Frank does his best to make his smile sincere. He thinks he may have brought it off. Just so long as the twat doesn't start talking about football. Time slows to a comatose crawl as the lift doors remain closed.
'Big match on Wednesday.'
Shit
.
'Thursday, I think it is, sir.'
'Oh yes, of course. More of a rugby fan myself. Still, I do try to get down to Anfield when I can. Cheer on the mighty Reds.'
The doors slide open, preventing Frank from having to respond. Searle's a foreigner. From London. Speaks like a southern rugger-bugger and compensates with this working-class football guff as if the locals can't communicate any other way. The fact that the superintendent is largely right about that isn't going to interfere with Frank's prejudice.
This promotion caper is going to take some getting used to. How the fuck did Koop cope with this stuff?
Pete Moreleigh's in the lift. He moves to one side as they step in. The same age as Frank, but smoother, and better-dressed, he's risen faster in the administration and is only one peg down from Searle. A good copper, once upon a time. Now he runs the Media Unit and acts like he works at the BBC.
'Superintendent,' says Moreleigh and nods to Frank, his eyes skating back to Searle almost immediately.
'Pete.' Searle makes a show of looking at his watch. 'We still good for the two o'clock DMG?'
'We'd better be.' Moreleigh grins. 'A lot to get through after the balls-up from QE and the rest of the worker bees.' He is also carrying a blue folder and glances down at it as he speaks.
Frank wishes he had a little blue folder. Just to be in the club. He has no fucking clue what a DMG or a QE are and neither Searle or Moreleigh offers an explanation. Frank gets the meaning, though, loud and clear: you're in our world now.
'No rest for the wicked, Pete.'
'Amen, Brother Searle,' says Moreleigh and Frank represses the urge to stick two fingers down his own throat. Or Moreleigh's.
That 'brother' thing is interesting, though. Shades of the old masonics? As a Catholic, on paper at least, and therefore outside the circle of secrecy, Frank's always been aware of the plums that fall to the Brothers on Merseyside.
Searle beams down from his full height. Frank half-smiles back and looks at his shoes. 'We've been getting some calls,' says Searle
as the doors open onto the carpeted hush of the fifth floor and Moreleigh heads off in the opposite direction carrying his folder and an insufferable air of having business to attend to.
The place
smells
powerful somehow. How do they do that? Has Tesco's got it in the household fragrance section? Pine Fresh, Sandalwood Forest, Power Trip.
'Calls?'
Searle turns into his office and smiles at a good-looking woman behind a desk.
'Can you get myself and DCI Keane some coffee, Denise?' Denise turns enquiringly towards Frank.
'White with one, please.'
Denise doesn't need to ask Searle's preferences.
Inside the inner sanctum Searle proffers a hand at the seat facing his desk. Frank, an obedient dog, sits.
'Wife, kids, OK, Frank?'
'No kids, sir. Julie's fine.' Frank doesn't make any reference to the split and wonders if Searle's asking him just to gauge his subordinate's openness. Or lack of.
'My mistake.' Searle doesn't look like he's too concerned. 'So, the murders in Birkdale. What's been happening?'
Frank quickly and precisely fills Searle in on what he and his team have been doing since the bodies were found on Saturday night. Searle asks a couple of sharp questions but seems happy with the direction Frank's unit is taking. It's clear to Frank that getting background on the case isn't why Charlie Searle has hauled him up to the fifth floor.
'You mentioned something about calls?'
Searle adjusts the blue folders on his desk and leans back, his arms crossed. He lets a bit of a silence develop.
Jesus, thinks Frank. Do they go on a course to learn this stuff?
Eventually, when Searle judges he's left enough time to impress upon Frank how important he is, Searle begins talking again.
Frank can hardly bear to listen but he lets the noises drift past. Amidst all the greasy polly flim-flam and corporate lingo, Frank gleans that Superintendent Charlie Searle has a looming press problem he's anxious to pass on to Frank like a ticking parcel.
'It's your dentist thing,' says Searle. 'My office has been getting calls from a few journos. Nothing we can't handle, naturally, but, with you being a new boy, I thought I'd better give you a heads-up in case they come your way. It could get nasty.'
