Down Among the Dead Men (20 page)

'To retirement,' says Koop and raises his glass.

Before Koop can say anything more he hears the hum of his phone vibrating on the surface of the coffee table. He clambers from the depths of the sofa and reaches across.

'Never a good sign,' says Warren Eckhardt as Koop clumsily manoeuvres his lanky frame upright. 'Phone calls at this time of night.'

Koop puts down the tumbler of scotch and holds the phone at arm's length to read the ID. 'Frank Keane,' he says, looking at Warren.

'Are you going to answer the fucking thing or just look at it?'

'Right.' Koop presses his finger on 'answer'. 'Frank.'

Warren hears a yap of dialogue and then Koop answers.

'Do you know what time it is, Frank? Here, I mean?'

Koop looks at Warren and shakes his head.
Dickhead
, he mouths, waving his watch. The phone squawks again.

'Well it's a nine-hour difference, not seven, and yeah, I am awake as it happens, but that's not the point . . . No, it's OK, might as well talk now as tomorrow. My head won't be right.' Koop takes a sip of malt and listens to what Frank has to say. As the conversation unrolls, Koop's expression sharpens.

'Yeah, maybe. I was in LA for a while. Listen, I'm here with Warren Eckhardt who you know from last year. No, we're not in bed. It's not that kind of relationship. I'm going to put you on speaker. Warren might have something useful to add. He spent some time in the States too. New Mexico, I think.'

Koop puts the phone down on the coffee table and presses the speaker button.

'Warren.' Keane's voice is clear, his Liverpool accent amplified in the Australian setting.

'I have to warn you, we're half-pissed,' says Warren, his smoker's voice softened by the scotch. 'And it was Washington State. I did eighteen months on secondment just after 9/11. Global policing was all the thing.'

Koop raises his glass to the phone and turns to Warren. 'Frank's got a weird one.'

Frank sketches out the lack of information on Noone for Koopman and Eckhardt.

'He's just a witness, right?' says Warren after Frank's finished.

'Correct.'

'But . . .?'

'It smells wrong,' says Frank. 'Don't you think?'

'It does to me.' Koop is looking at Warren.

'Maybe,' says Warren. 'The bloke might just be clean. It happens. But I admit, it does look like there's got to be more.'

'There's nothing in the UK we can find. Not with the resources we've got, anyway. I was hoping you might have a friend I could call. Or you could call. We're getting nowhere through the normal channels and I want some more solid background before we talk to him. That's why I called so late.'

'I can try,' says Koop. 'But I'm not sure I'll get anything more than you can. There's a guy I know who might be able to tell me if the lack of information means something. Sam Dooley. Maybe this Noone is ex-military, something like that?'

'Don't think so,' says Frank. 'He's an actor. But if you can give it a try, Koop, that'd be great. Don't spend too much time. This feller's just a side issue at the moment.'

Thirty-Nine

DC Ronnie Rimmer glances over to Frank's office and, through the open door, sees him yakking on the phone. He's heard Frank mention Koop a couple of times but can't imagine why he's talking to their old boss.

Rimmer balls up a wodge of emails and tries to flip it across the MIT office into Saif Magsi's coffee cup. It's almost ten metres away and Magsi's concentrating furiously on the work in front of him. After the run-in with DCI Keane he's not going to be caught lallygagging.

'Not a chance,' says Rosie, glancing up from his computer screen at Rimmer's attempt. Both coppers sit at the same desk on either side and both have teetering stacks of paper strewn across the surface. It's gone six now and Rimmer's due to knock off.

Rimmer sets himself like a pro and lets the paper ball go. It sails across the room and lands – a fucking office b-ball miracle – slam in the centre of Magsi's coffee.

Hot liquid slops onto Magsi's immaculate trouser leg.

'Fucking hell, Rimmer, you knob!'

'He shoots! He scores!' Rimmer gets up from the desk and runs across to Magsi, his arms aloft. 'The crowds go wild!'

Magsi shakes his head. 'If this doesn't come out you're paying for it, Rimmer. Don't think I'll let it go. Cos I won't.'

'Sorry, mate,' says Rimmer. 'But you have to admit it was a fucking great shot, yeah?'

Magsi nods and holds up his hands. 'Yeah, yeah, I'll give you that, man.' He smiles, happy that he's being immersed in the MIT world.

