Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  'Terry recommended him?' says Quinner.

  'Yeah, bumped into him somewhere and got talking. I think Terry knew this gig was coming up and passed him on.' Soames leans back. 'And we got him back in with another guy for a second reading and he convinced us. Not that we needed much convincing. And since he signed up the buzz has been building – admittedly that's got a lot to do with our marketing – but I spoke to an agent in LA about something else and Ben's name came up, unprompted. She knew all about him – or more than we'd been pushing – and she's a serious player. You know what it's like in this business. Heat is everything. Don't you think he's working, Dean?'

  'He's great,' says Quinner. 'Perfect. I just wish I liked the twat.'

  Everyone laughs and Quinner takes a drink.

  Conroy and McElway and the others chat and smile about tomorrow's shooting but after the evening's over and Quinner's outside on the street, he can't shake the thought that Noone, the focal point of his movie, might be up to something naughty.

  Walking back to his flat, it's not a comforting thought.

  Five

  For Quinner, this is the week when the movie feels like it's shifted into another gear. They've been shooting for almost three weeks but now they're in the tunnels. He's been down here many times before in preparation but now, filming right where he first got that electric crackle and the idea for the story sprang into his mind, the whole enterprise makes sense.

  It'll work, he thinks. The Tunnels will work.

  He makes his way through the location trucks parked outside the visitor's centre and heads down to the first set-up of the day. Despite the late night at Maxie's and the ongoing rigours of the shoot, Quinner feels energised, positive.

  Just inside the location barriers he sees Terry's nephew, Nicky. The boy, carrying a loop of cable, waves a shy hand in Quinner's direction and he winks back. For the first time, Quinner notices Nicky's wearing a jacket like his own and wonders if the kid bought it deliberately. Teenagers do that, don't they, Quinner thinks. He can remember aping Liam Gallagher's walk during the Oasis years. The memory still makes him blush.

  But if Nicky's trying to look like Quinner – like the script writer on the set, not the actors, or the director – that's interesting. Although he and Nicky Peters have greatly differing backgrounds, Quinner senses the kid might have some of the fire you need in this business.

  Quinner reaches the large gallery in which Soames and his team are going to be shooting a conversation between Noone's character, a slaving ship sailor who has drifted into Williamson's orbit, and Williamson himself. An older, dependable character actor, Dave Losey, is playing Williamson. Quinner's worked with Losey before on a TV soap and waves although doesn't approach him.

  The technical crew have been setting up overnight so that time isn't wasted. Today's schedule is heavy, technical and demanding, and by seven the atmosphere is already jagged. Nerves are frayed and Quinner stays in the background. On set he is no more than a sounding-board for Josh Soames and his team. It might be Quinner's baby but he is not a technician. He gets a coffee from the catering truck and wanders inside, finds a brick ledge some metres back from the action and checks his notes.

  He already knows Noone's late. Josh had texted as much half an hour ago.

  Like I could do anything about it, thinks Quinner. You cast the fucker, you deal with his shit. He can feel his stomach knotting and fights to keep calm. You can only do what you can do.

  And then, here he is, the main man, smiling, charming, apologetic and ready to work. Noone, in costume and make-up, looks brighter and more alert than anyone else.

  Quinner doesn't look up as Noone walks past.

  'You all right, la?' says Noone in a perfect Liverpool accent and pats Quinner on the upper arm. 'Can't hang about here all day, there's a fucking movie to be shot, right?'

  Quinner smiles but says nothing.

  'Gentlemen!' says Noone as he steps into the pool of light. His accent has changed again; a Victorian Englishman. 'To work, by God!'

  Josh shoots a look at Quinner and shrugs. 'Places,' he says. 'Let's get moving.'

  By eleven they're on schedule and with some good material safely filmed. The scenes Quinner's sweated on train journeys, in cold flats, at cafes and bars, are brought to glowing, vibrant life right there in front of him. Noone delivers on take after take. He might have been a wildcard casting with some questionable social habits – Quinner has heard a whisper that Alix isn't doing his make-up any more – but he has to admit that Soames and the others had been on the money about the American. When Quinner had first seen Noone he'd had doubts about the actor being able to play a period piece but he seems to inhabit the costumes and role flawlessly. There's an unforced quality to his work that Quinner has only previously seen with experienced performers. Noone's a natural, perfect from the first take.

