Down Among the Dead Men (6 page)

A different Frank.

Halfway down Hardman he turns into a side road and into the warm embrace of The Majorca.

The twenty-four-hour taxidrivers' caff is packed with the post-club-run drivers but Frank manages to bag a seat in a corner. Enzo lifts one of his chins in acknowledgement and tea the colour of mahogany appears like magic. It's followed by a full English and more tea. At five-thirty or so, and feeling slightly more human, Frank goes through the usual routine of offering to pay Enzo before leaving without money changing hands.

'Be good, Frank,' shouts Enzo as the door to The Majorca rattles shut.

It's time to go home.

Ten

When Noone notices the two clowns clumsily following him from Maxie's he places the big one right away. He's the guy Quinner was speaking with at the top of Huskisson Street on Tuesday.

Noone briefly considers ignoring the two guys following him, just slipping inside his flat and letting them fade away, but then the familiar, half-welcome anger hits him hard.

Checking that the two guys in hoodies and trackpants are still behind him, he turns past the street leading to his apartment block and drops down onto the Pier Head.

The Liver Building is lit from below, a white-iced cake against the night sky. He walks north and crosses the dual carriageway onto Great Howard Street. Here the buildings begin to lose their scrubbed-up appearance. He walks past a shuttered car dealership and a ragtag collection of half-boarded shops and businesses. Looking back over his shoulder to confirm that his tails are still in attendance, he turns left down Oil Street, a dank, dark road connecting the parallel traffic arteries at either end. The street's deserted, and hemmed in on both sides by ancient brick walls oozing oil and mysterious industrial-yellow chemical pus. The glass-flecked road is patched and re-patched and what pavement there is is treacherous underfoot, even in the dry. About fifty metres from the junction with Waterloo Road there's a hole kicked through a breezeblock wall into a derelict triangle of no-man's-land between two corrugated engineering sheds. It's pitch black and he slips through taking care to be observed. One last glance back up Oil Street tells Noone there's a conference taking place. He waits at the gap in the wall and watches as the smaller of the two would-be trackers walks away, back towards the city and out
of view. After a moment the big guy starts walking down Oil Street and Noone smiles to himself.

One will be easier.

Big Niall is conscious of his own fear but there's no turning around now, not after telling Jason he was carrying on. The feller he's following has gone from view but Niall's pretty sure he saw him dive through a gap in the fence. Trying to be clever.

Niall slows as he closes on the gap in the wall. He glances back up Oil Street in the direction he's come from and sees no one. For a moment he considers abandoning the plan, giving Deano a call and saying they lost him. Then he squares himself up, a working man doing his job, and steps through the gap in the wall.

As he does, something metallic connects with the side of his neck and he slumps to the floor, everything reduced to a simple horizon of pain and panic. Then there's a second hit and Niall's not thinking any more.

He comes to less than four minutes later.

For a few brief, euphoric seconds he feels nothing except puzzlement. He staggers back through the broken breezeblock wall into Oil Street before the excruciating pain from his hand hits home and he opens his mouth to scream. Except there's something inside, something blocking his mouth. He spits the object out into his hand.

And now Big Niall does scream.

Eleven

The morning crawls past like a beaten dog.

Somehow, Frank's not really sure how, he makes it to lunchtime and knows that's it for him. Stacked desk or not, he's taking a sickie this afternoon and getting some sleep. One of the advantages of his promotion is a little more leeway at moments of crisis like this. He'd had a call from Harris about two hours ago but let his mobile go to answerphone. In his hung-over state he doesn't know if that's because he wants to avoid her, or if he just wants to avoid hearing her say that's all there will be after last night. Either way, he doesn't pick up.

Bed is a must or he's going to fall down. He's only taken a couple of steps out of Canning Place when it happens.

'Frank Keane?' says a voice behind him.

'Yeah?' He turns and sees a blonde, thirty maybe, good-looking, wearing her hair short, razor-cut on the sides and back. He only has time to register her angry, contorted face before she throws a cup of cold vinegary-smelling liquid in his face.

'Burn, you bastard!'

