Down Among the Dead Men (21 page)

Noone folds his hands in his lap. 'The fourteenth?'

Frank starts to get the curious feeling that the man in front of him is enjoying this encounter.

'The evening the Peters family were killed,' says Frank. 'You must have heard about it. It was the talk of the town.'

Noone pauses before answering and looks at Keane. He holds the pause just long enough for Harris to glance from him to Frank. The animal challenge is there; that instinctive moment that's so hard to disguise and that both Frank Keane and Em Harris have seen a million times.

'Well, of course, we all heard something had happened that weekend, but none of us were sure exactly when.' His words sound
sincere but to Frank's ears there's something a little 'off buried deep in the sentence.

He's on stage. The fucker's giving us a performance. Frank's got an ear for pretence that wouldn't be out of place at a top-flight acting academy. Most decent detectives have it, developed over long hours of listening to every nuance of human behaviour.

'Try and remember,' says Frank.

Noone concentrates. Or appears to. It's hard for Frank to tell. Maybe this is how he is all of the time. People in here react differently. Noone's composure may simply be a defensive reflex, something that's done well for him in the past.

All it's doing in J7 right now is setting Frank Keane's teeth on edge. Which is good. It means that there's something in Noone that Frank's senses are telling him to examine. He wonders if Harris is feeling the same way.

'Friday the fourteenth, last Friday.' Harris consults a sheet of paper in front of her. 'According to your shooting schedule, you were on set that day. The location was the Williamson tunnels. The first day of work in that location, I think.'

Harris looks up. 'That help you, Mr Noone?'

Noone leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. 'Yes, it does. It was the second day in the tunnels, though. We'd started on the Thursday down there. I remember feeling cold – it's damp underground – and I asked Nicky to get me my coat from the truck.'

'You knew him well enough to call him by his first name?'

'He's a good kid. Everyone calls him Nicky. It's a small unit.'

It's Frank's turn. 'Unit?'

'A movie term. Means the whole thing. Everyone shooting the movie.'

'You're not an actor, though, Mr Noone. Not an experienced one. Right?'

Noone smiles. 'Depends on your definition of experienced.'

'What I mean is that this is your first movie. Tell me a little about how you got the role.'

Noone raises his eyebrows fractionally. 'If you think it will help.'

'I do.'

'I've been travelling for a couple of years. Been in the city for the past eight months. The crowd I'd been hanging out with are artsy. One of them knew Dean and mentioned his movie. I thought it would be kind of interesting. I'd always been good at goofing around. So I tried out and here I am.'

'The person who recommended you was Terry Peters, isn't that right?' Harris's voice is even – just someone getting confirmation of something she already knows.

'That's right,' says Noone. 'It was Terry Peters who put a word in for me.'

'Did you know Terry Peters well at that point?'

Noone shrugs. 'Not really. I'd met the guy a coupla times along with a bunch of movie and TV people. Seemed OK. I don't really know him that well now, if I'm honest. How's he doing? With all this, I mean? Must be tough.'

'He's doing as well as you might expect,' says Harris, shortly. She looks down at her notes, rubbing her finger against her lip, and Noone glances in Frank's direction. Although Noone keeps his expression bland, there's something knowing in the gesture that Frank doesn't like, as if the American is inviting Frank to share a male secret at Harris's expense.

'Let's get back to the fourteenth, Mr Noone,' says Harris. 'We've been talking for five minutes since I asked and you haven't told us anything. I'd still like to get your movements.'

Frank curses himself inwardly for not noticing how smoothly Noone had deflected the question. I need to raise my game here, he thinks, and straightens his spine, the fighter coming out of his corner. Chrissy Cahill pops into his mind and he remembers how easily the boy had caught him napping.

'I'd need to check with a few people but I'm pretty sure we'd have been out at Maxie's if it was a Friday. That's been pretty regular since we started the shoot.' Noone frowns as if concentrating. 'If I had to make a guess, I think I left before Nicky.'

'You remember that?' Harris's voice is quizzical.

'I remember thinking that in the US he wouldn't have been at the bar. What is he, sixteen, seventeen? You gotta be twenty-one back home.'

'It's eighteen here,' Frank says.

'Coulda fooled me. Liverpool's pretty easygoing on that score.'

