Down Among the Dead Men (12 page)

'What's worrying me is that if the scum are peddling the line that Nicky did mummy and daddy and is now on the run, it might force the hand of our man.'

'Unless Nicky is the killer,' says DC Ronnie Rimmer. 'He had the taser receipt in his room. Into all sorts of weird shit, probably, when we start digging. Druggie, maybe.'

'Are we thinking that?' says Cooper. 'Seriously?' She puts out a hand and counts off on her fingers, point by point. 'Even our average punter wouldn't keep that taser receipt. Weird shit? The kid likes horror movies. Druggie? Less weed than a possession charge. Give me a break, Ronnie.'

Frank exchanges a glance with Em Harris. There's nothing he can read on her face but he's happy to see Cooper spreading her wings.

Theresa is at the front of the table.

'At the moment we're looking for someone who's missing, been abducted, or is a suspect. I'm pretty sure that once the DNA comes
in from the labs, Nicky won't be in the frame at all, but that's based on nothing more than guesswork. Until we do get some hard forensics, our public stance has to be that all avenues are being considered. But between ourselves? Unless we pull our fingers out we're going to have victim number three before too long.'

'He's already dead,' says Harris. She looks at the faces around the MIT office. 'What? Oh, don't give me that. If Nicky Peters isn't a suspect he's already dead.'

Frank rubs the bridge of his nose.

'This isn't helpful. I know it's your case, Theresa, but with Superintendent Searle barking in my ear I'm going to put my interfering head on and give you some flat-out instructions for this case, and this alone. All our other stuff will have to fit around this one at least until he's happy. You can get back behind the wheel once we've got over this bumpy bit. Right?'

Cooper sits back and keeps her expression neutral. Admittedly Frank Keane is the SIO on the case, but so far she's getting less leeway than he'd indicated might be the case. Frank doesn't care. It's this sort of political stuff that Theresa's got to deal with as she rises.

'Good,' says Frank. 'Theresa, you go to the autopsies as planned. Get as much from that Glaswegian gobshite as you can. Em, you take the Peters couple and dig into their backgrounds. Finances, social, sex, work, you know the score. You get over to Terry Peters for a good chat. Nice and easy, Nicky's missing, anything you can tell us. But like the Super said: tread lightly.'

Harris says nothing and Frank feels himself redden a little. He glances at Theresa Cooper and then presses on.

'Scott, Peter, you keep on with the kid's mates, the school. Facebook, phone stuff. Talk to Ellie about freeing up some plod to do some door-knocking. The boy might be hiding. Could be injured. Start local and spread it as best you can from there. Make sure the first few streets are covered in detail. Talk to the railway people. The line runs close to the house and I seem to remember a body that was dumped in the bushes not far from there a few years ago. Stayed hidden for months. Get the track searched.'

Scott Corner raises a hand. 'The kid's Facebook page? I already
had a quick look. It might be nothing but his relationship status was "it's complicated".'

'Good,' says Frank. 'It might mean something. Keep digging. See if you can find the complication.'

He looks out of the window, frowning. What else? With a snap of the fingers he turns to Ronnie Rimmer.

'Ronaldo. You're not bad with words. There'll be some enquiries from the press coming in, just like we talked about. I know it's not our usual style but I want a press statement that sounds like we know what we're doing. Spend a bit longer on it than usual and remember three things: Nicky is missing and we're concerned. All avenues are being explored. We ask for restraint in all reporting. Play down any connection to the movie. We don't have anything solid right now so we may as well keep Superintendent Searle sweet for as long as we can. If something shows up that does connect the murders to the movie then that's another matter. Right now we don't need to rock the boat. Show me and Theresa before you put it out.'

Rimmer nods and jots a note down on the pad in front of him.

'DC Rose, you run the central file here. Get everything running through HOLMES as usual; that's your responsibility. The data's the sheep and you're the fucking sheepdog, right?' The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, designed to reduce human error in investigations, has been running for well over twenty years. Every officer in the room is well aware of the requirements but giving one person overall responsibility, as he has just done with Rose, helps ensure the system is adhered to.

