Twenty-Six
Noone presses 'end' on the cheap prepaid he took from the Australian and puts it back in his jacket pocket.
It had been worth taking if only to discover that Keane's out there.
DCI Frank Keane. Noone's not sure of the connection between Keane and Eckhardt but he now knows that there is one. It's useful. As is the knowledge that Keane's followed him over here. Not to mention that the dumb fuck is drunk and mouthy. Brits and booze. Jesus.
'Who was that?' Angie's voice is sleep-heavy.
'No one.' Naked, Noone pads across the room, gets back into the bed and puts one hand behind his head. The other he drapes over the curve of Angie's hip, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her thigh.
'Someone was speaking,' murmurs Angie.
'No one important. Shh.'
They're at Angie's place, ten or more blocks back from the pricey Venice properties. Noone prefers coming here to taking Angie home. He doesn't really like anyone coming into his own house. Not that there's anything much to hide. Noone has none of those handy Hollywood serial killer rooms at his place, no walls full of photos, no blueprints in the cabinet, no smoking gun.
That's not who he is.
In the dark he doesn't feel powerful, doesn't feel 'evil', whatever the fuck that might be. He just feels like he's in the right place at the right time.
Angie reaches down and takes hold of his cock.
'I thought you were asleep?' Noone says.
'Your phone woke me up, remember?'
'Go back to sleep.'
Angie slides down the bed under the covers. She runs her tongue along Noone's lower stomach. Despite himself he can feel the blood flowing. His cock grows and Angie flicks her tongue at the tip.
'Still want me to go back to sleep?' Her voice is muffled.
Noone doesn't reply. Instead he pushes his hips so that Angie takes him in her mouth.
'What?' says Angie.
'Nothing.' Noone hadn't realised he'd made a sound. He reaches down and turns Angie so that his head is between her legs and licks her pussy gently, two of the beautiful people passing time. As with everything he does, pretty much anyway, not all of Ben Noone is present. He can see himself in bed with Angie, can see what they look like, can analyse what they're doing, as if checking his performance while it's happening.
'Ben,' says Angie. 'Come back.'
Noone squirms out from underneath her, leaving her on all fours. He positions himself behind her and Angie guides him inside. While they fuck he's wondering if she knows him too well.
He hopes not.
Twenty-Seven
Frank can feel the rocks pressing down, can feel the back of his knuckle scrape along the sweating sandstone walls of the narrow shaft. For some reason he can't quite grasp, he finds himself past the point of no return; the angle and shape of the tunnel conspiring to force him forward. Gravity, muscle, weight, all push him in one direction. There is no going back.
Ahead of him, if he cranes his neck and strains his eyes, is a wider cavern, and in it, their skin green-white and corpse-clammy, are the murder victims from Birkdale and Garston and Los Angeles. Nicky Peters is talking softly to Warren Eckhardt while smoke from Eckhardt's cigarette coils around his head and shoulders. Terry Peters is slumped, his head down, at a distance from the others. The rest of the Peters family, and Dean Quinner, stand uncertainly to one side.
As Frank shuffles towards the cavern he feels something sliding along his skin.
It's a thread being pulled away from him, back the way he came, and Frank knows that if the end of it slips from his grasp he's finished. His fingers scrabble frustratingly on the stone and then, just as the thread is in his grasp, he sees the Minotaur come into the chamber.
It's monstrous. A beast. Frank can see every quivering hair on its flaring nostrils, hear the air within the creature's lungs. He wants to cry, to call out, to warn Nicky and Warren, but the words won't come. He can help, but only if he lets go of the thread.
He jerks awake, a noise on his lips.
Outside he can hear the Los Angeles traffic. He sinks back into the pillow feeling about as rough as he's felt in a long time.
Which is exactly how he wants it. He deserves to feel bad after dragging Warren into this. He's going to tell Koop to go home today. There are things he's thinking of doing that could end very badly and he doesn't want anyone else's blood on his hands.
