The Silent Pool

Purple Ahmed crossed his arms and chewed on his cigar clamped. Erasmus didn't like the body language one bit.

Through gritted teeth Ahmed mumbled, ‘Tell me, you can read, can't you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you can read, you should have read the signs on my front gate. One of them says beware of the dog, well I can see you're aware of the dog now at least. The second sign and this is the important one, that sign, that sign says trespassers enter at their own risk. Now put those signs together and what do you get?’

A witty riposte was only a second away but before it arrived on Erasmus’ tongue he heard the click of a chain being released and the excited bark and movement of a large animal rushing towards him.

‘Dog meat,’ said Purple Ahmed.

Erasmus’ legs were moving before the word ‘run’ had even entered his mind. There was only one way to run and that was towards Ahmed.

Erasmus could hear the sound of the dog grunting and the noise of its claws as they scraped over pieces of metal that littered the ground. He risked a quick look back and there it was: a head the size of a watermelon, but a watermelon filled with razor sharp teeth and black soulless eyes, and all just five yards behind him.

He wasn't going to make it to Ahmed and what to do when he got there? There was only way out and that was up. There, about eight feet up, overhanging the path, providing a link between the two piles of rubbish, was an old exhaust pipe. Erasmus jumped for it. He made the jump and his hands gripped the metal. His fingers grasped the pipe desperate to keep hold on. He risked a look down. The dog was jumping up on its hind legs, jaws snapping back and forth in between its manic barking.

His fingers began to slip, there was engine oil on the pipe. His hands slid off the pole and Erasmus came crashing down on top of the Rottweiller, which splayed out beneath him, winded and defeated. Erasmus rolled off the dog quickly and gave it a sharp punch on the nose. The dog whimpered. Erasmus stood up and added a kick in the dog's ribs for good measure.

The dog got up on unsteady legs and turned tail, its head bowed. It ran back towards the man who had let it off the leash.

‘Princess, are you OK?’ said the man cuddling the dog. Erasmus thought the man may burst into tears such was the level of emotion in his voice.

Erasmus dusted himself down in a satisfied manner and then heard a click and felt cold metal against the back of his head.

‘You want to consider yourself lucky that Mo does not have a gun. He loves Princess, Mr Jones, more than his wife, though, to be truthful, the dog is more attractive. Trespassers are not welcome here and are likely to be shot.’

Erasmus slowly turned his head, the barrel never moving from his flesh until he was facing Ahmed. Purple Ahmed took a step backwards but never lowered the gun. Up close Erasmus could see the purple welts that covered half of Purple Ahmed's face.

‘So why do they call you Purple Ahmed?’ said Erasmus.

Purple Ahmed kicked Erasmus hard in the stomach. Erasmus sank to the ground, gasping for air.

‘You got some mouth on you. I could shoot you down right here as a trespasser. But instead I'm going to let Mohammed here get a little payback for how you treated poor Princess.’

Mohammed walked towards him, pausing only to pick up a heavy looking piece of pipe from the floor. He tested its weight by slapping it back and forth in his palm.

With an ill-judged timing responsible for so many of the ills in Erasmus’ life he heard himself speaking before his brain had time to veto his mouth. ‘Hey Mo, do you squeal like your dog when a man sits on your back?’

Mohammed raised the pipe.

Erasmus’ foot shot forward hard into Mo's left knee and he cried out and staggered backwards. Erasmus leapt to his feet and punched Mo hard in the face. It was like trying to stop a runaway train by blowing on it, Mohammed barely flinched. He felt his arms pinned back as Ahmed grabbed hold of them. Mo moved forward and swung the pipe. Instinctively, Erasmus closed his eyes and waited for the blow to land.

He didn't see the pipe go flying, but he heard Mohammed's yelp of pain.

Purple Ahmed, caught in two minds, moved his gun slightly to face the new, unknown threat. It was all the time Erasmus needed. He dropped his shoulder and swung his elbow fast and hard into Ahmed's throat. He made a deep gurgling noise, dropped the gun, and sank to his knees. Erasmus picked up the gun and pointed it at Ahmed.

Mohammed was rolling around on the floor, hands rubbing his eyes. Standing behind him holding a can of mace was the girl from the coffee shop with the notebook. She had one hand clamped to her mouth in shock.