  'Break,' calls Susie Burrows. 'Set up scene six.'

  The technical crew begin dismantling the tracks and lights and moving them to the second location, just a few metres round the bend of the tunnel. The actors wander to chairs, reading their scripts. Noone drifts to the table set up by the caterers and fusses over a coffee. He selects a pastry and stuffs it into his mouth.

  'Happy?' says Josh Soames and Quinner nods.

  'Working really well, mate. I don't have anything useful to add.'

  Soames, looking every inch a director – glasses, two-day beard, expensively rumpled clothes – wanders off, happy. 'It's having a good script, Dean,' he says as he goes, 'that makes my job easy.'

  Quinner sits back and stretches, pleased enough to take the compliment whether Soames means it or not.

  As he does, he sees Noone moving in a shadowy area behind the set. A leather jacket is draped on the back of a chair and Quinner watches Noone slide his hand inside and remove something. Noone slips what he's taken into his pocket and drifts away to make easy conversation with Bea, the continuity girl.

  Quinner looks around.

  What the fuck?

  No one apart from himself seems to have witnessed the theft. For a few seconds Quinner runs through the sequence again to check it had really happened. He knows the jacket isn't the actor's. Their clothes are in the wardrobe and make-up trailer parked outside the tunnels.

  Quinner sits back. This will take some thinking about.

  An hour later and he finds out whose jacket it is.

  Chris Birchall, one of the sound men, is cursing that he's lost his wallet. The theory is it's been dropped during the setting up and Nicky is detailed to see if he can spot it anywhere.

  'You seeing everything all right?' Noone's voice is low in Quinner's ear and he jumps.

  'What?'

  They're standing ten metres or so from the little knot of excitement around Birchall.

  'You getting a good view of all the action? From here, I mean.'

  Quinner looks at Noone closely. The guy doesn't seem to be worried. Amused, if anything.

  'Are you all right, Ben?'

  Noone laughs softly. 'Never better, Dean. I'm just asking you if you like what you see.'

  Quinner steps a little closer to the American. He can feel the challenge on a basic, instinctive level and Quinner's never been slow to back himself. 'Yes, I did,' he says, looking directly at Noone. 'I've been watching everything very closely. Good performance. Very smooth.'

  There's a pause in which the two men hold each other's eyes in the way which usually precedes a confrontation. It's Noone who breaks the moment.

  'Well, best get back to work, Dean. No rest for the wicked.'

  Quinner reaches out and puts a hand on Noone's upper arm.

  'That last take you did?' says Quinner. 'I reckon you could do that again. Make it better.'

  Noone looks for all the world like he's considering Quinner's suggestion as a menu choice. Fish or lamb, sir?

  'Nah,' says Noone, smiling a movie star smile and shrugging Quinner's hand off his arm. 'I got it.'

  Although they've bee
n speaking in code, both of them know the score.

  You saw me and I don't care. What's going to happen to your movie if you kick up about this?

  Quinner's been threatened before but this is different. There's something about Noone's flat acceptance of the situation and the smooth way in which he's controlled the conversation that makes Quinner feel complicit, violated. Dirty.

  'Drinks later?' says Noone. He turns away. 'Nice chat.'

  Quinner watches him walk off.

  This isn't finished, thinks Quinner, and heads out of the tunnels.

  He needs phone reception.

  Six

  It's not often that Dean, or anyone for that matter, asks Big Niall to do something for real cash money. They're in Quinner's flat in the Albert Dock, the evening of Noone stealing the wallet. Big Niall's brought his mate.

  'No sweat, Deano,' says Niall, beaming all over his stupid face. 'Sorted, bro.'

  'Don't ask him for his autograph, right? I just want him followed. See what he's up to. You got that, Niall?'

