The Silent Pool Read online

  ‘And supposing that everything you say is right that the central funds are not forthcoming, that the unions agree, when would this all happen?’ asked the Mayor.

  Bovind grinned. ‘Immediately. Half your schools are shut now because of strikes. I will arrange for the Foundation to provide full training and materials to all science teachers and the funds will start to flow. You will have a school system that works and funds freed to clear the streets of rubbish. It will be a great deal for the city and for the Bovind Foundation. Faith can be like a tsunami. This world senses it needs salvation. You can ride that wave, Richard, or try and hold it back.’

  Anthony was squirming in his chair like an eager child wanting a parent's attention.

  ‘After Liverpool, Mr Bovind plans to role this programme out across the country. People will be demanding it once they see the success in Liverpool. It will give us the Christian vote and it'll give us a national platform. No one has done this yet. We could have the Christian votes all to ourselves!’

  Yes, the Mayor could see that if the plan were a success then he would be the man who saved the city from bankruptcy and revitalised its school system. Most people did believe in something, didn't they? Really, in the end, what was the harm of teaching an alternative version of the origins of life? Maybe it was even true. No, he couldn't believe that. As a life long rationalist he could no more believe in a divine creator than Father Christmas but who was he to judge, after all?

  ‘Anthony, I want you to ring the minister for local Government and get an update on those funds and then I want Ted Coyne on the phone, see what his members think of this. I'm making no promises though.’

  ‘I'm on it right now,’ said Anthony, taking out his ever-present BlackBerry® and clamping it under his jaw as he walked out of the room to make the calls.

  The Mayor turned back to Bovind.

  ‘Tell me. There's something I don't understand though. You will be spending millions and will get next to nothing in return save maybe a street named after you. What's it in it for you?’

  Bovind's smile disappeared. He let go of the Mayor's hands. For a moment he was silent and then he began to speak softly. ‘I grew up in this city. For better or worse it made me and then I left. I prayed to leave this city and God answered my prayers and more. He made me richer than Croseus but it was for a purpose. I want to save souls, Richard, and one thing life has taught me is that you need to save souls before they become fully formed and corrupted. A child's soul is the purest form of God's love but it turns black quickly and I intend to capture as many as possible so that when the Rapture comes the streets of this city are empty of God's children.’

  Mad as a box of frogs, thought the Mayor.

  From the chair next to the Mayor's came a low, rumbling noise. It took the Mayor a second to reconcile the fact that it was a man's voice, the Pastor's.

  ‘“He who hath no soul I will blot out his name from the book of life.”’

  The Pastor was looking at him. His pale grey eyes held the Mayor's gaze until he was forced to look away.

  ‘Revelations,’ said the Pastor.

  The Mayor was lost for words.

  Anthony was talking in low tones in the corner of the room.

  ‘You save the city, I save the souls,’ said Bovind. ‘A deal made in Heaven!’

  Anthony finished his call.

  ‘Well?’ said the Mayor.

  ‘Ted Coyne said the union is on board, his exact words were, “If you pay his members you can teach the kids that the Flintstones is a fucking documentary.”’

  Bovind's hand was extended.

  ‘Do we have a deal, Richard?’

  Reluctantly the Mayor extended his hand.

  CHAPTER 7

  The lonely evening stretched out ahead of Erasmus. He fumbled with his iPod deck, selected some early The Fall and contemplated how he could fill his time. As Mark E. Smith's, grimy laconic voice filled the room he came up with two choices: drink and read or drink and watch the TV. He decided to call Pete instead, postpone the inevitable.

  Erasmus had met him at a wine tasting evening the firm held for its clients. He had always hated those sorts of occasions and only attended as the Bean thought them marvelous opportunities to network. Work masquerading as a social event should, in Erasmus’ opinion, be added as the eighth circle of Hell but he had been eager to please and grateful for the job given his immediate references. Erasmus had attended but had occupied himself by skulking at the back of the room, drinking wine and eating as much as possible in order not to have become engaged in small talk.