'What the fuck!' Frank wipes stinging fluid from his eyes, his vision blurred, panic already building.

'Who'll have you now, you bastard! Burn, you fucker! Burn!'

Acid
.

The word flashes neon in Frank's mind and he feels himself shrink. He swivels, panicking, into the Canning Place foyer just as his eyes begin to seriously hurt. The security door is locked and the plod on the desk looks at him blankly for a moment until Frank, his eyes streaming, screams, 'Open the fucking door! Do it!'

There's a fumbling second or two wasted before the buzzer sounds. Frank pushes through the security door and runs, stumbling, for the bathroom across the width of the foyer, each valuable second allowing the acid to take hold. He slams into the toilets like a drunk, banging his shoulder on the tile wall, his panicky fingers scrabbling uselessly for the taps.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck
.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders if they'll ever open again.

And then there's water and he splashes it over himself, frantic, can't get enough, quick quick, turns on another tap and fills a second basin while he's got his face under this one. Plunges his head under and opens his eyes, willing the water to wash away whatever filth that crazy bitch threw. He holds it as long as he can and then stands. He rips his jacket off and then his shirt. His shoulder feels sore and he scoops handful after handful of water onto the skin. He can't tell if the pain's from the hit against the wall or from something else.

Acid.
Shit
.

'You all right, boss?' It's the uniform from the desk. Hastings.

Frank doesn't trust himself to speak; the adrenaline is making him tremble so much but he manages to blurt 'hospital'.

Hastings clatters out and as the door opens Frank can hear the commotion in the holding area. A woman's voice, hysterical, the bass voice of the duty officer talking.

Frank's breathing slows a little and he risks a look in the mirror, expecting to see some molten horror show. A wave of naked relief sweeps over him as he sees no obvious damage. He continues to cradle handful after handful of water onto the affected areas. His pants are wet and he takes them off too. He tries to replay the woman throwing the liquid over him. It hit his face, his shoulder, a little on his forearm and hand.

Panting, Frank leans on the porcelain of the basin and tries to get himself under control. His heart is banging around inside his chest cavity as if it has broken free of its moorings. Hastings comes back in and Frank stands.

'Er, we've got a car outside, sir. Be quicker than an ambulance.'

Frank nods. 'You get her?'

'She's been taken to the holding cells, sir.' Hastings hesitates, uncomfortable. There's something else.

'What?' barks Frank. Deep down, he already knows.

'The woman who attacked you? She's DI Harris's partner. Linda Black.'

Frank nods and then puts his face back under water. He holds it there, his eyes open, as long as he can.

Christ. What a day.

Twelve

By Friday, Dean Quinner's regretting involving Big Niall and his cretinous mate in this thing with Noone. Sleep, never a frequent visitor for Quinner, hadn't come easy last night and when the morning arrives, things don't look better. Lying awake, his decision now looks like one of the dumbest things he'd ever done.

What if Niall ends up hurting the actor? Won't that be as disastrous as anything that would happen if the theft came to light? It's only a fucking wallet. Quinner wonders if it's himself he should be worrying about, not Noone. What kind of lunatic puts his faith in someone like Niall?

Shit.

Quinner looks at his watch and reaches for his phone before stopping, his hand in midair. Anything that's happened will be over by now. It can wait. With luck the big idiot won't have done anything and Quinner will be able to call off the dogs with no one any the wiser.

He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. As he does, the quiet of the flat is cut by Quinner's ringtone signalling an incoming text. Quinner reaches across the coffee table and picks up.

It's from Niall.

Quinner presses 'open' and the message appears. There are no words. Instead an animated hand walks onscreen, forms itself into a fist and then flips Quinner the finger.

Quinner closes the phone and switches it to silent.

Fucking Niall.

Thirteen

The doctor at the Royal, a young Asian woman wearing a headscarf who looks more tired than Keane, sees him immediately. A uniform from Canning Place drives him direct.

'No permanent damage.' The doctor peers into Keane's eyes using a powerful light which feels more painful than the acid. 'You'll need to make a follow-up appointment with an ophthalmologist to double-check in case there's been any tissue scars caused by scrubbing at the eyes, but I think you'll be fine.'