Erasmus walked over swiftly and kicked Mohammed hard in the ribs. The girl raised the mace and pointed it at Erasmus. He snatched it off her.

‘Wait there,’ he said ‘And thank you.’

Erasmus turned back to Ahmed and helped him up.

‘What do you want?’ asked Ahmed.

‘You see, normal human discourse can be a wonderful thing. We could talk philosophy, economics, football – what do think of the Everton's chances this year? If we just take the guns and attack dogs out of the equation then maybe we could even be friends?’

‘Fuck you,’ said Mohammed, who had started to come round.

Erasmus kicked Mohammed hard between the legs. Mohammed gave a high-pitched yelp and started shaking again.

‘Do you have to do that?’

It was the girl.

‘What?’ said Erasmus.

‘If he doesn't answer do you have to use violence?’

Erasmus considered this for a second.

‘I suppose I could take him to a spa for a treatment, but as none are on the doorstep, violence works, yes.’

‘Your friend is more sensible than you, eh? Come. Let us put this misunderstanding behind us. Ask me your questions,’ said Ahmed.

Erasmus kept the gun pointed at Ahmed. He was breathing heavily and looked pale but his eyes sparked with anger.

‘Well, OK. Now, we are getting somewhere. Did Stephen Francis owe you money?’

‘Stephen. Yes, I remember him. He was a bad one that Stephen. I liked him but he was a chaser and he thought he could catch his losses. Alas, people very rarely do.’

‘How much was he into you for?’

‘This is purely a private matter, yes? If you are recording this conversation then I wish to make it clear that I have a gun pointed at me and I have no involvement with illegal moneylending in any capacity.’

‘I'm not with the police,’ said Erasmus.

‘I'm sure you're not, you have the smell of chaos about you.’

‘Spare me the philosophy. How much did he owe you?’

‘Stephen owed me £50,000.’

‘Are you a Muslim, Ahmed?’ asked Erasmus.

‘Of course,’ said Ahmed.

‘Forgive my ignorance but isn't usury frowned upon?’

‘You are right, Mr Jones, and I would never, in sha’ Allah, be involved in such disgusting practices. I abide by Sharia law even when dealing with the kafirs. I lent your friend Mr Francis £50,000 and charged him an administration charge of £15,000. All very correct, and Sharia compliant, you understand.’

‘Sophistry. Did you kill him because he couldn't pay up?’

Ahmed started laughing, a deep rolling laugh.

‘Did you only mean to warn him? Did Mohammed hit in him one too many times?’ continued Erasmus.

The laughing stopped.

‘I didn't kill him, Mr Jones. If people fail to honour their commitments things can occasionally happen, but Stephen, well he always honoured his debts. I know it was a great relief to him. If he is dead I can assure you it was not my doing’

‘He's gone missing. You say he paid his debt but Stephen works for the council. Where did he get £50,000?’

‘I assure you that I am not. As for the source of his funds, well, that's no secret. His friends were very generous.’

‘What friends?’

‘Two men. They didn't give me their names just cash.’

‘No names? They just paid you cash and you didn't ask any questions? What did they look like?’

Ahmed raised his hands.

‘Cash is my preferred payment method. I can tell you they both wore red T-shirts. Mohammed thought they must be Liverpool fans.’

Erasmus looked down at Mohammed who was still laying on the ground holding his nether regions. He was nodding.

‘If something has happened to Stephen I can assure you I had nothing to do with it,’ said Ahmed, holding out his hands palm upwards.

‘I don't believe you,’ said Erasmus.

‘I do,’ said the girl.

‘What?’

‘It's true. He had nothing to do with it.’

Erasmus grabbed the girl's elbow and began to frogmarch her away from Ahmed.

‘You're coming with me,’ said Erasmus.

‘Let go of my arm and I'll consider it.’

Erasmus started to drag her forward and then thought better of it. ‘Do you promise not to run off?’

The girl raised her right hand and crossed her index and middle fingers. ‘Guides’ honour,’ she said.

‘Come on then, let's get out of here before these two units come to their senses.’

‘You are not a religious man, are you, Mr Jones?’ shouted Ahmed from behind him,

Erasmus shook his head. ‘I've never quite seen the upside.’