  He had met Pete at the buffet table where he was adopting the same technique: drink, eat and avoid small talk. They had eyed each other cautiously at first, each jealous of their own space at the back of the room and threatened by an interloper who may drag them into conversations about house prices, schools, work or any of the other of the chitchat that usually accompanied such networking events.

  Pete had spoken first, asking Erasmus whether he had been in the Army. He had shouted the question. Erasmus, busy chewing a vol-au-vent, had nodded and then Pete had yelled that it was obvious to him because that he still stood like he had a Sergeant Major's boot halfway up his arse.

  Pete had followed this by suggesting that they get out of there and go for a proper drink at the Grapes. Erasmus had agreed if only to get Pete out of there. Everyone else could hear Pete's views on the party and the Bean had looked disapprovingly at Erasmus as though he were guilty by proximity to the loud, brash guest who nobody owned up to inviting.

  He found out that night that Pete had been at the event because he had swept the premises for bugs on behalf of one of the firm's clients, a young South African business man who had set up a string of private alternative health HIV clinics and who was looking to open up clinics in Liverpool and Manchester. He had hung around purely to get access to the buffet and he confided in Erasmus that he ate this way two to three times a week.

  ‘I live off samosas and tiny wraps of mayonnaise,’ he shouted between mouthfuls of an egg sandwich.

  The shouting was, Erasmus later learned, as a result of Pete's previous career as a pathfinder in the Parachute Regiment. He had been honorably discharged after he lost 75% of his hearing when an IED exploded ten feet away from him in a compound in Helmand Province. As he got to know Pete, Erasmus began to suspect that he had always been loud. It went too well with his personality to be purely the result of an injury.

  They had been the last to leave the Grapes that night, drunk and laughing. Pete had given Erasmus his card.

  ‘Pete Cross, Security Consultant?’

  ‘I know this city. You can never know this place as a true Scouser can, though you may think you can. I was born in Two Dogs Fighting, what about you?’

  Erasmus replied. ‘Witney.’ When he received a blank stare he had added, ‘Oxfordshire.’ He had later discovered from a laughing Dan that Two Dogs Fighting was the local name for the district of Huyton, one of the city's tough outer estates.

  Pete had smiled his lopsided smile. ‘If you need any help, which you will in this city, call me.’

  Erasmus had needed help. He had used Pete on several occasions since then for witness location, serving summons and obtaining information in ways Erasmus had no access: Pete knew the city and its people.

  He called Pete on his mobile. He knew that somewhere in the city a mobile phone would be ringing and his assigned tone was the theme from Minder. Pete's little joke.

  Pete was where he always was when not at work or sleeping. In the Grapes, swapping stories with the other regulars.

  ‘Raz. How you doing?’ As usual Pete was bellowing. ‘I'm in the Grapes, come down for a pint.’

  In the background Erasmus could hear the sounds of the pub: laughing, music and what sounded like tiny foot steps.

  ‘I would love to but listen I need a favour.’

  ‘Plus ca change,’ said Pete.

  Erasmus told Pete he was looking for some
body and gave him Stephen's name.

  ‘OK, no problem. I'll make a call, check some things out. Sure I can't tempt you down here?’

  Erasmus demurred. There was a cheer and then inexplicably some squawking from what sounded like a bird.

  ‘Gotta go. Blind Bob's brought his parrot in. You are missing out,’ said Pete.

  Pete's techs skills were second to none. Any digital information on Stephen Francis would be Erasmus’ by the morning.

  Erasmus reached for the packet of cigarettes, found they weren't there and then, disappointed, sank back into the sofa's embrace. The apartment's sole redeeming feature was the view from the floor to ceiling French windows out across the Mersey. From here Erasmus could see almost to the mouth of the river and the bright lights of the Seaforth container terminal in Crosby. Tonight the river was swollen and frothing and the bruised night sky hung over it as a storm battered its way west.

  Erasmus opened a kitchen cupboard and took out a new bottle of Yamizaki, single malt. He poured himself a large glass and collapsed into the sofa. Mark E Smith was grumbling something about there being a ghost in his house. Erasmus hit the remote and the TV sprang to life: General Election coverage. It was looking like a landslide for the woman. He sank his scotch and poured another three fingers into the glass, drinking that immediately after the first. He was asleep within minutes.

