Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  Cooper hesitates.

  'We can get it.' She starts to speak urgently, as if by simply conveying how much she wants this she can make it happen. 'We have probable cause to seize Terry's computers, search his house. There'll be something.'

  'You mean there might be something.'

  'It's got to be worth a try.'

  'And if there's nothing? If Stella's just stirring up trouble? The papers are already all over this one, Theresa. You know what it'll be like. A sniff that we're considering Terry for the deaths will be enough to condemn him instantly.'

  'He's guilty,' says Cooper. 'I talked to Stella and she's not making this up. At the very least, with Nicky still missing, we've got to try, haven't we?'

  This last statement is the one that hits home for Harris. Theresa's right. They have to try.

  The fact that the information is coming from Stella Flynn is still a problem. It wouldn't be the first time that an ex-partner has caused trouble by making baseless allegations. Harris has to persuade a magistrate to sign off on a search warrant. Usually, this is unforthcoming in the absence of any corroborating evidence.

  'He was having an affair with Maddy.' Harris is talking to herself. 'Might be enough.'

  'And there's a boy missing,' adds Cooper. 'No one likes being the jobsworth who gets someone killed.'

  It's a good point.

  'Let me talk to DCI Keane. Get a team together to go as soon as I confirm; nothing heavy, this is just information gathering. And keep it small. No uniforms, plain van. The fewer people who know we're looking at Peters, the better, at the moment. If he is involved we have to be ready to move quickly.'

  Harris locks eyes with Cooper. 'If Peters does have Nicky and he gets wind that we're looking at him, it could put the boy in more danger.'

  'What choice do we have?'

  Harris sits down. 'Let me think this through.' She's quiet for a moment or two. Then she picks up her phone.

  'We'll have to grab Peters at the same time,' she says, picking out a number on her phone. She looks up at Cooper as she puts it to her ear. 'DCI Keane's not going to like this.'

  Fifty

  Frank has had days as stressful as this before – the day of the vinegar incident springs to mind as a case in point – but so far Thursday is really shaping up to take the prize.

  The Quinner investigation, two further lines of enquiry opening up after the interviews with Terry Peters and Ben Noone, and then being sandbagged by Searle and Moreleigh over tomorrow's press conference.

  Oh, and he's almost forgotten being put on the toilet floor at Bean by the mystery Yank tourist.

  So when he leaves the meeting with Superintendent Searle to find Harris, Cooper, Rimmer and Rose all clamouring for attention like a pack of hungry chicks, Frank's initial reaction isn't good.

  'Later,' he says, after unloading a selection of his favourite expletives in Rose and Rimmer's direction. As the more junior of the four they cop it first. It's unfair, but Frank's just not in the mood for fairness. All he wants is to get a beer in front of him and forget about MIT for a few hours.

  It's Harris who gives him the wake-up call. Almost pushing him into the privacy of one of the interview rooms she closes the door.

  'On Sunday you told me straight not to let my personal life affect my work. Now I'm telling you the same. You may be a DCI but as a friend I'm telling you to shut the fuck up and listen to what we've got to say. Just because you're having a bad day doesn't mean you can opt out. Now, if you stop dicking about and start thinking, you'll see that this case is unravelling fast. If we act, now, instead of whingeing like a grounded teenager, we could make some real progress. Theresa and the others have fresh, proper information. The case is breaking in front of you, Frank. Don't fuck it up by acting like a complete tit.'

  Five minutes later all members of the MIT unit are in the briefing room. A chastened Frank – Harris being completely right about everything – is all business.

  First up is Cooper. In a few short sentences she outlines the developments from Stella Flynn and the preparations she and Harris have made for gathering evidence from Terry Peters' house. The request for a search warrant is in with the magistrate and Harris is expecting an answer soon. She'd stressed the need for expediency in the emailed brief and followed it up with a call.

  Frank scratches his head. 'You're right,' he says. 'Let's do it. Just as you've arranged, small team, no waiting. As soon as this meeting's over you go.' He looks at Harris. 'I think we might still be barking up the wrong tree with Terry but we can't take that chance. Get the search warrant. I'll deal with the fallout from Searle.'

