Down Among the Dead Men (15 page)

After the autopsies, Cooper and Rimmer grab a sandwich at The Majorca before heading to the movie location. On the short journey across town all Rimmer can talk about is the vinegar attack on Frank Keane and what it means. Cooper does her best to shut him up but it's difficult. It's a choice bit of gossip which gives Rimmer a chance to indulge in fevered fantasies. The tacit agreement that the matter is closed has clearly not been accepted by everyone.

'Roy must have crapped himself. I heard she drenched him.'

'Are you still banging on about that?'

'Banging. Very good, Theresa.'

'Jesus. And don't let Keane hear you calling him Roy.'

Keane's nickname at MIT is 'Roy'. He not only shares a surname with a former Manchester United captain, he looks like him too. As a lifelong Liverpool supporter, Frank doesn't take this kind of thing – being named after a United player – in good spirit.

Rimmer's smiling. 'You think he and Harris . . . you know?'

Theresa Cooper shakes her head. 'No, I happen to know they didn't.'

In fact, Cooper strongly suspects that DCI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris shagged each other senseless last Thursday night, but she's so sick of this juvenile crap that she can't resist throwing a small spanner in the works.

'Bollocks,' says Rimmer. 'You don't go around throwing acid at someone because you don't like the look of them.'

'Vinegar.'

'What?'

'It was vinegar, not acid.'

'Well, Roy didn't know that,' says Rimmer. 'The desk sergeant at Canning Place said he looked like a ghost.'

Cooper doesn't respond but it does no good. Like an early-morning barking dog, Rimmer won't quit.

'Hey,' he says, his face taking on a leery slant, 'you ever see DI Harris's, er . . .?'

'Partner?' says Cooper. 'Her partner, you mean?'

'Yeah, partner.'

'Yes, why?'

'I heard she's really good-looking. Plod who saw it all at Canning Place reckons she could be a model.' Rimmer's eyes take on a faraway gleam and it's not difficult to deduce what he's thinking about.

Theresa hits the brake harder than she needs and Rimmer's head jerks forward painfully against the car's window post.

'Ow!'

'We're here,' she says. 'Dickhead. Now try and at least act like a grown-up. And remember, I'm the fucking DS, got it?'

With Rimmer grizzling in her wake, Cooper heads for a security guy at the gate who directs her towards a long caravan standing among the catering and equipment trucks. Before they reach it the door opens and John McElway steps out.

'DS Cooper?' says McElway, holding out his hand. 'John McElway. You spoke to my office earlier.'

He motions for them to come inside. A man sitting at a table rises and shakes hands.

'Ethan Conroy,' he says.

Conroy looks across to Dean Quinner. 'And this is Dean Quinner, our writer.'

Quinner, standing against a plasticky looking wall, pushes himself forward and shakes hands with Cooper. He nods but doesn't speak.

The five people sit around the table. It's a squeeze and there are a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling before everyone is comfortable.

'Very nice,' says Cooper, looking around the caravan. The two producers smile.

'Welcome to the glamorous world of the movies. What can we do for you?'

Cooper addresses herself to Conroy and Quinner.

'In case Mr McElway hasn't told you, I'm leading the Liverpool MIT – Major Incident Team – investigation into a violent crime that took place in Southport somewhere between Friday night and Saturday evening. We want to talk to the people who know Nicky Peters. See if there's any information that might help us find him.'

'He's definitely missing then?' says Conroy. 'We heard that and then . . . well, some people were saying they thought he was . . . well, we thought he was dead or injured. We heard there'd been deaths.'

Cooper nods. 'Nicky's parents were found dead on Saturday, Mr Conroy. We're anxious to find Nicky.'

'Jesus.' McElway sags in his seat. 'Did he . . .?'

Cooper doesn't reply directly. 'We can't tell you much more than that, I'm afraid. But time is a factor. Can we make a start with you three?'

Rimmer puts a black folder on the table and takes out a pen.

'Sure,' says McElway. 'But none of us really knew the boy. He was just doing some runner work for Terry during the school holidays. I saw him around but I don't think I ever spoke to him.'

'Me neither,' says Conroy. 'I can't remember much about him. Seemed pleasant enough. There wasn't any trouble or moaning about his work. But being Terry's nephew that's what I'd have expected. Terry's good.'

