evening?'

  'I'll try. There were the guys from Hungry Head, John and Ethan. Josh Soames too. And Dean, he was with them, mostly. A couple of girls, I don't know their names. The boy was there.'

  'Did you speak to Nicky?'

  Noone looks at Harris. 'I can't remember. If I did, it wasn't anything.'

  'Danny Lomax?'

  'Who?'

  For the first time since the interview began, Frank can sense a trace of unease in Noone. It might not mean anything, but it's there. Maybe Noone's first misstep. Frank decides to push.r />
  Noone shakes his head. 'Doesn't mean anything to me. You meet lots of people at Maxie's.'

  Frank laughs and leans forward, folding his arms on the table in front of him.

  'Come on, Ben, you and I both know who Danny Lomax is. He's a drug dealer. Your drug dealer.'

  Frank's information on Maxie's regular patrons is in the file handed to him by Magsi. Lomax is known to MIT tangentially. Not a big player on the club scene but known. Noone and Lomax had been talking that night, according to the Aussie barman Magsi had interviewed.

  'My drug dealer?' Noone smiles. 'That makes him sound very important.' The American sits back. 'Look, I admit I know Danny from the clubs and, yes, I do know he's got drugs. I may even have got some from him, just some recreationals to loosen the kinks. We all do that, right?'

  He eyes Frank, amused, and Frank can't help but flash back to the night with Em. They'd both had a smoke. Like Noone said, we all do some of that.

  'No. Not all of us, Ben.'

  'Really?' The actor smiles gently. 'Whatever you say.'

  Harris is reading from the file. 'We'll be talking to Mr Lomax again. For the time being we can just ignore any "recreationals" you may or may not have had. Can we just establish that Nicky Peters wasn't being supplied by Mr Lomax too?'

  'Not that I know.'

  'I'd like to talk about you some more, Ben. You say you're a traveller. When did that start and why did you end up in Liverpool?'

  Noone spreads his hands. 'Why not? It's cool. I was bumming around Europe a bit and someone mentioned this was a good place to come. I came. No big reason.'

  'And stayed?'

  'That's right. I like the place. It suits me.'

  In a funny way, Frank knows what he means. The city does suit the American. Performers like the place and Liverpool loves a performer.

  'What started you off, the travelling?' Harris's question sounds more like something from a daytime chat show and Frank wonders if the actor's charm is working too well on Harris.

  Noone returns plenty of charm in his answer, smiling at Harris. 'After my mother died I didn't feel like staying at home.'

  'Los Angeles?'

  'Correct. And if you've been there, you'll know why I like Liverpool.'