Still, they are a good pair of trousers.

Rimmer sits back down and stretches. He's been at this all day and the screen in front of him bears the meagre fruits of his labours.

He'll be glad to get out of the office. This morning, he and Rose had gone to break the news of her son's death to Quinner's mother in Litherland. After watching her world collapse, and getting what little practical information they could, they'd come back to the office and worked without a break since eleven.

Dean Quinner's life had been laid bare. Phone numbers, jobs, addresses, bank details, friends, family, education, the lot. And then a secondary list of calls that Rimmer's made that day, almost all of them pointless, repetitive fishing expeditions, wrong numbers, outdated numbers, some recipients shocked, others cagey. His eyes are swimming with the information and he knows that his colleagues are feeling the same way. The important difference for Rimmer is that he's finished for the day.

'I'm gone,' says Rimmer. He checks his watch. 'Overtime used up and there's someone waiting.'

Steve Rose simulates a blow job using his tongue to press out the side of his cheek. 'The nurse?'

Rimmer smiles. 'The nurse.' He notices Manda Davies, a relatively new addition to MIT, regarding them sourly. 'And don't be disgusting,' adds Rimmer. 'Christ, Steve, grow the fuck up.'

On his way past Manda's desk, Rimmer winks.

'Dickhead,' she says.

An hour and a half later, showered and changed into civvies, Rimmer is sitting at a table outside the Baltic Fleet on Wapping. It's a fine evening and the pub is full, even on a Wednesday.

Rimmer picks up his bottle of micro-brewed ale and clinks it against Hanna's glass.

'Cheers,' he says and she smiles warmly. Maybe Rosie wasn't so wide of the mark.

Hanna takes a long pull on her G & T and closes her eyes. 'Jesus,' she says, her eyes still closed. She opens them and looks at Rimmer. 'I needed that.'

'Long day?'

As Hanna begins describing the various reasons she needed the G & T, Rimmer sits back contentedly watching her. Hanna's muted
Danish accent is a turn-on and she looks great. There's something about a foreign girl. Maybe, because of the job bringing him into contact with the wrong type of local, he's come to associate the Liverpool accent with trouble. Hanna, a triage nurse at A & E in Walton, is leggy, blonde, and dresses with an understated style that Rimmer finds very appealing.

'Stop it,' she says, breaking off from her story.

'What?'

'You're not listening to me.'

Rimmer holds his hands up in surrender. 'You got me, Hanna. You're so good-looking that it was all I could think of.'

Hanna laughs. 'Of course.'

'Anyway, you were telling me about the nutjobs you get coming in?'

'You
were
listening.'

Rimmer smiles. 'I'm a multi-tasker. I can ogle
and
listen.' He drinks and then gestures with the heel of the bottle. 'Go on. The finger.'

'Well, like I say, this man came in last Thursday, maybe early morning Friday, with his finger missing. Told us he cut it accidentally when he was laying tiles.'

Rimmer shrugs.

'Who cuts tiles at two in the morning?' Hanna has the air of a prosecution lawyer delivering a devastating zinger.

'Maybe he was one of those shopfitters? They work all night sometimes.'

Hanna shakes her head. 'No, this man was not like this. He was not a working man.'

'So you put the finger back on?'

Hanna shakes her head. 'No, he didn't have it. And this is why I'm telling you, Ronnie. He said he lost it when he spat it out.'

Now Hanna does have Rimmer's full attention.

'He spat it out? That's what he said?'

'Yes. But when I asked him about that he changed his mind. He told me he was getting confused and said I must have not understood him.'

'What happened?'

'We patched him up and cleaned the wound, and then we wanted to keep him for observation. This is a big thing, losing a finger, right? But this man won't stay. He left right after we fixed him up.'

'Did you call us?'

Hanna nods. 'The duty manager called the police to report it, but they didn't arrive until after the man has gone.' Hanna fixes him with a pair of large blue eyes. 'What do you think, Ronnie? Drugs? Or maybe the man cut his own finger? Some sex thing, maybe?'

'I don't know.' Rimmer's distracted by Hanna using the word 'sex'. All thoughts of the fingerless low-life disappear as she leans across the table. Rimmer looks at her glass. It's empty, and Hanna is idly playing with a chunk of ice.

'Fancy another stiff one?' Rimmer leers.