'Already? Jesus.' Frank can't believe it. 'The bodies aren't even cold.'
'Well, this is my concern, Frank. You may have a few blabbermouths on your team.'
Frank lets it go. It's not worth getting into a shit fight. Searle and he both know that big crime scenes are about as easy to keep contained as water in a sieve. Too many people, too many ways for the information to get out there. Rose tells him there's a Facebook memorial page already.
'I'm not sure I understand the extra interest, sir. We haven't done the autopsies yet. And the local press usually aren't too much of a problem. How do you mean, it could get nasty?'
Denise comes back with the coffee.
Searle sips with relish. 'Marvellous,' he says as Denise closes the door behind her. He puts his cup down and fixes Frank with a stern expression. 'The thing is, Frank, these journalists aren't locals. All the tabloids have called already. You know what these bastards are like.' Searle actually shivers. 'Pack of hyenas, all of 'em.'
'Am I missing something?'
All warmth has gone from Searle's face now and Frank can feel the copper behind the bureaucrat, the steel beneath the surface. 'It's the boy, Frank.'
Keane nods. 'What about him? Is there a problem?'
'You could say that. It might turn out to be nothing, in which case there's no problem. On the other hand, if I'm catching their drift, and the situation isn't handled delicately, it could turn into a big fucking A-grade problem.' Searle smiles and fixes Frank with his blue eyes. 'And I'm happy to say that it will be your big fucking A-grade problem, DCI Keane. I have no intention of seeing my name up in lights on this one.'
'I'll bear that in mind, sir. What, exactly, is the nature of this problem?'
Searle frowns and, instead of an answer, asks a question. 'Have
you spoken to the uncle yet? The one working on the film? Or anyone else on the production team?'
Christ, Searle might be a pen-pusher but there's no arguing with his grasp. Frank makes a mental note to check on the chain of command at MIT. Someone was going direct. Frank and MIT weren't prioritising talking to the film company yet. Searle knew that. The order of the investigation is not a misstep by Frank: the kid's friends and family members are the obvious first points of contact but Searle's interest means that Frank would be wise to take note.
'DS Cooper will be speaking to him today, I'm sure. And I'll make sure she'll be speaking to the production company too. Get the lie of the land. With the murders looking like a domestic – at least initially – the fact that the boy is earning some holiday money running errands working with his uncle wasn't our priority, not with the resources we have.'
Frank makes a mental note to speak to Cooper as soon as he's left. The movie hadn't been high on his list of priorities. Until now.
'Yes, well, resourcing is always an issue, Frank.'
Searle takes another sip and Frank realises that they're approaching the nub of this conversation.
'You know much about the movie business, Frank?'
'It's full of dickheads?'
'You see, that's really why I've brought you in this morning. You really need to sharpen up your diplomatic skills, Frank. There are more films shot in Liverpool than any other city in the UK. Did you know that?'
Frank shakes his head.
'And it generates a lot of cash and jobs. The CC is particularly proud of our relationship with the film industry, Frank. When you're doing your investigation into the missing boy I suggest that we do as much as we can to avoid getting in the way of the film's progress.'
Frank has to think for a moment before he speaks. 'You're saying we should go easy on the uncle?'
'Not at all, DCI Keane. But the last thing we need is their schedule interfered with unnecessarily. These journos? They're sniffing around for more than the usual blood and sex story. So far
the only connection between the film and the murders is the uncle – but it's the production company they're interested in.'
Frank shifts in his seat. He's beginning to feel like a lazy schoolboy. He can't see why the journalists would be interested but it's clear that Searle knows something. Searle's got more background on this case, on his case, than he does himself. It's not a good feeling.
'This production company . . .' Searle opens the file in front of him and flicks a few sheets over. 'Hungry Head. They're part-owned by a name. A celebrity.'
'And the tabloids want to link the murders to the movie so they can bring in the celebrity.'
'Precisely.' Searle closes the blue file and smiles. He lifts his cup and takes a sip. 'Tread lightly, Frank.'
Twenty-Two
After the meeting with Charlie Searle, Frank gets into the Golf and heads for the MIT office in Stanley Road. As always, leaving Canning Place in his rear-view mirror feels good and Frank resolves to get the desk moved permanently as soon as he can. He calls from the car and talks to Cooper about interviewing the movie people.
