Down Among the Dead Men (16 page)

In Madrid a year later he'd got in the habit of rolling a few tourists for their wallets – nothing planned, just on the fly when he needed quick money – and there'd been an arrest after he'd threatened the wrong guy who didn't want to be rolled. The case didn't get to court – some mix-up with the chain of evidence – and Noone walked again.

Even the worst time, in London, when that young chick had died on the bad junk he'd given her, had come to nothing when the investigating officer had been implicated in a corruption case. Once that had happened, Noone's supplying charge just seemed to dissolve.

It all fitted in so smoothly with Noone's view of his unassailable place in the world that he'd never stopped to think too hard about how trouble seemed to have difficulty attaching itself to him.

But his mother's death provided the answers and since then Noone's blood has been fizzing with the idea of killing. There's been an energy building in him that he always knew would only end one way. It's something that's been coming his entire life, and since his mother died the question has been coming more urgently, and more often. What does it feel like to be a killer?

Since Saturday morning he'd known the answer.

It was wonderful and it was easy and it is only just beginning.

The big question is: who's next?

Thirty-One

Frank gets to Canning Place early on Tuesday and spends the day coordinating the various strands of all the MIT cases.

With so many on his desk, plus an afternoon in court giving evidence in the ongoing Perch corruption trial, most of the scheduled interviews for the Peters case are postponed until the following day. Frank speaks to Harris about her coordinating efforts at Stanley Road. There's no mention of Linda but Harris does ask him how he's doing. Frank tells her he's fine, which is true. They are beginning to get back to normal, although Frank isn't sure that's what he wants. Drunk or not, last Thursday is fresh in his mind and, stripping aside all the rest of the bullshit, he enjoyed every moment. Em seems to be intent on erasing it from history.

By eight-thirty he's battered the overnight mountain of emails and paper into some sort of shape and is ready to head down to Stanley Road before Searle gets another chance to give him one of his gruesome pep talks. As it is there's a memo fixing a meeting at Stanley at two this afternoon.

Frank gets out of headquarters without running into Charlie Searle and arrives at Stanley Road just before nine. He grabs a cup of coffee from the machine downstairs and wanders into the office. The place seems emptier than it should be.

'Where is everyone?' says Frank. He means, primarily, Harris and Cooper. They have a meeting at nine-thirty and there are the ongoing interviews with the movie people and the other witnesses to be ploughing through. Frank's already had a text from Harris signalling something she wants to discuss regarding Terry Peters. Harris is due to interview Peters with him at ten and he wants to get his head together with her beforehand.

It's Steve Rose who answers. 'They only left ten minutes ago, sir. I called Canning Place to let you know but they said you were on your way down so I figured I'd wait for you to arrive. DS Cooper's at Garston with DI Harris.'

'What the fuck are they doing there?' Frank says, and goes to take a sip of his coffee.

Rose tells him and Frank's hand freezes halfway to his mouth.

They've found a body.

Thirty-Two

The white and orange EasyJet A380 morning service to Amsterdam rumbles west towards the Mersey, gathers speed and, improbably free of gravity, lifts its load of hedonists clear of the ground before banking south for Schiphol, skunk, and skin. Below the tilting aircraft, too far away for the passengers to see, the body of a young man lies stark against the gunmetal grey mud at the edge of the river.

Frank pulls his Golf in behind a line of police vehicles on a service road running between the south end of John Lennon Airport and the river. He watches the jet curving past the Welsh hills, which seem closer than usual in the clear summer air.

It's a beautiful day.

Frank hasn't noticed before. He takes a second and draws in a lungful of air. Even the dieselly taint of aircraft fuel can't spoil the bouquet. With the rumble of the aircraft engines still loud enough to have to raise his voice, Frank sees Calum McGettigan sitting on the open tailgate of his vehicle, struggling to get free of his rubber boots.

'You finished already, Cal?'

McGettigan pulls off a reluctant boot, and a fat gob of mud flobs onto one of his photography cases. He talks as he pulls on his shoes. 'Easy one today, boss. Only took ten minutes. In. Out.'

'Can I borrow those?' Frank gestures at McGettigan's discarded boots.

'What size are you?'