Frank showers and stands under the jets for five minutes. He shaves and dresses in jeans and a T-shirt. Today there're going to be no meetings if he can help it, no being patronised by the likes of Hagenbaum.
Frank's plan lasts as long as the time it takes for him to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen.
Koop's already up and looking like he spent the previous night tucked up with a cup of nothing more toxic than tea. He's sitting at the kitchen table with two men in suits.
Neither of them says anything as Frank walks in.
'Did I miss something and you got lucky last night?' says Frank, looking at Koop. 'No wonder you wanted us to go to that bar.'
'Frank, this is Mr Ashland and Mr Baines. They're from – well, I'm not sure exactly – where are you from again?'
'We didn't say,' says the older of the two. 'I'm Ashland.' He points at the other guy. 'He's Baines.'
Ashland looks about fifty, Baines a few years younger. Both carry themselves like ex-military.
'They were in the room when I woke up,' says Koop.
'We understand that you're here on an MLAT with the intention of gathering evidence against Benjamin Noone,' says Ashland.
'Is that a question?' says Frank. He starts making coffee. If he doesn't get some caffeine soon he's going to faint. That wouldn't look good for his tough guy stance.
'No,' says Ashland. 'It's not.'
'We're acting under the umbrella of Homeland Security, DCI Keane,' says Baines. 'Agent Hagenbaum of the FBI has passed along the concerns you have about Benjamin Noone to us.'
'You know that Noone killed one of my consultants yesterday?'
'We know that a man died, yes. Heart attack. And we're concerned that you have consultants working with you. We think that's contrary to the application you made.'
'How did you get in here?' says Frank. He pours a cup of coffee and sits at the table. 'Are you with Daedalus? Do you work for Sheehan?'
Ashland folds his arms on the table. 'DCI Keane, you have strayed into some very deep waters indeed over here. There are things in that water that you have little or no understanding of. It's dangerous for you to be swimming. And besides, what you are doing is, we believe, borderline illegal. Mr Koopman and the deceased Mr Eckhardt have no permission to investigate anything on American soil. Your permission is only to investigate through the US authorities, not to go freelancing the fuck out of everything.'
'And if Noone's planning something else?'
'That's in our hands now, DCI Keane. We're aware of the link between Benjamin Noone and Dennis Sheehan. It's immaterial.'
'Immaterial?' says Frank. 'You know that Sheehan's at the fundraising dinner this weekend? What if Noone is planning an appearance?'
'He is,' says Baines. 'Ben Noone has made no secret of the fact that he's attending. He contributes heavily to the party. He's going for the simple reason that he bought a ticket.'
'And you think that's OK? Noone, who I suspect has killed seven people, will be at a party attended by the president and his estranged father?'
'Of course not,' says Ashland. 'Which is why we spoke to Mr Noone less than an hour ago, along with his attorney. Mr Noone will hand his ticket back to the committee and has made it clear that, in the light of your concerns and baseless accusations, he will not be attending the function. His attorney did speak about a possible lawsuit against you and your force. I think he might have a case.'
Frank can't think of anything to say.
Ashland leans back.
'That's not going to go down well back in jolly old Blighty, is it, D
CI Keane? The press might like to hear about your little trip.'
'Do you two have any ID?' says Frank.
'No,' says Ashland, getting to his feet. 'We don't.' He and Baines take a few steps towards the door. 'You know in the movies when you see the spooky guys behind the scenes? The ones pulling all the strings? The ones with enormous amounts of power? The ones who can put people on planes equipped with complicated and painful apparatus and then have those people just . . . disappear? That's us. But feel free to call Agent Hagenbaum and Lieutenant Mills. I'm sure they'll put your mind at ease. In the meantime, the MLAT has been revoked and we strongly suggest that you and Mr Koopman return home at your earliest opportunity.'
'Always a pleasure,' says Koop as Ashland and Baines walk to the door of the apartment. 'Drop by any time.'
Ashland points a finger at Koop and winks. 'That'd be some of that famous British humour, right? Or do I mean Australian?' He's not smiling. 'Get the fuck out of Dodge. Understand?'