At Stanley Road he pulls into his spot and heads upstairs. The place is surprisingly empty and all of the officers are on phone calls when Frank walks in. He waves to Caddick, Rose and the others and opens the door to his temporary office.
On his desk is a plate of fish and chips.
Standing next to it is a bucket overflowing with plastic sachets of malt vinegar.
From the MIT office comes a gale of laughter.
Frank walks around to his side of the desk and puts an exploratory finger on a chip. They're warm. Frank takes a sachet of vinegar and rips it open. He sprinkles the contents over the plate and takes a chip. Munching happily he picks up the plate and walks back into the main office and stands in front of the crime wall.
'Very amusing.'
Frank puts the plate down on an adjacent desk. 'Anyone like a chip?'
As the MIT crew gather round somewhat tentatively – Frank not being someone that practical jokes are played on with any great regularity – there seems to be a tacit understanding that the plate of fish and chips marks the beginning and end of any discussion of the vinegar incident. Frank has no doubt it will be endlessly discussed and replayed over the coming months – and he still has to deal with the serious fallout with Em, and perhaps with Searle, should he
choose to exercise a bit of disciplinary muscle – but here, at MIT, the matter is closed.
With everyone assembled, Frank passes along Charlie Searle's concerns about the press. Although there isn't a table big enough for everyone to fit around, they make do with pushing a couple of the desks together. Those without chair space lean against adjacent cabinets.
'Hollywood?' says Theresa Cooper.
'According to Superintendent Searle.' Unlike some other coppers Frank has worked with, he seldom refers to senior officers by anything other than their full rank and name if there are juniors in the room. It doesn't sit right with him to do otherwise. Charlie Searle might be a bit of a pole-climbing rugger-bugger but, as far as Frank is concerned, that's immaterial.
Cooper makes an encouraging gesture for him to keep talking.
'Oh, details,' says Frank, 'right.' He smiles. 'It seems that the Birkdale case has attracted interest from the tabloids.'
Em Harris sits up a little straighter. 'Already?'
'Already.
The Sun
, the
Mail
, a couple of others have been sniffing round. Searle's been batting them away since daybreak.'
'We haven't even done the autopsies!' Cooper checks her watch automatically. She's due at the morgue at twelve. 'Fuck me.'
'It's quick for a reason. The missing boy – Nicky – is a film nut. He's working, or was working, on a movie.'
'The Tunnels,'
says Scott Corner.
Frank glances at the lanky DC. 'What?'
'That's the name of the film.
The Tunnels.'
For a moment Frank wonders if Corner's the link to Searle. If so, that will have to be stopped. Or, reflects Frank, perhaps I'm a suspicious twat and he's just a movie fan. Frank bends his head and kneads the top of his skull in a futile effort to spark some life back into his brain. Looking down he sees that one of his shoelaces is undone and for some reason this depresses him.
He looks up and sees Harris staring at him. And I need to stop fucking other officers, he thinks. Frank is conscious that the rest of the team are waiting for him to speak. He blinks and comes back to Scott Corner.
'It turns out that this movie is partly funded by a company which
is owned by a celebrity.' Frank mentions a name. Someone lets out a low whistle.
'And that information stays inside, is that clear? If the journalists dig around it won't be because we've given them any encouragement.'
'But the boy isn't connected directly?' Cooper frowns.
'That's not the point, Theresa. The reason Superintendent Searle's got his dander up is that any connection, no matter how slight, means that this case is bigger news for the red tops. Celebrity plus murder equals sales.'
Frank pauses. 'And they're leaning towards Nicky being the killer.'
He leans back and folds his arms while everyone absorbs the information. He looks at Theresa Cooper.
'They can't do that,' she says. 'Can they?'
Harris glances up from her files. 'They can do whatever they like, Theresa. The question is, how are we going to handle it?'
Frank gets up and wanders across to the crime wall, still in its early days, almost empty. The wall isn't needed but Frank likes it and he thinks the rest of the team do too. It makes them feel they're in a cop show instead of working in an office, which is something, he supposes. He taps the photo of Nicky Peters.