Down Among the Dead Men (17 page)

'OK,' says Frank. 'That's good to know.' He leaves it unsaid that it's that kind of slackness that has marked the investigation. Letting things slide over into tomorrow. My fault, he thinks. Poor work.

He turns back to the wall and taps a finger on a photograph of Terry Peters.

'This is where we are going to start. Terry Peters is the connection between Birkdale and the movie. I know that DI Harris interviewed him yesterday morning. She and I will talk to him again today. Scott and Theresa, I want you to take Terry Peters' background apart. Anything at all.' Frank looks at Harris. 'When we bring him here we'd like some leverage. If he's involved in any way I want to maximise the nerves.'

'He's been and gone,' says Harris. 'He came in at ten and I got him to come back at three.'

'Good,' says Frank. 'We'll get to him then.'

He looks again at the wall before speaking.

'Of course, Terry Peters may not be involved. From what DI Harris tells me, he's got a decent rep among the movie people. What that's worth I have no idea but we're getting told he's a good guy. But I'd like more details on the movie production. Schedules, arguments, money issues, anything.' Keane glances at the two loan detectives. 'I want the rest of the production interviewed solo and in depth. DCs Magsi and Flanagan here will dig into all available records on the cast and crew. Arrest sheets, histories, Facebook postings, websites, whatever you can use. And quickly. Ideally feed anything you get to the interviewing investigators before they talk
to the movie people. The more we know the more ammunition we have. We're going to make something happen in the next twenty-four hours, and if that means stepping on some toes, then we will step on as many as we need to. Got it?'

Tread lightly
. Charlie Searle's words float across Frank's mind. Fuck it. Searle can't have it both ways. If he has to conduct the investigation like a politician then he'd rather not have the job.

He puts his hands in his pockets. 'I'll be here for the rest of the day. If anything pops up in the interviews I want to be notified immediately, is that clear? No dicking about. If there's a red flag, get me in. We're no longer interested in keeping the movie people sweet, OK? The fucking thing is probably dead in the water now anyway.'

Harris coughs. 'I wouldn't be too sure of that. I'll call the production office to check.'

'You think they'll carry on after this?'

Harris shrugs. 'Lot of money involved.'

Frank shakes his head. 'Well, let's find out. Either way, they're all getting interviewed today and tomorrow. No exceptions.'

Thirty-Four

'Mr Peters.' Frank gestures towards a chair on the other side of the desk. He and Harris are seated directly opposite Terry Peters. There is a digital voice recorder on one side of the Formica-topped desk. With the new investigation into Quinner's death, events have overtaken Frank's schedule and the interview is taking place late in the afternoon. Peters had been sent away and has returned. Although not ideal, Frank's hoping the fractured day will help the interview. Anger can be useful. Makes people less guarded.

'Thank you for coming in again. This must be an incredibly difficult time for you.'

'Yes.'

Terry Peters is taller than Frank is expecting, taller even than his dead brother. He sits and leans forward on the table, his tired eyes taking in his surroundings.

'Not very impressive,' says Frank, reading his expression. 'Apologies, but we're pushed for space at the moment.' In fact, he has picked J7 specifically. He's found its cramped, dismal atmosphere to be very helpful in the past.

Terry Peters shrugs. He makes no attempt to engage DI Harris and she makes no move to be friendly, fish pie or no fish pie.

'Have there been any developments?' says Peters.

'How well do you know Dean Quinner?' Harris's ignoring of the question is deliberate. Prior to the interview she and Keane discussed the aggressive stance they would take. With speed a priority, politeness goes out of the window.

Terry Peters isn't stupid and Frank notes the change in his expression.

'Dean? What's Dean got to do with it?'

'If you can just answer the question, Mr Peters.' Harris keeps her voice neutral.

'Dean didn't have anything to do with . . . with what's happened, did he?' Terry Peters juts his chin out. Frank thinks his reaction looks genuine.

'Would that surprise you?' Frank asks.

'What's he done?'

'How well do you know Mr Quinner?'

Peters sits back and looks from one cop to the other. 'I know him well enough. We worked on a TV thing a couple of years ago and then on this one. It's a small world – TV and movies, I mean – up here. Most of us have crossed paths before. Why?'

'Are you friends?'

'We're friendly, if that's what you mean. I'll have a drink with him from time to time, but it's mostly film business we're talking about.' Peters looks at Frank. 'That's the way it works on location. Everyone's the best of friends for the shoot and then it's on to the next thing. Dean's OK, as far as I know.'