Frank looks around the room. His voice takes on an edge and everyone there sits up that little bit straighter. 'I want everything going in and out of HOLMES via a portal on Rosie's computer. That doesn't mean he's doing everything. I just don't want any more data going up the food chain without me seeing it first. Superintendent Searle linked Nicky Peters' working on the film directly to the case and seemed to know we hadn't made that connection a priority.'

'He could just have been responding to the press.' Harris spreads her hands. 'Just saying it's possible.'

'Yeah, maybe,' says Frank. 'But I don't want to assume that's the case. This morning is the last time I want to be surprised by a superior officer appearing to be better informed about our case than I am.'

Frank glares around the MIT office. 'Is that clear?'

There is a chorus of grunts. Frank Keane's assumption that Searle has a mole feeding him titbits rankles. Harris regards him blankly. He's still working his way into the role but things like this are, she feels, a misstep.

Now is not the time to point that out.

'I'll get out to the movie people later this afternoon with Theresa.' Frank looks at Cooper, who nods assent. He checks his watch. Almost midday.

'OK, that's it.' Frank makes a shooing motion with his arms. 'Go. Get me something. And remember . . .'

The entire MIT group wait for Frank's words of wisdom but nothing comes out. 'Fuck it,' he says eventually. 'It's gone.' He sits down and studies the file in front of him as the group breaks up. Em Harris waits for everyone to drift away and then approaches him.

'I'll get over to Birkdale,' she says and pats Frank on the shoulder. 'Let you know if I get anything.' Her voice is warm and Frank – to his astonishment – feels tears behind his eyes.

'Yeah,' he says, keeping his head down, feeling both stupid and redeemed as she walks towards the door. 'You do that, Em.'

Twenty-Three

With the press all over the story, the word gets to Josh Soames about the murders and Nicky being missing on Monday morning and the day's filming takes place in a muted atmosphere.

There's been some discussion about abandoning the schedule but they don't. None of them knows what they are expected to do so they opt for a 'show must go on' approach.

'They were killed on Saturday?'

Ethan Conroy's talking to Quinner in the production trailer outside the tunnels. Both of them are drinking coffee. McElway's talking softly on his mobile off to one side. McSkimming from
The Sun
has been particularly persistent. In fact, it's McSkimming who has given Soames, Conroy and McElway most of the information, Terry having been less than forthcoming in his call to the office.

Quinner nods. 'That's what they're saying. It's hard to get anything concrete from anyone. Susie's calling the police to see what they can tell us.'

'Jesus.'

Quinner leans back against the wall. The news of the murders has put the attack on Big Niall to one side. Quinner hasn't mentioned that to anyone. Yet.

'Do we need to think about saying anything to the press yet?' McElway looks worried. Knowing who the investor is in Hungry Head, the last thing they want is a press feeding frenzy. No such thing as bad publicity? McElway knows that's horseshit.

'We'll have to do something,' says Conroy. 'But not just yet. We can palm McSkimming and the others off for a while. The kid's missing too. We can't say anything about that until the police tell us what's happening.'

'Is the kid on the payroll?' says McElway.

'His fucking name's Nicky, John.' Quinner shakes his head and McElway puts his hands together in a gesture of apology.

'Jesus, what a mess.' Conroy paces aimlessly around the office, the floor creaking underfoot.

'Who spoke to Terry?' says Quinner.

'He called Susie about half an hour ago. Didn't say much. Just that he was at home. It was Terry who found the bodies. He identified his brother early on Sunday and has been speaking to the police on and off yesterday.'

'They're coming in today,' Susie calls out from her desk in the main office. 'Not sure what time.'

Conroy rubs his face and breathes out slowly. McElway finishes his call and joins them.

'The press are going to go to town on this,' he says.

'Can't buy that sort of publicity,' says Conroy. He holds his hands up. 'A joke. A bad one.'

'How are we doing?' Quinner gestures towards the tunnels. Both men know what he means.

'Good. Considering,' says Conroy. 'Noone's behaving himself. Funnily enough it's adding something to the takes.'

Quinner's phone beeps and he checks the message. One of the actors wants a word.

'Are we carrying on today?' he asks.

Soames looks at Conroy and McElway and they all nod.

'What else can we do?' says the director.

Quinner moves to the door and picks up his script from the table. 'Carroll wants to go over something.'