'Does it matter? I'll only be ten minutes.'

As Frank starts pulling the boots on, a small man in jeans and a
leather jacket approaches. He has a bag slung across his shoulders and is carrying a phone. Frank looks up.

'DCI Keane?' The man is about thirty-five, a little pudgy, his hair gelled, skin poor. His eyes are set deep, black shadows underneath like mascara. His accent is estuary English, Frank's least favourite. 'Steve McSkimming,
The Sun.'

He holds out a hand. Frank regards it blankly, unsmiling. McSkimming withdraws it like he's used to the reaction.
The Sun
is about as popular as the plague on Merseyside since the Hillsborough tragedy. Frank knew a couple of the ninety-six dead and he's never forgiven or forgotten
The Scum's
role and the lies about his team, his city. Even Charlie Searle's entreaties to step lightly won't force Frank to play nice with vermin like McSkimming.

'What do you want?' says Frank. 'This is a crime scene. You'll have to leave.' He looks round towards a uniform and beckons him over.

'Come on, Frank,' says McSkimming. 'Work with me and it could be useful. We can help.' He jerks his head towards the body. 'Is it Nicky?'

'Don't call me Frank. How did you get here?'

McSkimming looks at him like the question is beneath contempt. 'It's my job, DCI Keane. We get told things.'

'Been phone hacking again?' Frank hopes he is. The idea that any of his officers are feeding people like McSkimming information makes Frank feel ill.

The uniform arrives. Frank points at McSkimming. 'Get him away from here,' he says. Frank looks at the reporter. 'There'll be a press conference today, I'm sure. The relevant information will be given to you then, Mr McSkimming.'

The uniform starts gesturing for McSkimming to move back.

'You'll have to work with us sometime, Frank,' says McSkimming.

'Talk to Peter Moreleigh,' says Frank. He turns away from McSkimming, biting back the venom.

'Block off the access road at either end,' says Frank to the uniform as he starts leading the journalist away from the riverbank. 'Get some more bodies to help.'

In the borrowed boots he clumps across a footpath and through some scrubby grass towards the mudflats. It's low tide, and about ten metres from the bank three figures are gathered around the body, another child of the city spat out by the Mersey.

Harris, Cooper, and a forensic officer Keane doesn't recognise look up at his approach. His feet make a glooping sound in the black mud and it's difficult to stay upright.

'Give us ten minutes, Phil,' says Harris. She looks at Frank. 'Morning, boss.'

'No more than ten, please, if you can help it,' says the FO. 'Doesn't take long for the river to come in again.'

Harris nods and Phil, stepping gingerly, heads past Frank towards solid ground.

'Fuck,' says Frank. He folds his arms and looks down at the body. 'Who called it in?'

Cooper gestures in the direction of the road. 'Security patrol spotted it about half an hour ago. Left behind on the tide. They didn't touch him. Just called 999 and waited.'

Frank can see why. The body is face up, clothed, mouth hanging open, the mottled skin zombie blue. Something's been at the corpse's eyes. Frank bends down for a closer look, almost losing his balance as he does. He reaches up and holds Harris's forearm for balance.

'Thanks,' he says as she steadies him.

'The fish have been at him,' Harris says. 'Or maybe crabs.'

'Do they have fish in here?' says Frank.

'Good point,' says Cooper, looking at the viscous grey river slopping across the mud. Little oil rainbows lend a toxic sheen to the surface. Frank has heard the Mersey has been getting cleaner but he still wouldn't fancy taking a dip.

'Fair enough,' he says, standing. He stretches his back. 'It's going to be a busy one today. The papers are going to go to town on this.' He gestures towards the shore. 'One of
The Scum
was almost here before me. We've got someone feeding him information somewhere.'

Harris shrugs. 'We're not going to find out who. There's always someone.'

'Suppose so.'

The three coppers look down at the body and are silent for a few seconds.

'Poor lad,' says Frank, staring at the face of the victim. 'He looks different from the photos. Smaller.' There's something about the white skin of the hand against the black mud that resonates with him even more than the charnel-house scene in Birkdale. For the first time the Peters case becomes truly personal. Only four days since the first two victims were found at Birkdale and now they have their third body. The setting at the edge of the water puts him in mind of last year's Stevie White case. That had been drug-related, but Frank's certain this one isn't the same.