  Always the same dream. Blood. A child's pale face, kohl-coloured eyes and a machete slicing. Slicing the child's limbs, which fell like timber to the dark earth. And then the child was Abby, then blood, flesh and finally soil. Soil being poured over Erasmus’ face, lodging in his nose, coursing down his throat, blocking his airways, causing him to choke, to die.

  He woke with a spluttering cough and realised he couldn't breathe, panic overwhelming his senses. A weight pressed against his chest he knew he was dying. Then the weight purred and flicked its tail away from Erasmus’ mouth.

  Fucking Midori. A Siamese cat, a present from Abby – read Miranda – on his last birthday, given to him with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, ‘You need to look after something to keep you sane.’ The little shitbag had nearly killed him. Erasmus pushed Midori off his chest and stumbled to bed.

  He slept fitfully but was still out of the apartment by seven o'clock for his morning run. He needed to clear his head so he ran hard and fast. It was just too easy to lose his routine when he was the only person to look after. He knew from experience that once you lost discipline over the small things it could have disastrous, even fatal consequences.

  His route took him across town, up Toxteth's Parliament Street with its once elegant Victorian mansions and Edwardian grass promenade and on into Sefton Park. It was a crisp, November day, sunshine and sharp breaths. Rain from the previous night's storm lay in dark puddles which he had to run round as he progressed through the park. His heavy head began to lighten.

  The light was that particular diamond hard light peculiar to late autumn. Erasmus thought it was going to be a beautiful day. As the sweat began to pour he felt like the poison was seeping out of him, the night's terrors being purged. Maybe tonight they wouldn't return. He ran on.

  When he arrived back at Atlantic Heights there was a text message waiting for him on his iPhone. Pete wanted to meet up at Keith's that afternoon. According to the text he had ‘the scoop on Stephen Francis’.

  CHAPTER 8

  Pete was sitting at his usual table at the back, facing the door and large windows that fronted onto Lark Lane, a leafy bohemian street populated by galleries, restaurants and bistros that occupied the decayed grand old buildings in this part of town. He was pretending to read the wine list as Erasmus walked into the bar. Erasmus knew he knew it off by heart. Pete was dressed as usual: immaculate in his Mod uniform of two button suit, wingtip collars and Italian loafers.

  He waved Erasmus over.

  ‘Good night last night?’ asked Erasmus. Pete turned his head slightly to the left so his better ear could hear Erasmus more clearly.

  ‘It hasn't ended yet. Lock in at the Grapes, back to my laptop, and then lunch here,’ said Pete with a smile.

  Erasmus never ceased to be surprised by Pete's ability to look and sound perfectly healthy despite his almost superhuman appetites.

  ‘You are a functioning alcoholic, you do realise that, don't you?’

  ‘I work better after a few looseners, clears the old synaptic pathways. That's why I've taken the liberty of ordering a good bottle for lunch.’

  As if on cue an attractive waitress arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed them on the table before them. Pete smiled at her and watched her depart with a lingering look.

  ‘I can see why you like it here,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘The wine list, it's all about the wine list.’

  ‘You eating?’ asked Erasmus.

  Pete shook his head.

  Apart from the first time they had met, when Erasmus had caught Pete filling his pockets with vol-au-vents and samosas, Erasmus had never seen him eat anything in public.

  ‘I had a pie at the Grapes,’ he explained to Erasmus.

  ‘Ah, a pie, of course. Breakfast of champions,’ said Erasmus. Pete didn't seem to hear him although Erasmus suspected that this might be selective deafness on this occasion.

  ‘Where was I? Oh yeah, synaptic pathways. Take your man, Stephen Francis. I checked the National Criminal Database: no convictions save for a speeding offence ten years back, no county court judgements so no debt problem or so I think. So I check Equifax, nothing save for the Francis’ credit card with £500 outstanding, and Mrs Francis’ charge cards, nothing special. And then I spill a glass of red, look.’

  Pete pulled out a sheath of papers from the canvas bag and waved them in front of Erasmus. He could see that half of them were covered in a dark red stain.