  Quinner's worries about Noone had already been building for days and the wallet thing has pushed him beyond curious. There's something wrong with the American and he isn't about to risk six years' work on The Tunnels for it all to be washed away by this tool. If Quinner can find out a bit more about Noone, maybe persuade him to return the wallet, he'll feel a lot better. He's not the type to sit back and let the American screw things up. It's just a wallet but Quinner's been around plenty of thieves before and none of them have ever reacted like Noone if challenged. Denial, violence, whining maybe, but the cocky shrug with which Noone dismissed his guilt has got under Quinner's skin. He takes out a cigarette and lights up.

  'Bad for your health, them things, man,' says Big Niall's mate.

  'Fuck off,' says Quinner. He takes a drag.

  'No, serious, man. Me ma went with lung cancer that way.'

  'Sorry,' says Quinner. To his astonishment, Niall's mate bursts out laughing.

  'Fucken got you, bro! Me ma's watching some shit at home!' Niall's mate extends a closed fist towards Niall and the two bump knuckles. 'Fucken hooked or what, man?' Niall's mate turns back to Quinner, his face serious again. 'But they are bad for you, no messin'.'

  He's wearing the same clothes he was in when Quinner saw him at the shoot in Huskisson Street two days ago.

  'He all right?' Quinner looks at Niall and then nods in the direction of Niall's mate. 'In the head, I mean?'

  'Don't worry, man,' says Niall's mate. 'I'll be fucken sound, no sweat.' He folds his arms, two fingers outstretched on each hand and purses his lips in a gangsta pose. 'Ghost Ninja, that's me.'

  'Are you saying that's your name? Ghost Ninja? What's your real name?' says Quinner, then holds up his hand. 'Wait, I don't want to know.'

  He turns to Niall.

  'Noone will most likely be at Maxie's. You know where that is? Good. Just hang around and see where he goes and get back to me.' Quinner hands Niall some money.

  'Here's fifty notes. Fifty more if you do this right.'

  'Sound, Deano. No problem.' Niall signals to his mate it's time to leave.

  'Ghost Ninjaaaaa,' the guy hisses as he passes Quinner, his eyes wide, pupils small. Ghost Ninja spreads his hands out in a gesture that he imagines makes him look freaky and intimidating. He looks fried, and about as intimidating as a Jack Russell.

  'Jesus,' says Quinner and opens the door to the flat, already feeling he's making a mistake. Briefing Big Niall and his dickhead mate to follow Noone makes him feel silly, like he's playing a part in a movie. The trouble is, he can't decide if it's a thriller or a comedy.

  Seven

  Sitting in the corner of the wood-panelled backroom at The Phil, Frank laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out, the punishment he took in the work-out with Chrissy Cahill on Tuesday replaying in his mind with every twinge. His ribs hurt too but Frank likes the feeling; it reminds him he's still close enough to the man he was in his early twenties. Some of the coppers Frank came up with haven't worn so well and the fact that he can give a kid like Chrissy something like a genuine bout is a source of pride, bruises or no bruises.

  'Cheers,' says Frank, catching Harris's eye. As she lifts her own glass, Frank takes a pull on his drink and makes a face. He'd asked Caddick for a scotch but the dickwad's come back with bourbon. Seeing Frank raise his head and look round the room like a malevolent prairie dog for the hapless DC makes Em Harris smile.

  'Wrong drink?'

  Frank nods glumly and then shrugs. 'Tastes like treacle,' he says. 'Not that I've ever tasted treacle.'

  The two most senior members of the MIT unit are sitting together while the gaggle of junior officers stand in a tight knot amid a growing crowd and get louder with every round.

  Like most Thursday evenings, this one begins with the Major Incident Team gathered for the traditional end to the week. Exactly why the MIT week ends on Thursday no one really knows, but the tradition – one instigated by Frank's old boss, Menno Koopman – has endured and no one is going to change it anytime soon. Attendance isn't compulsory but it is expected.

  If either DCI Keane or DI Harris had known how it was going to end they may not have come.

  Harris doesn't make it to that many Thursday sessions, seeing them, with some justification, as a throwback to harder drinking, more overtly masculine times. But she's pragmatic enough to know that a complete absence would not help her in building any bridges in the wake of last year's Stevie White affair so she's there along with Caddick, Rose, Theresa Cooper and the others.