'Do you know if Nicky knows Mr Quinner well?' Harris puts the merest stress on the word 'well' but it's enough to get a response. Terry Peters' face flushes and his teeth show.

'What the fuck are you getting at? Has Quinner done something to Nicky?'

'That's a quick temper you have there, Mr Peters,' says Keane.

'What do you expect? My family's been . . . been fucking butchered. Nicky's gone. If Quinner's got anything to do with it, I've got a right to know!'

'And if you thought he did have anything to do with it? What would you do then, Mr Peters?'

'I'd fucking . . .' Peters stops short. He sits back and a wary look comes into his face. 'Something's happened, hasn't it?'

'Dean Quinner was found dead this morning. Killed.'

Peters opens his mouth to speak, blinks and then closes his mouth again. 'What? Jesus.
Dean?'
He rubs the bridge of his nose. 'I don't understand. What did Dean have to do with what happened to Paul and Maddy?'

Although Frank's take on Peters is that he is genuinely bewildered at news of Quinner's death, he's not quite ready to let him off just yet. Frank opens the file in front of him and glances inside. He lets the silence ripen. No hurry.

'You ever been in trouble with the police, Terry?'

Terry Peters shakes his head. 'I don't fucking believe it.'

'Is that a "no"?

Peters looks at Keane and Harris in disgust. 'You know the answer already.'

'Domestic assault.' Harris purses her lips. 'You were bound over.'

'I was getting divorced!' Peters looks to the ceiling. 'She put a complaint in when I went round to talk and I ended up punching a window. Just frustration.'

'Your wife – ex-wife – ended up in the hospital.'

'She scratched herself on a piece of glass! What has this got to do with anything?'

'Where were you yesterday evening, Mr Peters?'

Frank's question hangs in the air. Peters cocks his head on one side and furrows his brow. 'You're not fucking serious, are you? You think I killed Dean? Maybe I killed Paul and Mads and Nicky! Throw in fucking Gaddafi while you're at it!'

'Mads?' says Harris. 'Is that your pet name for Mrs Peters?'

It's a wild throw of the dice from Harris. There was something about Terry when she'd interviewed him in Birkdale yesterday, something in the way he spoke about Maddy Peters, and maybe the thumb under the bikini strap in the photo, that prompts her to drop a hook in the water. To both her and Keane's astonishment the bait is taken.

Terry Peters looks like a child caught with his hand in the charity collection box.

'We're finished here,' he says, his voice cracking. 'I want to speak to a lawyer.'

'That won't be necessary, Terry. You're just helping us with our enquiries. There's no need for a brief. Not unless you're planning on surprising us again.' Frank stands and walks over to the wall. He puts his back against it and looks at Peters. His voice is soft.

'You were seeing Maddy? How long had it been going on? It's better to tell us, Terry, rather than have us find it out later.'

Peters is shaking his head from side to side, but neither Harris nor Keane thinks it has anything to do with what he's thinking. It's a reflex action, his subconscious denying what all three people in the room now know. He starts crying. Keane and Harris watch in silence. A lot of people cry in here. After a few seconds, Peters starts talking again in a low, halting voice.

'We didn't mean to. It just . . . happened.'

'Did Paul know?'

Terry Peters shakes his head once more. This time it's clear what he means. 'No! We made sure of that. It was all going to stop.' His face creases again. 'My brother! Jesus!' He buries his head in his hands again and sobs.

'What about Nicky? Did he know?'

'Fuck, no!' Peters looks up and wipes his face with his hand. 'I didn't do anything!'

'It doesn't sound good, though, does it, Terry?' says Harris. 'You didn't say anything to me about this when I interviewed you at home, did you?'

'I'd only identified my brother the day before . . . I couldn't think straight about Paul and Mads and Nicky! And I couldn't say anything in front of Alicia.' Terry Peters looks up at Harris. 'How could I?'

'Still, you should have. What we have to decide is why you didn't. Whether it was, as you say, embarrassment at screwing around behind Paul's back – or if there's more.' She fixes Peters with a stare and lowers her voice. 'Is there more, Terry?'

'It's not like that.'

'You still haven't told us where you were.' Frank's following Harris now and keeps his voice at the same low tone. 'If you want us to believe you, you're going to have to give us more than you have so far, Terry.'