'Reliable?'

'He's been with the project from the start of production,' says Conroy. 'A good man.'

'Had you worked with him before?'

Conroy and McElway shake their heads.

'I had.' It's the first time Quinner's spoken. 'He did the location production on a TV thing I was involved in last year. A soap. Piece of shite.'

'You're a local, Mr Quinner?'

Quinner nods. 'Yes. I spoke to Nicky a couple of times. The lad brought me coffee.'

'Did you speak to him on Friday? He was around?'

'Just a word or two. And yes, he was here all day. Not sure when he left.'

'And did he seem his usual self?'

'Far as I could tell. I made some joke about him being out at Maxie's the night before. Said his uncle would grass him up to his ma if he wasn't careful. Something like that.'

'Maxie's?'

'It's a club in town we've been using as a sort of social base,' puts in McElway. 'You usually get a bunch of the crew hanging out after work.'

'But Terry Peters wasn't there on Thursday?'

'Terry was doing some prep work here in the tunnels.' Conroy gestures towards the visitor centre. 'We started filming here early on Friday.'

'Didn't Terry need Nicky to help?'

'I guess not. Maybe he didn't want the kid up too late. Get in trouble with his brother.'

'But Nicky went to Maxie's anyway?'

Conroy smiles. 'He's a teenager.'

'What time did Nicky leave Maxie's?'

McElway shrugs. 'We weren't late. Maybe ten? I was there – we were there until around ten-thirty. I have a feeling most people had left before us.'

'And he showed up on time on Friday?'

McElway nods.

Cooper checks her file again.

'Is Nicky close to anyone in the crew?'

The three men look at one another.

'Not that I know of,' says McElway. 'You'd have to ask the rest of them.'

'We will, Mr McElway. I just wondered if you knew anything that might give us a pointer. Did anything unusual happen on Thursday?'

'Not a thing,' says Conroy. 'The shoot went really well.'

Quinner mumbles something.

'Sorry?' says Cooper. 'What was that?'

'Uh, there was a missing wallet,' says Quinner. 'One of the crew lost a wallet. Chris Birchall I think.'

'A lost wallet?' Cooper looks puzzled. She waits expectantly for more from Quinner but he stays silent. 'What about the wallet? Are you saying Nicky took it?'

'No! Jesus.' Quinner looks miserable. 'I just thought I should, y'know, mention it.'

Quinner looks out of the window.

'OK,' says Cooper. She leaves a pause.

Now's the moment but it slips past without him saying anything. He's not sure why.

Except he does.

Exposing Noone as a thief might mean recasting his role. With almost a third of the footage shot that's too risky. Not after four years. No need for the coppers to get involved in that. It's not like it's got anything to do with all this murder stuff. And Quinner can't mention the attack on Niall without proof. Even while he's thinking it he knows it's bullshit. The cops need to know but he can't bring himself to say the words, to open the can of worms. Not now. Not when they're so close.

And there's no way Noone's involved in this thing with Nicky.

Is there?

'It's probably nothing,' says Quinner. 'Swede must've dropped it somewhere on set.'

'Swede?' says Rimmer.

'Chris's nickname. He looks Swedish.'

'Was the wallet found?' says Cooper.

'I don't think so.' Quinner leans back against the wall.

Cooper pauses. 'OK.' She looks up at Dean Quinner. 'If there's nothing else . . .' She leaves the statement hanging in the air for a moment but there's no response.

'We'll talk to the rest of the crew in here separately. It shouldn't take too long at this stage,' she continues. 'Thanks for your help. If there's anything you remember that might be of interest, no matter how trivial, we'd like to hear from you.' Cooper hands her card to each of them. 'This has the direct numbers for MIT.'

At the door, Ethan Conroy checks his watch.

'If you wait a few minutes I'll get the crew to wrap things up for today. It'll make seeing everyone easier for you.'

'Thanks, Mr Conroy, that would be good.'

'Anything the production can do to help,' says John McElway. 'We're just as anxious as you to find Nicky and get this dreadful thing cleared up.'

Quinner says nothing and the three men leave the caravan.

As the door closes behind them, Ronnie Rimmer looks at Cooper and raises his eyebrows.