‘Then I will pray that religion finds you before it is too late. And, Mr Jones, I look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps things will be a little different when I don't have a gun pointed at my head?’

Mohammed was now in the recovery position, his breathing more regular.

‘Don't count on it,’ said Erasmus.

He gave Mohammed a kick to his side for good measure, sending him back into a prone position. Then he threw the gun far and high into the scrap metal mountain and turned to leave. The girl shook her head.

Outside he pulled her away from the entrance. ‘OK, who are you and why are you following me?’

The girl smiled. ‘Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?’ she asked.

Erasmus grinned at her. ‘Where are my manners? Thank you, thank you very much.’ The smile dropped like an anchor. ‘Now tell me, who the fuck are you?’

The girl reached into her handbag – Erasmus could see the notebook in there that she had at the café – and pulled out a card, which she handed to Erasmus. He read it: Rachel Harrop, journalist, Liverpool Echo.

‘Oh shit. Come on we need to talk,’ he said.

‘You can buy me a coffee. We both know you like coffee, Erasmus.’

‘How do you know my name?’ he asked but she was already walking away from him. Erasmus looked to the sky and then followed.

She led him to a low rent coffee bar off a side street of Smithdown Lane. The café was empty apart from an old woman playing the rather incongruous fruit machine in the corner. Rachel insisted on buying and fetched them two coffees.

As she approached the table Erasmus could see that the cockiness had gone. She looked pale and shaky and the coffee was slopping out of the cracked mugs she carried. Erasmus stood up and took the mugs from her, placing them on the table. He guided her into her chair.

‘Post combat stress. You need sugar and then rest. Hang on.’

Erasmus went to the counter and bought a chocolate bar from the bored looking woman behind the counter.

‘She had a skin full, has she?’ said the woman, laughing so hard that the fat under her arms flapped like an giant bird's wings.

Erasmus ignored her and returned to the table. He broke a chunk of the chocolate bar off and handed it to Rachel. ‘Eat it.’

She half smiled and then took the chocolate and popped it in her mouth. ‘I don't know what happened, I felt fine back there, elated even, and I hate violence.’

‘It's normal. You'll feel better in a minute. If you tell me why you're following me it may take your mind off things.’

‘Ha, I knew it was a ploy you being kind.’ She took a deep breath, composed herself and then looked at him. ‘What do you know about the Bovind Foundation?’

‘I know Bovind is one of the richest men on the planet, his company invented Lightspeed, the family friendly web browser. He's from Liverpool originally, isn't he?’

‘He is but you'd never guess it now. He speaks and looks like an American. But more importantly he has that crazy messianic religious belief of the truly deluded and self righteous.’

‘So you're not a fan. But what does Bovind have to do with me?’

Rachel studied Erasmus carefully. Her glasses and sweater reminded Erasmus of one of the girls from Scooby Do.

‘To my editor Bovind is Liverpool's only hope of staving off the city's bankruptcy. There are rumours the Mayor's office is about to announce a unique funding deal: Liverpool the city as sponsored by Intracom. My editor sees this as the best thing that could happen to the city. They are even running a feature on him this week. The working title's “Liverpool's Messiah”. Trust me my sources are impeccable. Bovind is coming to the rescue tomorrow.’

Colour had returned to her cheeks. Erasmus handed her some more chocolate, which she eagerly accepted.

‘So what's the problem with someone saving the city? My daughter's classes were cancelled yesterday because the city can't pay the teachers. Maybe your editor is right and, by the way, what does this have to do with you following me?’

Rachel nodded slowly. ‘Lightspeed in every classroom means your kid only gets to see what they, Intracom, want her to see. It's the only software that can robustly censor out porn, violence, the dark netherworld of the web that you gravitate to when you're growing up. But it also ranks searches according to their own criteria.’

‘Every search engine does that, even Google, it's how they make money.’

‘The difference is that Intracom do it according to their own secret algorithms. Nobody knows how they work but you just try typing in “evolution” and see what comes up. The top search results are all pseudo-scientific organisations promoting Intelligent Design. Intracom are influencing how knowledge spreads.’

‘Come on, these are conspiracy theories. And anyway they can't influence textbooks.’

