Phil Kurthausen - The Silent Pool

‘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 somebody 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.