Twenty-Eight
When Koop closes the door behind Ashland and Baines, Frank starts to speak but stops as he sees Koop put a finger to his lips.
'Let's get breakfast,' says Koop.
In the car both remain silent as they drive haphazardly round the maze of residential streets. It's peculiar weather, foggy, more like November in England than August in Los Angeles, and the palm trees are ghosts in the grey-white mist. Without the regular washed-out blue of the sky and the hard angles of shadows on the stucco, LA softens into an urbanised Japanese watercolour, the brake lights of the traffic bleeding through the gloom as Koop and Frank make an effort to shake off the tail they know must be there.
After ten minutes zigzagging through the streets, Frank pulls the rental into a cafe off Santa Monica Boulevard and they walk through the busy dining room towards an empty-looking rear courtyard space.
'There's no smoking out there,' says the waitress as they pass the counter, mistaking their intentions. The words make them both think of Warren.
'That's OK,' says Frank. They order coffee – double shot for Frank – and find a corner table. In the relative cool they are the only outside customers.
'Fog in LA,' says Frank. 'No one mentioned that in the brochure.'
'It happens sometimes. Or so they told me when I was here. Never saw it until now.'
The waitress brings their drinks and they fall silent while she puts down the cups.
'Anything else I can get you?' she says.
They shake their heads and she returns to the main building.
'You think they bugged the apartment?' says Frank once she's out of earshot.
'I don't know,' says Koop. 'But given the type of people we think they are, would it surprise you?'
'No, probably not.'
'I think we should work as if everything we say from now on is being listened to.'
'From now on? That sounds like we're staying.' Frank puts a spoon of sugar in his coffee and stirs. Christ, his head hurts.
'Aren't we?' says Koop. 'It's just getting interesting.'
'I was planning to send you home,' says Frank, massaging the sides of his head. 'I don't want anything else to happen. Besides, someone has to take Warren back.'
'There's no one there for him.' Koop winces as he sips the coffee. He wishes he could have a cup of his own North Coast brew right now, but from here Australia seems as preposterous a place to believe in as Narnia. Zoe, too, to a degree. 'There's a sister he doesn't talk to. Somewhere out west.' Koop looks up at Frank. 'And there's not much back there for me either.'
'You and Zoe'll patch things up.'
Frank's uncomfortable on this territory.
Back in Liverpool he and Koop would never have talked like this. As the investigating officer, Frank had heard things during the Stevie White case about Koop's private life that he would rather not have done.
Private was better.
His line of thought makes him think about Angela Salt and the suggestion she'd made at their last meeting. His wallet's resting on the table and Frank can see the white edge of the scrap of paper Salt had given to him. He wonders if he'll ever use it and why he hasn't thrown it away.
'I know that's what you're supposed to say,' says Koop. 'But I don't think it's true, Frank. Not this time. You must have seen it happen to people who've been through what Zoe went through?'
Frank nods and then grimaces. Judging by the jolt of pain that shoots down the side of his head, Frank still has some way to go to recover from last night's excesses.
'Still hurting?' says Koop.
'Yes,' says Frank. 'A lot.' He folds his arms. 'Are we still talking about my head?'
Koop shrugs. The two men are quiet for a time.
'This fucking stinks,' says Frank.
'I've tasted worse,' says Koop, putting his cup down.
'You know what I mean.'
'What do you make of all this?' Koop says. 'All the run-around, I mean. Not Warren's death. I mean the visit from the two spooks, the cooperation you're getting – or not getting – from Mills and Hagenbaum, everything.'
'It's bullshit.'
'Of course it's bullshit. What I mean is, why is it happening?' Koop's talking in the same way he used to in the MIT operations room. Think. It's an invitation for Frank to heighten his observational senses.
Frank leans back and looks up at a tropical plant of some sort rising from a massive pot, as if he's hoping to read a message of inspiration on the underside of its leaves. Thinking clearly is not something that's coming easy right now.
'You remember the case against Don Hilton?' Koop's talking about a murder in Liverpool linked to large-scale fraud in the council planning department.