Rachel raised an eyebrow. ‘Jeez, do you talk to your kid much lately? Intracom own the publishing houses that publish the standard school book works in Biology, Physics, Maths.’

Erasmus felt a guilty pang. ‘What's this got to do with me?’

‘Kirk Bovind is the biggest fundraiser for the World Evangelical Church.’

‘The Third Wavers. Stephen was a Third Waver,’ said Erasmus.

A look of triumph appeared on Rachel's face.

‘But so what, so are half this city, and a huge proportion of the US and rest of the UK,’ said Erasmus.

‘I'm a junior reporter, yeah. I get to deal with the crazies, the ones who confess to a dozen murders and think that they are Napoleon, yeah. But occasionally in the shit there is a pearl. Stephen was one of those pearls, maybe even my ticket to a national. He rang me two days before he went missing, told me he knew a secret about the Church and Bovind. I was due to meet him but he disappeared. Did you know he was last seen entering the Beatles museum?’

Erasmus shook his head. Seemed like Rachel had had more success than him and Pete.

‘I did some digging, old school journalism, asked around, spoke to a barista who saw him in a Starbucks opposite the council office the day he went missing and then left heading towards the Albert Dock. I went into every shop on the dock and then struck lucky: he went into the Beatles Museum at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday morning! Why would he do that on a work day?’

‘A fan of the Beatles?’

Rachel tutted. ‘The spotty youth who was working the ticket booth remembered Stephen. It was so early in the morning and it was so unusual for him to have two customers at that time of the day?’

‘Two?’

Rachel looked triumphant.

‘Someone came in two minutes after Stephen entered. There's something else as well.’

‘Go on.’

‘He's not the most reliable of witnesses though. He was stoned out of his mind when I talked to him. But he did say he doesn't remember either of them leaving the museum. The exit is the entrance. So where did they go?’

Erasmus didn't know but he was willing to bet there was a service entrance somewhere in the building. As part of his training for 14th Intelligence Company he had had it drilled into to him to look for alternative exits in every building he entered. Even now it was a habit he couldn't break.

‘So why were you following me?’

‘I started following Jenna and she led me to you. I thought you two might be having an affair, maybe you knocked off the competition, but after today I can see we both want the same thing, we both want to find Stephen.’

The mention of Jenna in the context of an affair with him distracted Erasmus for a second. Rachel caught the change in him.

‘Are you?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Having an affair with Jenna Francis.’

‘Of course not,’ said Erasmus, but he had a suspicion that the growing flush on his face was betraying him. Rachel looked delighted that she had hit home.

‘Why did Stephen approach you?’ asked Erasmus, hoping to move the conversation along quickly.

‘I did a fluff piece on Bovind for my editor. It nearly made me puke doing it. It was hardly Woodward and Bernstein you know. All about him being a philanthropist, a man of God, the saviour of the city. I tried to put in some stuff about Lightspeed, refer to the search rankings but my editor was having none of it. Not my finest hour. It went in the paper on a Friday carrying my byline, that same evening I got a call from Stephen. He was emotional, angry at me; he said I didn't know the truth and that Bovind wasn't a saint, but that he was the Devil.’

‘The Devil?’

‘His exact words. He then told me it wasn't safe to talk on the phone and we arranged to meet up. I turned up, he didn't, and next thing his wife has reported him as missing. Suspicious huh?’

She looked up at him.

‘What should we do?’ she said.

‘We? I'm going home for a large drink. I suggest you do the same and make sure you get some sleep.’

‘But what about you, what do you know? You promised me you would tell me?’

She was talking to Erasmus’ back.

CHAPTER 10

Malcolm Ford looked out from his office on the twenty-third floor at the top of Beetham Tower. The floor to ceiling plate-glass windows afforded him a magnificent view of the city at night. He could see the blinking green and red harbour lights at the mouth of the Mersey estuary, and then south towards Perch Rock and the lighthouse that stood by the fort guarding a dock that had silted up many years ago. The Mersey lay in the centre of his view, dark and brooding. From his vantage point, Malcolm Ford felt that the city belonged to him. Far below he could see a pedestrian, probably a drunk staggering home from a bar at this time of night. He was the size of an ant. Malcolm cocked his hand like a gun and shot him as the staggering man made his way home to his tiny life.