The others begin moving out, the conference over. Quinner's almost inside the tunnels when he hears a voice.

'Dean!'

Quinner turns to see Ethan Conroy waving him back. There's a solid-looking, smartly dressed woman with him and a tall man.

The police.

Twenty-Four

The Peters case isn't the only MIT case Frank has on his desk; far from it. There are six separate commands on Merseyside and MIT's cases cross the boundaries on a daily basis. Much of the paperwork that comes across Frank's desk is made up of territorial red tape. With each of the commands guarding their patch, MIT, like other cross-boundary units, are seldom completely welcome.

After the briefing breaks up Frank spends an hour wading through a wave of emails, letters and memos, his eyes closing almost as soon as he's started. After delegating the task to Cooper during the briefing, he's had second thoughts and has now decided to go to the morgue himself for a chat with Ferguson about the victims. With the appointment at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital weighing heavily on Frank's mind, the call from his old boss in Australia comes as a welcome distraction.

Menno Koopman's voice sounds different. Bouncing up into space from Oz and back down again into Frank's phone lends a halting quality to the conversation, but that doesn't stop either man from talking. Despite the Dutch name, Koopman's as Liverpool as they come, a hardworking copper from the old school but not atrophied in the way some of those who came up with him in the eighties turned out. Koopman retired at forty-eight and followed his dream – or his wife's dream, if you're being picky – to Australia three years back. It had been going great until Koopman's estranged son had shown up barbecued to a crisp out at Crosby beach, the result of an industrial-scale drug deal gone wrong that dragged Koop and his family back into all the murderous Liverpool shite again. It had almost cost Zoe Koopman her life and the body count is still filed under 'rising'.

On paper, at least, Koop's calling Frank about the truckload of loose ends left over from last year's shenanigans. The case against bent copper Perch, the former boss of both Keane and Koopman; the missing drugs; the money; the deaths in Australia; Keith Kite's murder. It's both a policing triumph and a nightmare that will drag on for years.

It's coming up to nine in Australia, almost lunchtime in Liverpool.

'Tread lightly?'

'His exact words.' Frank waits for Koop's response. He hears a clink of a glass and can almost see the cold beer on the other side of the planet.

'What do you think he was getting at?'

'That's what I'm asking, Koop. You don't think I'm still sitting here gassing to you because I'm at a loose end, do you?'

'You're some sort of end, you got that bit right. A fucking knob end.' Koop chuckles. 'It's all a bit different now you're in the chair, eh, Frank?' More voices. Someone's shouting. There's traffic.

'Where are you?' Frank asks.

'A bar. Brisbane. We're up for a few days. Zoe . . . well, we're in Brissy.'

Koop stops speaking for a moment. Frank can hear the background conversation, music.

'Koop?'

'Yeah, still here, Frank. Tiny bit pissed, to be honest, so bear with me. Listen, don't sweat that sort of thing. Searle's always looking to protect his back and every time he sees the tabloids his arse puckers in case he ends up looking bad. People like Charlie dedicate their lives to not looking bad. They'd prefer to look good, but since that would require skill, they settle for just not looking bad.'

'So he passes it on to me?'

'Unless it turns out it's good news – unlikely, but possible – in which case it'll be his baby before you've noticed the adoption papers have been signed. The best thing you can do is leave a paper trail. Email him about every dealing you have with the press so when there's blame you will at least be able to back it up. And if you've delegated it, then you'll have to protect the new boy –'

'Girl. It's Theresa Cooper.'

'Little Theresa, eh? They grow up quick, don't they? Girl, then. But I wouldn't worry too much about it, to be honest, Frank. It's standard Canning Place stuff. You'll have to get used to it if you want to keep your seat at the big table.'

'Yeah, well, we'll have to see about that.'

Frank hears Koop laughing. Frank's office furniture is cheap and plasticky and there's an abandoned flip chart from some departmental hot-air convention in the corner. It has the word 'ACHIEVE' written on it in black marker. Someone has circled this word and drawn an arrow to the word 'BELEIVE'. The spelling mistake makes Frank feel like crying again. He looks out of the window towards the river. A weak, cloud-hung sun washes the skyline in dirty yellow light. Everything he sees looks dirty. Used up.