  Harris says nothing but Frank can tell she's happy with the outcome. For a fleeting second the unchivalrous thought occurs to him that Harris is manipulating the situation to harm him with Searle. He dismisses the idea as quickly as it arrives and turns to Ronnie Rimmer.

  'Before we move on to Peters, let's hear your news, Ronaldo. You look like you're going to wet yourself.'

  Rimmer's less assured than Theresa Cooper but he manages to give Frank the gist of what led him and Rose to Niall McCluskey.

  'In his mouth?' Frank looks sceptical.

  'That's what he says.' Rimmer jerks a thumb downwards. 'We've got him downstairs in case you need to talk to him. I think he was happy to be somewhere safe.'

  'And he's saying that Noone did this? After Quinner asked him to play the heavy?'

  'Not quite. He says they followed Noone, lost him, and then thought they'd picked him up. When McCluskey went down Oil Street he thought he was following Noone but couldn't swear to it.' Rimmer hesitates. 'He thinks he was tasered.'

  Frank stands a little straighter. 'Oh?'

  'Says he felt like he'd been punched in the chest but there's no markings on him. According to him, that is. I haven't checked yet. But he brought up the word.'

  'Good,' says Frank. 'Very good. Is McCluskey willing to be examined by a doctor? There might be evidence of being tasered.'

  'We'd have to put some pressure on,' says Rimmer. 'The feller's shitting himself. I'm not sure he'd give evidence against the guy he thinks cut his finger off.'

  'Still . . .' says Frank.

  'Yes, exactly,' says Rimmer.

  It's Harris who speaks next.

  'We've got to bring Noone in as well.'

  To her surprise, it's Frank who's against it. The guy who's been pushing Noone as 'the one', isn't sure.

  'We can't,' says Frank after a long pause. 'I want to, but we can't. On the face of it we have hearsay evidence against Peters and Noone, but the witness statement against Noone comes from a known criminal.'

  'With a missing finger,' says Cooper.

  'Agreed,' says Frank. 'Which can't be a coincidence. But with Noone being so heavily lawyered already, and with McCluskey being sketchy on the ID, I want to make sure we have something firm before we bring him in. The idea of this fucker sliding away again is giving me the heebie-jeebies. I'd like a little more before we move on Noone.'

  Tread lightly.

  The phrase slides into his head and Frank curses himself inwardly. Is this how it happens? How you start moving from being the copper to being the politician? For a moment he sees himself as the old Frank would have seen him: the spineless pole-climber making sure he can kick down.

  Fuck it. It can't be helped.

  He turns to Rimmer. 'Good work on this. We'll take in Peters and see what turns up. In the meantime I want Magsi and Flanagan to watch Noone overnight. You can get some officers back in to take over later; I'll square the overtime with upstairs.'

  Frank looks at Cooper.

  'That's all. Go and get Peters.'

  Fifty-One

  Noone's not driving his own car. Not this time. Since the killings last weekend he's already learned a lot and is determined not to make any more rookie errors.

  He doesn't need to hot-wire anything. A street acquaintance in Madrid had told him the best way to get a car was this: you find a house in a middle-class
neighbourhood that looks like it has several people living there who drive cars. If there's only one car on the path, knock. Carry a clipboard or a file, something that looks like you might have a reason to call. If there's someone in, make some bullshit excuse about a charity or sales and move on. When you find a house that doesn't answer, break in and take the car keys. Most people leave them in the hallway or kitchen, somewhere they can get to them easy.

  This is the second time Noone's tried it and it's worked exactly as described both times. After leaving Stanley Road with Eagles he gets a cab to Aigburth and nails a car second house he tries. On the way back into town he texts Terry Peters and finds that he's at The Pumphouse. In total it takes him less than an hour from leaving Stanley Road to arriving at the pub.

  The interview with Keane had been interesting but, like a great shining neon sign flashing in front of his eyes, Noone came out with one thing on his mind: stop Terry.