'I was sure it was going to be the boy when the call came in,' says Cooper. 'I didn't see this one coming.'

'Neither did he,' says Frank. 'Funny, really, considering his job.'

'He was a writer, not a fortune teller,' says Harris.

The body on the black Garston mud isn't Nicky Peters.

It's Dean Quinner.

Thirty-Three

The office is packed. With the murders in Birkdale to add to their already creaking caseload – and Nicky Peters still missing – MIT was operating at full stretch even before Dean Quinner washed ashore at Garston. Back at MIT before the briefing, Frank calls Charlie Searle and asks for two more detectives from another section to help ease the pressure. Searle assents but reminds Frank of the planned meeting that afternoon.

'Let's make it later,' says Searle. 'Five, OK?' He's not asking and Frank's heart sinks.

'Peter Moreleigh heard from Steve McSkimming,' says Searle. 'He's not happy.'

'Oh dear.'

'I'm not saying you have to like the man, Frank. But maybe throw him a bone now and again? It won't hurt to keep them sweet.'

'All of them, sir?'

'Just the nasty ones. So yes, all of them. Even
The Sun.'

'I'll try, sir.'

He signs off without mentioning his suspicions that there's someone feeding information to McSkimming and turns his attention back to the briefing.

Dean Quinner turning up dead is a development rich in possibilities. There's a palpable buzz in the operations room as the investigation shifts up a gear. The murder also serves to focus attention sharply onto the
Tunnels
movie production. Everyone at MIT can feel the increase in tension and it feels good, like things are going to happen.

'There are a few changes we need to run through,' says Frank.

He's in front of the crime wall in the MIT office, which is growing
fast. The discovery of the latest body will mean a further explosion of information.

'First thing is that myself and DI Harris will assume full control of the case.' Keane looks at Theresa Cooper. 'I know that's a disappointment, Theresa, but that's the way it is. This is no longer a suspected domestic incident and Superintendent Searle has made it clear that MIT should make this case a top priority.'

Cooper, leaning against a filing cabinet, says nothing, but Keane isn't the only one to note the flush on her neck. It can't be helped.

In truth, the investigation hasn't been going well.

The enquiries into Nicky Peters' social and school life have run dry. No bullying they can find. No Facebook trail despite the 'it's complicated' relationship status. No history of trouble. Nothing.

And although Theresa Cooper has been digging deep into the dead couple's past, that too has proven equally arid. A trial separation three years ago seemed to have been resolved amicably. There's some suggestion that Maddy Peters might have been having an on–off affair with someone but there's nothing solid on that so far to connect with the events of last weekend. There are no obvious business or money issues. Both the remaining partners in the dental practice are clean. The couple had a holiday planned to Portugal in July, a regular spot.

Harris has a few ideas regarding Terry Peters but so far they're nothing more substantial than vague unease. She's already detailed Scott Corner to look closely at Terry and Alicia and she has Peters coming back in later today, but neither she nor Frank has high hopes of anything being unearthed.

Quinner being killed does give Frank the opportunity to narrow the angle of the investigation down. With the killing of the Peters couple, there were a multitude of potential ways in which to focus resources, something which always made Frank's heart sink. Many possibilities means that not everything can be covered well. With Quinner, they now know the deaths are connected to the movie.

In Frank's mind it also makes the chances of finding Nicky Peters alive even more unlikely than they had been.

Quinner's been killed for something he knows and Frank can't see, if Nicky's innocent, that whoever abducted him will leave that loose end untied.

'Clearly the deaths in Birkdale and Dean Quinner are connected,' begins Frank. 'The priority for us is still trying to locate Nicky Peters, but we now need to find the link between the Burlington Road murders and Dean Quinner.'

Cooper glances towards Ronnie Rimmer, who flicks his eyes towards Keane.
Tell him
. Cooper raises a hand.

'Theresa?' Frank stops and turns in her direction.

'We interviewed Quinner yesterday with Conroy and McElway at the movie location.' Cooper gestures towards Rimmer. 'Both of us felt he wasn't telling us something. We were due to interview him alone today.'