Hanna smiles seductively and pulls him forward, her half-closed eyes locked on his. She drapes a hand round his neck, licks her lips and drops the ice straight down the back of his shirt.

Forty

Frank leans back in his chair and rubs the sides of his face.

'Bring him in.'

After a morning checking on any overnight progress – frustratingly there's none to speak of – and driving the rest of MIT's caseload, by the time he's back in J7 at Stanley Road with Harris it's past one, with the actor due in in five minutes.

Em's brought a couple of coffees in from Marco's on the corner of Hardman Street. Another step on the road to peace? Frank's not sure but he's grateful anyway. He slept well last night, feels sharp, and after the bureaucratic slog this morning, the coffee sets him up nicely for what he hopes will be a more satisfying afternoon. He considers asking Harris how Linda's doing but he hesitates and then the moment is gone. He knows he'll have to talk about it soon but this probably isn't the right time.

Focus.

He and Harris have already been through the angle they're going to take in the interview. Harris is yet to be convinced that Noone represents even a remote avenue for the investigation. So far there isn't a shred of anything to connect Noone with either the Peters family or Quinner. In fact, as someone from outside the country, he is, in her opinion, a long way down the list of possibilities. But Harris knows Frank well enough to respect his instinct and there's no denying that Magsi coming up short on Noone's sheet has piqued her interest in the American too. Their experience with the ex-IRA guy on the Stevie White case has left an impression. Like Noone, Declan North had a sketchy paper trail. It's worth throwing a hook in, anyway.

The uniform comes back into the interview room, a tall, athletic man behind him.

'Mr Noone,' says the uniform and leaves. Frank's tidying up his paperwork so doesn't look up at first.

As Noone takes his seat, Harris's first thought is that he's ridiculously good-looking. Clooney when young. No surprise he got the
Tunnels
movie.

'DCI Keane?' The rich American voice rolls around the shabby room. An alien sound in here – Hollywood on the Mersey. A few years back, only just out of uniform, Frank had once briefly met Samuel L. Jackson when the actor was shooting a movie in the city. It had been an oddly unnerving and dislocating experience, as though by being there in the flesh, Jackson was breaking some immutable physical law. Noone's voice has something of Jackson in it.

Frank takes a few seconds to study the man. He looks his twenty-nine years, but that is not a criticism. In fact, thinks Frank, he'll look better with age. His face is open, approachable. He's dressed well, but not overly so. Boots, black jeans, an expensive shirt under an equally expensive-looking jacket. Frank's eyes flick towards Noone's hands and he flashes on the scene in the Peters' house.

What do you think you'll see, Frank? Blood?

Frank puts out his own hand, which Noone shakes warmly. There's no attempt at any masculine posturing by the American, no excessive grip. Neither is there any limpness. His skin is warm, dry.

'Thanks for coming in, Mr Noone.' Frank indicates the chair across the desk. Noone looks at Harris, smiling. 'This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Harris.'

Noone extends his hand. 'Wow,' he says, holding Harris's hand a fraction longer than he had Keane's. Harris doesn't smile back but she has to force herself. I like him, she thinks.

And then: he's an actor.

Frank leans across the table towards the interview room digital recorder.

'We record everything these days,' he says, looking at Noone. 'You have no objection?'

Noone shakes his head as he pulls back a chair. 'No problem.'

'DCI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris. Interview with Benjamin Noone.'

'How can I help you?' Noone says. He sits down, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. 'Any news on the boy?'

Frank waits a few moments, regarding Noone. He ignores the question.

'We're talking to everyone involved with
The Tunnels
, Mr Noone. As you are aware, Dean Quinner was found dead yesterday morning. Since Mr Quinner was the third death connected with the production – leaving aside the issue of Nicky Peters – we are of the opinion that the killer is one of the members of the production team.'

'You're kidding?'

'No, I'm not. The chances that Nicky Peters and his parents and Dean Quinner were randomly attacked are so slim as to be dismissed. The killer is one of you.'

Noone raises his eyebrows. 'You don't mess around. I like it.'

Frank glances at Harris. You getting this?

'We're not overly concerned with your feelings about anything, Mr Noone.'

'Of course.' Noone looks contrite.

'We can get the obvious questions over first.' Harris looks down at her file. 'Taking things in order, do you have any idea where you were on the evening of Friday the fourteenth, Mr Noone?'