'I know,' says Cooper. 'Quinner.'

Twenty-Nine

Quinner spends the rest of the day feeling like shit. He watches take after take from Noone, who seems as good as ever. Like everyone else, he's been talking about the murders and what it might mean, but Quinner can't see anything different in the American. Surely, even if 'all' he'd done was attack Niall, then he'd be showing something? By the end of the day Quinner's lost some of his certainty about Noone.

And yet if not Noone, then who? Who would have been there waiting for Niall and that little shit Jason? Quinner, a professional writer, would jib at placing someone unknown at the scene who happened to be waiting to slice a finger off. It's too far-fetched, or at least that's how it appears to Quinner in his present mood.

During prep for the final shot Quinner comes up above ground. He gets a coffee from the catering truck and sits in the production office looking at the phone in his hand. DS Cooper's card is on the table in front of him.

After a minute or two, Conroy comes in.

'How's it going?' says Quinner.

'It's going well, considering,' says Conroy.

'Considering what?'

'The murders.' Conroy can't keep the surprise from his voice. 'And Nicky.'

'I know,' says Quinner. 'That's not . . . look, it doesn't matter. How's Noone doing?'

'Good. We're moving a bit slower without Terry but it's pretty close to schedule. Josh is keeping the takes to a minimum and Ben's hitting the mark every time.'

'He OK? I mean, he's not nervous or anything?'

'About what? No, he's great. He's doing fine and the crew love him. Can't have hurt finding Chris Birchall's wallet, either.'

'Noone found it?'

'Yeah, fallen behind some shit, I don't know. Listen, I have to go back out. John's kicking up about something.'

Quinner slumps back on the chair.

If Noone had handed the wallet back doesn't that mean it's less likely he's been chopping people's fingers off? Maybe that dickhead cousin of his wandered into some drug thing. It's not like Niall's some kind of Special Forces guy. Isn't it more likely that Noone had nothing to do with Niall's finger? Perhaps getting caught thieving was embarrassing, and he'd thought better of it and decided to hand the wallet back. Yeah, that was it, that held together better than this skulking around with knives in back alleys. He's a fucking actor, for Christ's sake, Quinner told himself.

The talk with Conroy has gone a long way to soothing Quinner's mind. He's glad he hasn't called the cops.

He checks his watch.

Six o'clock. More than late enough for a drink.

Thirty

Before his mother had died and he'd found out everything and changed his name to what it was now, Noone had often thought he was golden. There was nothing to suggest otherwise. He had it all. Money was just there. He couldn't ever remember thinking about it. The best schools, clothes, vacations. Whatever he wanted.

As a boy he hadn't thought too much about being different. You don't at that age and he had been sociable enough not to stick out. No loner, he found it ludicrously easy to make friends and, later, to find lovers. You just had to say the right words in the right order and have the right teeth, the right skin, the right clothes. No trick to it.

But only Noone knew it was a con. It was no surprise to him that he'd been good at acting when he finally gave it a try. He'd been acting all his life, saying what was required and putting the accepted expression on his face.

He knew that most people did what they did naturally. He'd never found being human natural. In any situation he would have his own thoughts and then a second layer: how would a human react? He would imitate human behaviours. If he appeared normal, then wouldn't that make him normal? It worked most of the time.

His mother had tried but she wasn't cut out for the life she ended up living. She loved him but didn't know what to make of the creature who'd arrived unexpectedly. The money had never been an issue – now Noone knew why – and love hadn't been in short supply either. At least not from her direction. But control and discipline and structure? That hadn't been there. And then later, when drink and then cancer had reduced her to a shell, it was too late. Noone was what he was.

And he'd never forgive her for not telling him the truth. Finding that out had unlocked something in him.

Most of his twenties were spent allowing his desires and impulses to rule, and though there had been violence and there had been arrests, responsibility and blame slipped off him like dead skin from a snake. Until his mother's death he'd never questioned why.

Five years ago in Toronto he'd cold-cocked a guy who came home early and found Noone loading his Ducati motorcycle into a van. The guy – some lightweight hipster biker wannabe Noone was working with in a sports bar on West Queen West – had hit his head and spent serious time in the hospital but never testified, never filed the complaint. Noone had put it down to luck.