'Can you give us the names of the people you were with that evening?'

'I'll try. There were the guys from Hungry Head, John and Ethan. Josh Soames too. And Dean, he was with them, mostly. A couple of girls, I don't know their names. The boy was there.'

'Did you speak to Nicky?'

Noone looks at Harris. 'I can't remember. If I did, it wasn't anything.'

'Danny Lomax?'

'Who?'

For the first time since the interview began, Frank can sense a trace of unease in Noone. It might not mean anything, but it's there. Maybe Noone's first misstep. Frank decides to push.

Noone shakes his head. 'Doesn't mean anything to me. You meet lots of people at Maxie's.'

Frank laughs and leans forward, folding his arms on the table in front of him.

'Come on, Ben, you and I both know who Danny Lomax is. He's a drug dealer. Your drug dealer.'

Frank's information on Maxie's regular patrons is in the file handed to him by Magsi. Lomax is known to MIT tangentially. Not a big player on the club scene but known. Noone and Lomax had been talking that night, according to the Aussie barman Magsi had interviewed.

'My drug dealer?' Noone smiles. 'That makes him sound very important.' The American sits back. 'Look, I admit I know Danny from the clubs and, yes, I do know he's got drugs. I may even have got some from him, just some recreationals to loosen the kinks. We all do that, right?'

He eyes Frank, amused, and Frank can't help but flash back to the night with Em. They'd both had a smoke. Like Noone said, we all do some of that.

'No. Not all of us, Ben.'

'Really?' The actor smiles gently. 'Whatever you say.'

Harris is reading from the file. 'We'll be talking to Mr Lomax
again. For the time being we can just ignore any "recreationals" you may or may not have had. Can we just establish that Nicky Peters wasn't being supplied by Mr Lomax too?'

'Not that I know.'

'I'd like to talk about you some more, Ben. You say you're a traveller. When did that start and why did you end up in Liverpool?'

Noone spreads his hands. 'Why not? It's cool. I was bumming around Europe a bit and someone mentioned this was a good place to come. I came. No big reason.'

'And stayed?'

'That's right. I like the place. It suits me.'

In a funny way, Frank knows what he means. The city does suit the American. Performers like the place and Liverpool loves a performer.

'What started you off, the travelling?' Harris's question sounds more like something from a daytime chat show and Frank wonders if the actor's charm is working too well on Harris.

Noone returns plenty of charm in his answer, smiling at Harris. 'After my mother died I didn't feel like staying at home.'

'Los Angeles?'

'Correct. And if you've been there, you'll know why I like Liverpool.'

'Your mother?' prompts Harris.

'Yeah, she died. Cancer. We weren't close. Once she'd gone I came into some money and lit out for Europe. Nothing unusual.'

'How about your father?' Harris's voice is all concern now. Maybe she should try acting too, thinks Frank.

'My father? He's gone.'

'Dead?'

A flicker of annoyance passes across Noone's face like a digital jump on a screen.

'Not that I know. He wasn't part of my life. Never knew him.'

Before he can pick up on Noone's reply, Frank's phone vibrates in his pocket. He fishes it out and reads the text, holding the phone below the edge of the table. 'Got something,' the text reads. It's from Saif Magsi.

'Carry on without me,' says Frank. 'I'll be back in two minutes.'

Noone's expression is open as Frank gets up and leaves. As the door closes behind him he sees Noone turning towards Harris and smiling. He starts to say something but Frank doesn't catch it.

Magsi's outside in the corridor.

'Didn't want to come in and show you this in front of Noone,' says Magsi. Frank nods approvingly as Magsi hands him a sheet of paper. 'Just came through and I thought it might be relevant.'

On the sheet of paper is a credit card number and a list of monthly statement balances for the past year in the name of Benjamin Noone. The logo at the top reads 'Wells Fargo'.

'It's a prepaid,' Magsi says. 'A Visa card, but topped up before it's used. Wells Fargo's a US bank.' Magsi's immaculate nail traces the statement balances. 'These are just cash payments made inwards by Noone. He can do that at almost any bank without leaving an electronic trail.'

'So how did you get this?'

Magsi looks a little uncomfortable. 'I know someone who can look up that kind of thing. Sort of a freelancer. My brother.'