  ‘So, I spill my wine and as I'm separating the papers and I see an old Equifax report showing that twelve months ago old Mr Francis was £50,000 in debt and had been growing that debt for some time – credit cards and loans – and then bang, twelve months ago all paid off: problem solved.’

  Erasmus saw where Pete was going.

  ‘Where did he get the money?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘Well, either he got lucky and one of his bets came in big time or he did what everyone does when the wolves are at the door.’

  ‘He borrowed it? A bank loan?’

  ‘Yeah right, you know how hard it is to get credit at those levels these days and on his income, not a chance. No, think more traditional methods of finance.’

  ‘Loan sharks,’ said Erasmus.

  Pete beamed triumphantly and put his finger to his nose. ‘Right on the money. And the biggest loan shark in this city is Purple Ahmed. I took the liberty of calling him – got through to one of his minions – he didn't put the phone down when I asked if they knew Stephen Francis, he asked who was speaking. A definite giveaway.’

  ‘Of course, that's the only conclusion, is that some sort of Scouse Jedi thing?’

  ‘Yes, you wouldn't understand being a southerner,’ said a deadpan Pete.

  Erasmus wasn't one-hundred percent sure whether Pete was joking or not.

  ‘And Purple Ahmed?’

  ‘You'll see.’

  Pete wrote down an address on a napkin and handed it to Erasmus.

  ‘Is Ahmed the type of man to use violence if someone hasn't paid their debts?’ said Erasmus.

  At this Pete laughed and nodded. ‘It's rumoured the Mersey is full of people who fit that description. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Pay him a visit and there's no time like the present.’

  Erasmus pulled five twenties from his wallet and pushed them across the table to Pete. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Are you sure you won't stay and help me drink this fine Nobile?’

  Erasmus shook his head.

  Pete took the money and took a sip of his wine.

  ‘Shame you're missing out. And Erasmus?’

>   ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Be careful.’

  CHAPTER 9

  It didn't take him long to find Purple Ahmed's place. The address Pete had given him was on Smithdown Road, the main arterial route through the south of the city. The decaying Victorian red brick terraced houses that lined the road were regularly interspersed with churches, new and old, reflective of the city's religious past and vigorous present. New denominations that had spread like viruses from the US and Asia dominated, their steel and glass churches the only modern buildings other than the occasional petrol station. Their neon signs sold sin and salvation.

  Just before the lines of terraced housing turned into the grander Georgian townhouses and the leafy avenues of the Allerton and Mossley Hill suburbs stood Purple Ahmed's scrap merchants like some rusted border crossing post. Huge piles of orange metal towered above the street from a large plot fenced in by a tall steel fence that bore the legend, ‘Ahmed's: Metals Bought and Sold’. To Erasmus’ eyes the scrap yard looked like the resting place of some giant rusting dinosaur. He parked up directly outside of the main gate.

  The gate to the yard was closed but unlocked. There were two signs on the front of the gate, one stated trespassers entered at their own risk and the second was just a picture of a dog's snarling jaws. Erasmus felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't like dogs.

  When he was seven years old he was bitten by a neighbour's Border collie. Not a bad bite but it had drawn blood and he had to pass that dog every day on the way to school. His neighbour, Mr Whitmore, had no job, bad skin and had refused when politely asked by Erasmus’ father to keep the dog tethered. Instead it ran around the front garden snarling and drooling and Erasmus had had to walk a different, longer route to school until a week later the dog disappeared upon the same day that Mr Whitmore nose was mysteriously broken. Erasmus’ father was the type of man who only asked politely once.

  He pushed open the corrugated iron gate and entered the yard. There was no sign of life. In every direction there were piles of twisted, broken metal that had once been washing machines, cars, radiators, bicycles. The piles were separated by small gaps of perhaps two metres, enough room for a fork lift truck, supposed Erasmus, and these gaps formed paths through the towering junk. One of these paths was directly opposite the front gate and at the end of it stood an old decrepit caravan. It was the only structure that looked like anything resembling an office. An old tattered orange armchair sat in front of the caravan.