Tonight he was a happy man. A deal had been done, bringing his firm a huge amount of income and Malcolm had been the lawyer leading the transaction team. It had been months of work culminating in this last late night session. Malcolm had in equal parts cajoled and rewarded the junior lawyers and accountants to make sure that the documents were signed, the takeover completed.

The client and the nature of their business was unimportant in Malcolm's mind. It had been something to do with a paper merchant, but who cared; it was the deal that mattered. It had been completed at 1 a.m. in a flurry of faxes and congratulatory phone calls. The client had been satisfied and the rest of the team overjoyed that the weeks of overnighters and endless paperwork was over for a short time at least, until the next deal came along.

Malcolm had slapped backs and, even at the end there, made a rather good speech, so he thought, about teamwork and success. He had sent them all home and told them if he saw anyone in before midday on Monday they would be sacked.

Now the office was empty and Malcolm was alone, surrounded by empty pizza boxes, coffee cups and boxes of files. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small crystal topped vial. He poured out a generous line and snorted it in triumph. He poured himself a large Balvenie from the bottle on his desk and then sat back in his chair and soaked up the view from the top of the city.

He considered whether he should go home to Steph and the kids or whether he should use this opportunity to visit Katrina. He checked his watch. Too late to call home and he wouldn't want to wake Steph. Yes, he could tell her the deal completed late on and he had to sleep in his office. It was never too late to call Katrina in her dockland flat and even if she was asleep, so what, he was the client and, as he told his staff, what the client wants the clients always fucking gets. He began to get aroused at the thought of a sleepy Katrina and how maybe she would need a bit of the rough stuff to wake her up. Just the ticket, he thought.

He didn't hear the lift door open and a man step out into the reception area of the Grantham & Lucky Partnership.

Malcolm closed his eyes savouring the peaty taste of the whisky his thoughts skipping ahead to the next hour or so of bliss with Katrina.

‘Hello Malcolm,’ said a voice.

Malcolm swung his chair around.

‘Who said that?’ he shouted with all the Colombian confidence that was buoying up his neuro-receptors.

At the end of the corridor leading to the lift a man appeared. Tall, dark and angular, he wore a black jacket with a hood that covered the top half of his face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

The man said nothing but stood there, silent and still. Malcolm could see the lower right half of his face was exposed, revealing a white scar the sight of which made his guts twist and turn. For a second he thought he recognised the man but no, it was impossible, and he didn't know anybody with such a disfigurement. It wasn't the type of thing you would forget easily.

‘I'm calling security!’ Malcolm picked up the phone: the line was dead. Slowly, he put the receiver down.

‘What do you want, money? I've got money.’

The man moved closer.

‘Well, what do you want? I tell you what you need! You could do with seeing a good dermatologist I see. I have the number of an excellent consultant. He could sort you right out, you know.’

The man said nothing.

Malcolm put his hands behind his head and pushed back his chair. He had been surprised, maybe even a little frightened if the truth be told, but now he was back in charge. It was the natural order of things: winners and losers, and this man, this apparition, he was a loser.

‘You see, you come up here trying to frighten me but what are you going to do? You're just another of life's little losers, Scarface.’

The man dared to come in here, at his moment of triumph and threaten him. Who was he? Some tramp? A wronged client? He was a nobody and he was going to get the full Malcolm Ford treatment. Malcolm was beginning to enjoy this now.

The man was standing a foot away from the front of his desk.

‘People like you are scum. What is it? A heroin habit? Did Mummy not give you enough teat? Did Daddy touch you so now you have to go around taking other people's, successful people's property. Eh, so which is it?’

He remained silent and impassive.

‘So, either tell me what you want or just fuck off!’

‘Do you believe?’

In that moment Malcolm's world disappeared. His house, his cars, his mistress, his kids, all were gone, replaced by a bloody void and a memory buried as deep as a corpse.

From a million miles away Malcolm could hear a voice, monotone and expressionless.

‘Do you believe?’

The scream in Malcolm's throat never made it to his lips because with a movement so quick that he didn't even see where it came from, the man slipped a leather rope around his neck and pulled it tight, cutting off Malcolm's supply of air.