Down Among the Dead Men by Ed Chatterton Page A

about it on the musical instrument front.
    Past the bathroom is the open door of what must be the teenager's bedroom. Frank doesn't stop. Bodies first, rest of the house later. At the top of the stairs the uniform who he'd sent outside earlier is back along with another plod. Both straighten up at his and Harris's approach.
    'What the fuck are you two doing, exactly?' Frank Keane can be an intimidatory presence when required. 'What precise purpose are you fulfilling?'
    The uniforms start blabbering some nonsense.
    'Vamoose, dickheads,' says Frank and they clatter downstairs. Chastened as they are, Frank notices the eyes of both young men sliding towards Harris as they pass.
    He doesn't blame them. Harris is worth looking at and men are, after all, just men.
    Still, it never hurts to remind your basic plod of his lowly position. What's the fucking point of rising up the ladder if you can't occasionally make someone unhappy?
    'Tea!' He shouts the order after them as he and Harris and Cooper head downstairs. 'One sugar. With.' He doesn't really want any tea but it'll give the idle fuckers something to grumble about and make sure they jump that bit quicker when asked next time. A good DCI's rep is established like fossil fuels: layer upon layer over long periods of time.
    From the hall the three MIT officers walk outside. Access to the garage is from the front of the house or via an internal connecting door. Frank wants another look at the outside. In the mild June air, he stops and looks up at the bedroom windows.
    'I've been here before,' he says. 'Years ago. A party.'
    Not a flicker in response.
    'I mean, this exact house. Not just the area.'
    Harris sniffs and Cooper turns diplomatically towards the garage, the entrance of which has been masked off by a tent-like structure.
    Frank, a man not known for his forbearance, suppresses a sharp flare of irritation at his ex-partner. Harris is, on paper at least, Keane's subordinate and, whatever the erotic events of Thursday – not to mention Linda's 'acid' attack – she is still at work. The two of them will have to deal with what's been happening at some point but in the meantime Frank expects Harris to toe the line. He bites back the sharp barb on the tip of his tongue and also decides it's prudent not to mention the image that jumps into his mind on recognising the house. Himself at seventeen, inexpertly fumbling under a pile of coats on the parental bed with a Birkdale girl – Catherine? Sarah? – treating herself to the thrill of one of the bad boys. He has a mental flash of the girl's long blonde hair, of her hand guiding him inside, the smell of shampoo and cigarettes, the thrill of being young and hard and wanted. And her breasts, oh God, her breasts. The thought still gives him a shiver.
    He looks up at the room in which Maddy Peters lies butchered and feels guilty at his trip down mammary lane.
    The house looks the same as he remembers but under the white arcs set up by the SOC officers the solid Victorian appears no moresubstantial than a stage set. Frank gets the impression he could push it over with a decent shove of the shoulder.
    The temporary illusion of insubstantiality aside, the double-fronted detached has the air of a divorcee caught in the glare of nightclub lights at closing time. But a divorcee with a good lawyer. The place is well-heeled without being flash.
    This suburb, the last one before Liverpool is reclaimed by Lancashire in spirit if not according to the county lines, is where the rich live. Restored red-brick Victorian mansions with landscaped gardens and curving gravel drives dotted with Audis and Jags are generously spaced along the leafy, wedge-shaped tangle of roads between the dunes to the west, the train line to the east and the gleaming white art deco Royal Birkdale Golf Club to the south. The village clustered around the train station is dotted with boutique delicatessens and wine merchants and al fresco cafes. From Birkdale, the Northern