She stands and passes Frank a paper towel.

'Thanks.'

Something occurs to him as the doctor turns to leave. 'What was it she threw at me? Do you know?'

'Not sure. But I would guess something like surgical spirit, or white vinegar.'

'Vinegar? I could smell vinegar but I thought acid just smelt like that.'

'It does, sometimes. But in this case I think your attacker may have been just trying to scare you.'

Frank levers himself off the examination couch.

'She succeeded.'

The doctor smiles bleakly and leaves.

Frank picks up his damp jacket and looks at his watch.

Fifteen minutes later, he's walking down Copperas Hill towards Lime Street. He could call a car but the walk will help clear his head. He cuts past the faded grandeur of the Adelphi and then through the shoppers on Ranelagh Street, heading for the Pier Head. There are a few half-glances in his direction at the damp patches on his shirt.

His phone rings as the Cunard Building comes into view.

It's Harris. Frank hesitates before pressing the answer button.

'Frank,' she says and he knows instantly that she has heard. 'Where are you?'

'I'm going to sleep. Call me in, say, three weeks.'

'We need to talk about Linda. She's in the lock-up at Canning Place. I just got a call from her. What happened, Frank?'

'Didn't she tell you?'

'Yes, sort of. Not really.' There's a pause. 'She mentioned acid.' Frank hears the fear in Harris's voice. It's not something he's ever heard before and it's something he'd rather not hear again.

'She threw what I thought was acid at me. Outside HQ. It wasn't, but I had a nasty couple of minutes until I worked that out. She knows. About last night. Did you tell her?'

'No. She was in a car outside the flat when you left. She'd been there all night.' Harris sounds as vulnerable as Frank's ever heard. 'We've been having some trouble recently. Linda's . . . well . . .'

'It doesn't matter. Get her out as quickly as you can. I'll call Canning Place and speak to the duty officer.' The thought of getting into all that crap now doesn't bear thinking about. 'I'm not pressing charges. It wasn't acid and neither of us needs any more attention, do we?'

Harris doesn't reply for a moment.

'She'll be sorry, Frank. If that's any help.'

'Do what you need to do, Em. Take her home. And you stay home too. We both need some sleep. I'll be back down at Stanley Road tomorrow. If you get in before me look after everything.'

'OK,' says Harris. There's a pause.

'I enjoyed last night, Em,' says Frank. Even as he's saying it the words seem flat. But it's all he's got. 'I don't regret it.'

'Yeah,' says Harris and ends the call leaving Frank looking at the phone.

He crosses the street towards the hulking black Mann Island monolith squatting next to the Liver Building, lets himself in using the security card and heads to the third floor. The apartment blinds are closed and the place is a mess compared to Harris's flat.

The block of apartments and offices is relatively new, built in a rush of misplaced pre-GFC confidence, and is generally regarded by
the citizens as a hideous eyesore. Buoyed by a couple of pay rises, and what now appears an inexplicable phase of optimism around the time that Liverpool became European Capital of Culture, Keane had bought a small flat in the development, hoping to rent it out and watch it steadily increase in value. It was a decision he has spent almost two years regretting: he'd seen the investment stutter and fade, and renters had proved more elusive than the Yeti. After the split with Julie he'd moved in, thinking it would be temporary, that he'd get somewhere more permanent, but here he was. Now, alone in the flat, dog-tired and smelling of vinegar, Frank wonders what kind of relationship he and Em might have after what happened.

Frank goes into the bedroom, takes off his clothes and gets into the musty bed. He's asleep inside two minutes.

Fourteen

Once she'd spoken to Frank, Em takes Linda back to the flat. Linda lives in Aigburth but Harris's place is closer.

Linda, her crying jag subsided, is almost catatonic during the agonisingly embarrassing process of getting her released from the building. Harris will be using up almost all her brownie points to limit the fallout from this. And, after last year's disaster with Perch, she doesn't have too many left in reserve.

'What's going to happen?' says Linda as they reach the flat on Falkner Street.

For once, Em doesn't have an answer. A wave of fatigue sweeps over her.