  Noone puts on a baseball cap and a pair of glasses. He's dressed in blacks and greys, nothing distinguishing his clothes from a thousand other people. In the pub he keeps his head down and avoids glancing round. He doesn't order anything and speaks only to Peters.

  Terry's drunk and easy to persuade into the car. It's perfect.

  'New?' he says as Noone pours him into the Mazda. 'Wouldn't have said this was your sort of car.'

  Noone says nothing and Peters is asleep by the time they get to Seaforth. In the traffic, Noone reaches Birkdale by six-thirty. He turns the car into Sandwell Street and pulls into Terry Peters' driveway.

  'Wake up.' Noone pushes Terry with the heel of his hand. Terry's too drunk to notice but Noone's already dehumanising him: keeping his sentences short, touching him only when absolutely necessary, not using his name. 'You're home.'

  Terry wakes with a start. He blinks at Noone and then up at his house. Noone swivels his head around to check but the high hedge that runs across the front of Terry's house shields them from view.

  Terry opens the door and steps out unsteadily. 'Thanks for the lift,' he says.

  Noone gets out of the car. 'Let me help you.' He places one hand on Terry's arm and with the other he finds the taser in his pocket. 'Alicia home?'

  Terry nods.

  'Anyone else around? The kid?'

  'No,' says Terry. 'Liam's staying with a friend for a few days.'

  Terry's fumbling for his keys when Alicia opens the door. At the sight of Noone she smiles uncertainly.

  'Alicia,' says Terry, 'this is Ben. A friend from the movie.'

  Noone smiles, his best feature, and Alicia waves them inside.

  'You're drunk,' she says to her husband, who is struggling to remove his jacket.

  They're the last words she'll ever speak.

  As Alicia turns, and with Peters temporarily helpless, Noone punches her hard in the face with his right hand. She smashes sickeningly into a small table with a vase of flowers on it and slides to the floor, a thick streak of red marking her progress down the wall. Terry Peters, his arms still in the sleeves of his jacket, can do no more than lurch to one side as, with his left hand, Noone takes out the taser.

  Peters makes a sort of animal cry as Noone applies the taser to his exposed neck. The American presses the switch and Peters drops to the floor as if swatted by a giant hand. Noone steps closer and administers a second jolt. Peters twitches and then is still.

  Behind him Alicia Peters, her jaw broken, moans. She makes a meaningless gesture with her left hand and attempts to crawl.

  Noone notices with interest that he has an erection. He feels energised, not as euphoric as when he'd killed Paul and Maddy, but it's still a rush.

  He takes three steps across the hall. Alicia Peters twists her neck and her eyes widen at the sight of Noone looming above her. Blood drips from her mouth. Noone places his feet either side of the injured woman, reaches down and touches the taser to the back of her neck. There's a small whimper from Alicia and then she too lies still.

  Noone straightens up and checks his watch: six-thirty-five. He listens for any noise in the rest of the house. Terry might have been mistaken about the stepson, but there's nothing.

  Satisfied he's alone, Noone checks his appearance in the hall mirror, dotted here and there with blood from the blow which broke Alicia's jaw. He straightens his collar and relaxes his shoulders. He pushes a strand of hair carefully back into position and lets out a long slow breath.

  Checking that neither of the Peters is showing any signs of life, he turns and peers through the stained glass set into the front door. There's no one outside and the suburban street – what he can see of it at least – is deserted. Noone opens the door, taking care to leave it unlatched. He walks calmly down the three steps to the driveway and across the front of the house to the garage. The door slides up easily and Noone drives the stolen Mazda inside. He closes the garage door behind him and re-enters the house through the interior connecting door.

  It takes him no more than three or four minutes to load Alicia and Terry into the Mazda. Terry, being the heavier, is more of a struggle, and Noone ends up just leaving him halfway in. It won't matter.

  Back in the house Noone finds a kitchen store cupboard. He rattles through the various cleansers and bottles of bleach without finding what he's looking for. Irritated, he stands and checks his watch once more: six-forty-four. This is taking too long.