'Yes, why?'
'You remember we had three fires at the homes of MIT officers and that it turned out to be Hilton who set those fires?'
'Of course, yeah. He was doing it to get our attention focused somewhere else. Stupid, but that's the reason.'
Koop says nothing and waits for Frank.
'Pass interference,' says Frank. He's remembering the TV graphic from a few days ago.
'OK,' says Koop. 'It's not what I was thinking but you're right. All of this stuff is just . . .'
'Slowing us down.'
A couple who look like students come into the courtyard but sit too far from Frank and Koop to make them wary.
'You're going to check their story with Mills and Hagenbaum?' asks Koop.
Frank nods. 'But not right away. If we assume that those two jokers were telling the truth – that they do have the authority – then we can assume that Hagenbaum will be in touch to back their story up.'
'OK.'
'I think we have a day, maybe two, before they reel us in and force us out.'
'Or put us into that torture plane.'
'Yeah, or that.' Frank taps a finger on the table. 'I wasn't kidding about you not having to do this, Koop. You can go, today, if we can fix the flight.'
'I wasn't thinking about going, Frank.' Koop smiles but there's no humour in it. 'I was thinking of taking the offensive. Put the fuckers on the back foot.'
'What's the plan?'
Koop drains his cup. 'That depends on how far you're prepared to go.'
Outside the cafe, with the passing traffic making talking difficult, Koop calls the funeral directors whose number the morgue had given him and makes the arrangements for Warren's body to be flown back to Australia. Warren's only relative, an estranged sister, proves too difficult to locate in the circumstances, and Koop calls Zoe to ask her to arrange for Warren's body to be picked up by a funeral home. It's the first time Koop's spoken to his wife in weeks and the call isn't smooth. Koop can't believe the distance, both geographical and emotional, there is between them. Zoe sounds like a stranger and, although she agrees to help with the arrangements, she leaves Koop in no doubt that in her current state of mind there's little left between them. All those years.
After the calls Frank books the two of them onto flights on Sunday
neither of them has any intention of taking. Everything is done to convey the impression to Ashland and Baines that they are heeding Ashland's warning. Assuming that they're looking.
'What now?' It's Koop talking, Frank driving. They've decided to treat the car as 'safe'. With just two of them on the ground and two days before they get booted out, they have to cut some corners. If the car's bugged then it's bugged.
'I don't know,' says Frank. This is the side of investigations that never gets reported: the drifting into stasis. Back home Frank could get busy on gathering data and making sure the MIT team were crunching the statements and following lines of enquiry. Here, alone, the lines of enquiry are limited. As things stand, Koop and Frank have little. As experienced investigators they know that the choice they make now about what approach to go with will, in all likelihood, mean the difference between success and failure. Do they concentrate efforts on working on Lieutenant Mills, hoping to turn him round to Frank's point of view? Or do they work on the Sheehan angle?
Frank decides that the only way is to go with Noone. Frank's been on him for over a month and is still convinced that Noone's got something bad brewing.
'I think we keep digging,' says Frank. 'I want to speak to Angela Salt again. She doesn't know anything about the Sheehan connection and it's possible she'll have something to say.'
'That'll work.' Koop checks his watch. It's almost 11 am, seven pm in Liverpool. 'Let's swap,' he says. 'I'll drive. You call her now before it gets too late.'
They pull up, and Koop steps out of the car. Frank shuffles across to the passenger side. 'Where are we going now?' says Frank as Koop slides into the driver's seat.
'The library,' says Koop. 'Do it the old way. And who knows what tracking they've got on our computers at the apartment?'
While Koop looks up the GPS route to the LA city library, Frank calls Salt's office. As expected she's finished for the day, so he calls MIT in the UK and gets Rose to find the psychologist's home number. Rose tries to chat but Frank closes him down.
By the time Rose calls back they're at the library on San Vicente Boulevard next to the blue glass block of the Design Center. Frank takes Rose's call while Koop heads inside. Frank finds a shady spot and sits on a low concrete wall.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 32