  Frank's there because he hasn't got anything better on offer. Since January, the Thursdays, along with the odd boxing session, more or less represent his social life.

  None of the team ever invites their partners and few would come if asked. MIT, while not as masonic as it once might have been, can still be something of a sealed world. For Harris, that, at least, is a relief. It's hard enough being a black female officer without bringing Linda into the picture.

  She and Frank are discussing – what else – work. Frank doesn't know what he's done tonight but he has the feeling that Em's on his case more than usual. Always sharp, there's an edge there tonight that feels different and her eyes look brighter. For a moment Frank wonders if she's doing coke but guiltily dismisses the idea as soon as it arrives. Em's too smart for that; seen too much. But the thought of cocaine reminds him of the White case from last year.

  'What made you side with Perch?'

  Just asking the question makes Frank realise he's drunk too much. Otherwise he wouldn't be asking. Neither of them has discussed Harris's ultimately unwise decision to choose DCI Perch over Frank.

  'I'm not having a go, Em. It's just something we haven't talked about.'

  'Can't we just keep it that way? We are English, you know. Not talking about stuff is what we do.'

  Frank wags a finger. 'Uh-no. Not tonight. You're not getting off that easy.'

  Harris starts to speak but breaks off as Theresa Cooper leans out of a knot of people and asks her if she wants a top-up.

  'No. Wait, OK. G & T.'

  Frank drains his bourbon. 'Could you get me a malt, Theresa? I'll fix you up. The boy Caddick gets easily confused.'

  Cooper smiles and heads to the bar. Her promotion to Detective Sergeant a couple of months ago has put a spring in her step. It's a little unusual for a promoted officer to stay within the same department but Frank's glad Cooper's still with MIT. Seeing one of their own make it up a grade has shaken up the rest of them. He's already seen an improved performance as competition intensifies.

  Harris turns back to Frank. 'I don't know. It seemed to make sense at the time. I was worried about you bringing your old boss back into it. I didn't know Koopman. You were taking a big risk involving him.' Harris shakes her head. 'But you were right. In the end.' She leans back and regards Frank coolly. 'Why are you asking now?'

  Frank shrugs. 'Just thinking how stupid it is that we're not talking pr
operly.' He waggles his empty glass. 'Plus I'm half-pissed.'

  'Half?'

  'All right, almost off my tits.'

  At the mention of tits, his eyes – he can't help it – drift towards Em Harris's chest.

  'For fuck's sake, Frank,' she says, but there's the start of a smile on her lips.

  Frank holds out his hands in apology. 'I did say I was half-pissed. Do you know the efforts I go to not to do that at work?'

  'Yeah, I do,' says Harris. 'You're not the worst by a long chalk. That sleaze Pete Moreleigh almost bumped into them at the media briefing last week. I let him know how I felt.'

  'So we're all good?' says Frank. Although glad to hear of Moreleigh's discomfort, he feels the discussion of Harris's charms is treacherous ground.

  Harris softens. 'I'm glad you asked, Frank. And it is stupid we're not talking. Properly, I mean.' She regards Frank. 'How are you doing, anyway? Single life suiting you?'

  Harris keeps her tone light but has those big brown eyes fixed on Frank. His persistence in getting some dialogue going again has touched her. From the office chat it's clear that he hasn't exactly had a smooth ride over the past six months. Despite her mention of Frank's single status they haven't discussed his break-up. Until now. If Frank's going into unknown territory with direct questions, why can't she do the same?

  Frank shrugs and grimaces. 'Not really. It's OK. Too much work in the new job.' He doesn't know if that's true or not. It's just something you say in that situation, isn't it? The break-up hadn't felt like a break-up. There was no real drama, no big slanging match between him and Julie; things had been deteriorating for months before she finally made the decision. You could feel it in the dead air between them where there had once been warmth and electricity. There were no kids, thank Christ. At least they were spared that particular horror show.

  The mention of Frank's promotion cools the atmosphere a fraction. Even through the fog of alcohol Frank perceives the dip.