  In the cellar that runs beneath the house Noone finds something he can use: a can of petrol for the lawnmower. He gives the red plastic container an exploratory shake and finds, to his satisfaction, that it's almost full. He unscrews the cap and fixes the flexible spout in place. He sprinkles petrol sparingly round the cellar and then heads back upstairs. He goes from room to room pouring the petrol over everything, making sure he covers each room. In Terry Peters' office he adds extra to the computers and filing cabinets.

  Downstairs Noone goes back into the garage and spreads the last of the petrol over the occupants of the Mazda. He opens the petrol cap and returns to the kitchen, leaving the connecting door open. Noone opens all the gas jets on the stove. In the living room he does the same with the gas fire, taking care not to let it ignite. Happy that the room is filling with gas he walks down the hall with the petrol can, upending it on the rug. He checks the street one last time through the window. It's clear.

  Noone tugs the visor down on his cap, replaces the glasses on his nose and winds a scarf he's taken from the Peters' bedroom wardrobe around his neck.

  From inside his jacket he takes out a cigarette lighter. With the front door open, Noone flicks the lighter and a small flame appears. He touches it to the edge of the hall rug and watches as the petrol-soaked wool ignites. Noone makes sure it is fully alight before carefully closing the front door behind him. He walks calmly down the steps and out of the driveway without looking back.

  As he reaches the end of Sandwell Street he hears the first window breaking. Twenty paces later as he crosses the road that heads west to the dunes, Noone hears a loud explosion behind him, followed rapidly by two more. An alarm goes off briefly before there is a fourth, much louder explosion that he can feel even from a distance of eighty metres. He looks back and sees a great plume of flame and smoke reaching high above the suburban rooftops. A tree in the adjacent garden to the Peters' place is on fire.

  Someone starts screaming. Noone turns and continues towards the beach. He crosses the coast road and is in the dunes less than four minutes after starting the blaze.

  He stops and listens but can hear nothing of the carnage he's left behind. The evening is a fine one and the only noise comes from a couple of gulls wheeling over his head. The sea is too far out to be heard.

  Noone loosens the scarf and drops it to the sand, then starts walking south towards Ainsdale, Formby and Liverpool beyond. After a few hundred metres Noone sheds his cap and his glasses and buries them in the sand. He takes off his jacket and tucks it under his arm. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, every inch the rambler on an evening str
oll.

  It's twenty kilometres from Birkdale to Crosby but Noone is in no hurry. The journey takes him just over four hours, almost all of it through the dunes. It's slower that way but he sees fewer people, and those he does see can be easily avoided. At Crosby he walks past the iron men on the beach as the last of the light fades before cutting across back roads to Waterloo train station. There he takes a train into Liverpool and arrives back at his flat on Old Hall Street by midnight.

  Inside he showers, gets a cigarette and pours a glass of red wine. Naked, he stands looking out across the city lights, noting with detached interest that though he feels calm, the hand holding the glass is trembling with adrenaline. In the darkness of the room, the tip of his cigarette glows red as he replays the killings in his head.

  Fifty-Two

  The MIT meeting breaks just after six-fifteen.

  Cooper, Harris and the officers she's detailed to do the evidence and seizure at Terry Peters' place stay behind for their final briefing. As discussed, it's a small team. A van is obtained from the pool and they go over the details of how the seizure's going to happen.

  'I'm not expecting any trouble, here,' says Harris, 'but this is a murder case. We'll get a couple of armed response officers in attendance but they can travel separately and will not get out of the car unless needed. Theresa, you fix that, OK?'

  Harris checks her watch and picks up a phone to chase the search warrant. At this time of day there's always the possibility that the request will slip through the bureaucratic cracks as someone heads home.

  Cooper's on the phone to the armed response unit but has one ear to Harris's conversation.

  Harris puts down the phone and smiles.

  'Got it.'

  The team grab what they need and assemble downstairs.

  By six-fifty they are on their way to Birkdale in a plain white Transit. Behind them are two armed officers in a blue Ford.

  Harris is looking out of the window at the flat farmland dividing Liverpool from Southport when the call comes in about the explosion in Sandwell Street.