'Stop,' says Frank, 'I don't want to know.' He rattles the sheet of paper. 'So this is inadmissible?' His voice is level.

'Yeah, sorry, boss. I thought . . . well, it was just pissing me off not finding anything on Noone, and my brother, well . . .'

Frank pats Magsi on the shoulder. 'No, it's fine, Magsi. It's useful. But don't mention this to anyone else, got that? I don't want it coming back to bite us later.'

Magsi nods, relieved.

'And next time, if there is a next time, ask me first, got that?' Without waiting for a reply, Frank tucks the credit card details into his jacket and turns back to the interview room. Inside, Harris is laughing at something Noone has said.

'Cosy.'

Frank sits down and looks at Noone.

'How do you manage for money, Ben?' he says. 'Can't be too much in acting, even in the movies. Not for a newbie like you. What have you been using?'

'There's no mystery. I came into money after my mother died.'

'You're rich?' says Harris. 'River Towers is a pretty swanky address.'

'I do OK.' Noone pauses and smiles again. 'And River Towers is overrated. Mostly dodgy property developers and criminals, if you ask me.'

Frank doesn't return the smile. 'Is that where you met Danny Lomax?'

Noone shakes his head. 'Still talking about Danny? You're barking up the wrong tree there.'

'What tree should I be barking up, Ben?'

'I can't tell you how to do your job, DCI Keane, but drugs have nothing to do with this.'

Now the atmosphere is unmistakeable. Harris picks it up too.

'How would you know what is relevant in this case, Mr Noone?' she says. 'Do you have any information for us?'

Noone sits back in the uncomfortable interview room chair and folds his hands in his lap. 'No,' he says. 'I don't think I do.'

To Harris's surprise, Frank doesn't respond to this.

'Let's turn to Dean Quinner.' Frank gives Noone a long look. 'You don't seem too upset about Dean's death.'

'Is that a question?' Noone taps a finger on the edge of the table. 'We weren't buddies, but I liked him OK. I'm not that upset because that's not who I am. I don't get upset very easily. Aren't the English supposed to understand that?'

'Even we manage to squeeze out the odd tear now and again, Mr Noone,' says Harris. 'At the very least Mr Quinner's murder must mean trouble for the movie. You'll be out of a job if it folds.'

'I don't want the production to stop,' Noone replies, 'but it's only a movie. I was brought up in Los Angeles. Movies don't impress me the same way they do most other people. And I don't need the gig. Besides, isn't that an argument for me
not
being involved in whatever happened to Quinner?'

Harris leans across to Frank and points to a small statement on the initial data collection sheet. This was largely gleaned from phone calls made by MIT to the movie people following the discovery of Dean Quinner's body. It's something from Alix Turner, one of the make-up team.

'Someone said that you and Dean were having an "intense" discussion on set. What was that about?'

There.

Noone's nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. Frank registers the corners of Noone's mouth turning down. In a split second the expression is wiped clean and replaced by one of Noone's sardonic smiles. Noone brushes some specks of dust from his sleeve.

But Frank saw.

He saw Noone's true face for a fleeting instant. Even an actor's mask slips from time to time.

And in that instant, every atom in Frank screams one visceral, unalterable fact: this is the guy. Locking eyes with him now, Frank just knows,
boom
, that the affable American across the desk is the killer of the Peters family and Dean Quinner. Frank's not remotely religious, but it is as if the devil has come into J7 in that electrically charged split second and, for Frank at least, the entire investigation shifts emphasis.

This is the guy.

What's more, thinks Frank as Noone regards him with a bland indifference, I'm pretty sure he knows that I know. And he doesn't care.

After twenty years on the force, and coming into contact with some of the worst scum to breathe air, there have been many times when Frank gets this basic, neanderthal reaction. Useless in court, of course, but highly useful when it comes to focusing effort. Frank glances at Harris to see if she's read it the same way but he can't tell.

'What was it?' Frank points at Noone. 'He saw something, didn't he? Or said something you didn't like. What was it? Did he catch you with your pants down?'

'Did Alix tell you that we were having this "intense" discussion?' Noone shakes his head. 'He's the fucking writer, man! And I'm the fucking lead! If the two of us can't have a fucking discussion on set then I don't know who can. She's pissed because I didn't want to fuck her. Ask around. This is getting ridiculous.'