Peters makes an effort to calm down.

'What times?'

'We'll come back to Dean Quinner in a moment. Let's take things in order, shall we? Just go through your movements the evening of
the deaths at Burlington Road. Friday evening or the early hours of Saturday morning. You were working late at the location?'

'Yeah, until about twelve. Some of the crew will tell you that. I made a few calls to Ethan as well.'

'And afterwards?'

'Nothing. It was too late to go down to Maxie's, and besides I was knackered. I just drove home. Got there about one. Had a glass of red wine and went to bed.'

'With your wife?' Harris takes care not to place any stress on the word 'wife' but it can't be helped. Peters looks like a whipped dog. He nods. 'Yeah, with Alicia.' Peters turns to Frank. 'Does she have to know anything about this? About me and Mads, I mean?'

'If you're being straight with us about this, it should be OK. We can't promise anything. But if you're messing us about –'

'I'm not!'

'As I said, if you are, then we can't help. If you are cooperating, then maybe it won't come out.'

Frank checks the paperwork in front of him. 'You live just around the corner from your brother, right, Terry?'

'That's right. Sandwell Street.'

'So it'd take you no time to get to your brother's place in Burlington Road.'

'I didn't go!'

'But you did find the bodies, right?'

'You know I did. I called you.'

'Right,' says Frank. He looks at the file. 'Eight-forty on Saturday night and you called in? Was there a reason for that?'

'I do sometimes. Call in, I mean. Just for a drink. Say hello.'

'And if Maddy is alone you might get a quickie.' Harris is brutal.

'No!'

'So that never happened?'

'I'm not saying it never happened. Jesus.' Peters runs a hand over his face. 'I just called round. I wanted to chat. It's been a long week and I like them.'

'Do you think your brother knew about you and Maddy? Did he find you with her, Terry? Is that what happened?'

'Christ, no!' Terry Peters leans forward on the desk. 'Why would I call you if I'd killed them?'

'People do, Mr Peters. They get clever.'

'Well, I didn't. I came in and found them . . . like that.'

'Upstairs?' Harris has her arms folded. Her scorn is palpable.

'I . . . just looked for them. I'd been upstairs before.'

'I bet you had,' says Harris.

Peters shakes his head in disgust but says nothing.

'So you discovered Maddy first?' Frank's looking at his file.

'Yes.'

'But you didn't go in the room?'

'Not once I'd seen it . . . like it was.' Terry Peters' face is stricken. 'I couldn't. I could tell she was dead.'

'You know,' says Harris, her tone reflective, 'if you did kill Maddy your story about an affair is quite convenient, isn't it?'

'How do you mean?'

'The forensics. You admit to sleeping with your sister-in-law. That would explain a lot of things we might find.'

'Well, it is what it is,' says Peters. 'I'm trying to tell you everything.'

'And Paul?' says Harris. 'How did you end up finding him in the garage?'

'After I called the police I wondered if . . . whoever did it was still around, so I looked everywhere. I also wondered where Paul and Nicky were, so I was looking for them too.'

Frank's been quiet for a few minutes. There's something about Terry Peters he can't quite figure. He's come up with a story that to him, a seasoned cop, rings true. He's admitted a few things and owned up to some bad behaviour. But Harris is right about this also being a clever story. Discovering the body and being the lover of the victim – or one of them – gives Peters a lot of wiggle room. Hair samples. Fingerprints. Even semen. All explainable, if not palatable.

But Frank feels there's something they're missing. What that might be, he hasn't the foggiest.

He looks at the man in front of him. He's seen them all through here. Every size, shape, colour and personality. With Peters he just doesn't know.

'Look, Terry. I know you've been through a lot and, to be perfectly honest, your story should be easy enough to check out – and believe me, we will get it checked out – but if you're telling the truth about that, I don't want to waste time digging up useless dirt on you. DI Harris, I suspect, doesn't quite share my belief in you, Terry, so you can be certain she will be thorough. In the meantime, we're investigating the deaths of three people and the disappearance of your nephew and, frankly, I don't give a flying fuck if we step on your toes to get some quick answers. I'm sorry for your loss, and I can only imagine how guilty you must feel about what you and Maddy were up to, but I need you to stop fucking about and start
thinking
. Now, is there anything you can tell us –
anything –
that might help? Let's start with Quinner. Did Dean know Nicky?'