The Silent Pool (3 page)

‘Tell her to go to the police.’

‘She has already. He's been gone two weeks. You know what they do, add him to the Missing Persons Register and that's it. You know how many people are on that list? Thousands. Even I was on it once. Grace called the cops when I got stranded at a conference in London.’

Erasmus rolled his eyes. He knew what that meant.

‘He's been suffering from stress, work problems, the usual drill, so he's gone walkabout. If we can help track him down, she will be very grateful.’

‘Other woman, gay, breakdown or dead,’ said Erasmus.

Dan smiled at Erasmus. ‘And you're just the man to find out. I told her I knew the best, someone who was trained in these matters, who had fought in Afghanistan. Come on, you just need to help find a missing person. You tracked al-Qaeda, didn't you? This should be a doddle.’

Dan eyed up the two women for a moment just to let them know he was still interested, and then sipped his drink.

‘I told your boss after the last case that was the end of it.’

‘What was that?’ asked Dan.

‘An assault case.’

‘An assault on what?’

Erasmus knew then that Dan must have heard.

His last case had been digging for dirt on an attendant at the local Blue Planet Aquarium. He'd witnessed Eramus’ client's son, high on meth, stabbing a stingray. But Erasmus had found someone who had sold the witness some marijuana the day before and the case had gone away. Not his proudest moment.

‘I am giving you a beautiful woman who will pay a proper billing rate.’

‘So she's beautiful and rich. Have you tried to bed her? Is your firm going to be facing a harassment suit? Is this what this is all about?’

‘Not at all. If I wasn't married then I may have been tempted but you know me, faithful to the bone.’

‘She turned you down, didn't she?’

Dan laughed.

‘Oh and the part about her being rich, that's not strictly true either. It's her uncle-in-law, he's the rich guy. He has lots and lots of lovely money. He was a direct beneficiary of the war on terror. Before 9/11 he was running a wholesale business for medical supplies. Doing OK, but no Donald Trump. Post 9/11 he found himself with warehouses full of surgical masks, gloves and other stuff that he suddenly realised he could sell online to the public. Throw in a few flu pandemic scares and you have a very successful businessman.’

Erasmus’ drink arrived. He took a sip. Dan shifted in his chair.

‘So she comes to see me last week. Tells me that the day he disappeared he just never showed up for work. He works as a bean counter for the council. She got a call from him early in the morning. Seems he pulled a pervo – calls and then breathes heavily down the line – and she still wants to find him.’

‘And?’

‘That's it. He's been missing ever since. His mobile phone company say his phone is switched off or broken. No trace of him at any of the hospitals or any contact with relatives or friends. The police think he's probably had a breakdown and done a runner. Apparently, he was under a lot of pressure. He worked for the council in the education department and his boss thinks things were getting him down. He was a strike breaker.’

Before he could help it, an ugly word popped into Erasmus’ mind: scab. That's what his father would call a strike breaker. Inherited prejudices were often the hardest to break. He shook his head and tired to dismiss the thought.

Dan cast a glance over to the corner table. The girls had been joined by two men. He groaned.

‘I don't want the case. I saw this happen in the Army: once a shit-kicker, always a shit-kicker. I'm going to have to say no to this one,’ said Erasmus.

Dan had started to slur his words. Not a good sign at midday on a Friday afternoon, thought Erasmus.

‘Did I tell you I mentioned it to the Bean? You know how hard it is to get a training contract these days? Especially for a man of your, ahem, advancing years. Do this favour and you will be looked upon favourably. Does that help your decision?’

Erasmus’ hand went to the empty cigarette pocket. He had sent off nearly fifty letters already trying to get a training contract at a law firm. Without one, the money he had borrowed, the exams he had passed, all of it would have been wasted. And more importantly, one of the final building blocks in the bridge to a new life wouldn't be in place. He thought of Abby and sighed.

‘Why do I feel I have no choice?’

‘Because you haven't, my friend. We never do.’

Out of the corner of his eye Erasmus noticed that the two men were looking over in their direction and one of them was pointing at Dan. The man was in his late thirties, had a huge balding head and was wearing a tight T-shirt that stretched over bulging muscles. Erasmus sighed and out of habit scanned the room quickly for weapons and exits. Dan was oblivious to the mounting danger.

‘I tell you what, I'll meet her, but that's it. I'm not giving up my life on this one.’

‘Excellent. The Bean will be delighted. He really wants the uncle's account. The firm will be grateful for this, you know that.’

Dan pulled out a white card from his suit jacket pocket and handed it to Erasmus.

‘That's her number. Most men would pay good money to get hold of those digits. Trust me on this one, Erasmus, I've just done you the biggest favour of your life.’

He handed the card to Erasmus.

Dan raised his glass in mock toast.

‘
Salut
!’

He downed his drink in one gulp.

‘You sticking around? Going to help me save those damsels in distress?’

Dan turned and winked elaborately at the women.

‘Shit,’ said Erasmus under his breath. He turned and faced the bar, taking hold of his glass of water, and hoped that he was wrong about was about to happen.

It was a forlorn hope.

The two men left their seats and walked right up to Dan, standing deep within his personal space.

The older man stood slightly ahead of the other, younger man. He was clearly the leader. Erasmus noticed both were wearing builders’ boots and had hands like shovels: Dan wouldn't stand a chance.

It was the bigger one who spoke, spittle landing on Dan's face.

‘And what fucking damsels are they, eh? Do you mean my fiancée? Twat.’

Dan, invulnerable with booze, made a mistake.

‘Fuck, those big ears aren't just for balance then?’ He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

The man knocked Dan's arm away making Dan lose his balance and fall from his stool.

In an instant, Erasmus was up and had shoved his glass bottom first into the man's sternum, causing him to double up. Erasmus brought his knee up, cracking the man's nose and then used his right arm to gently lower the unconscious man to the floor.

Erasmus’ eyes never left the second, younger man who now took a step back and began to raise his arms.

‘Help your friend. We're leaving. This is just a misunderstanding yeah.’

‘Yeah, a misunderstanding,’ mumbled the second man. He moved forward and began to help up his friend who had come round and was making whimpering noises.

Erasmus held out his hand to Dan. He took it and let Erasmus pull him up from the floor where he had contentedly watched the action.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Erasmus.

Dan hugged him and started to laugh almost hysterically.

‘Brilliant, that was fantastic. I knew you were the man for the job.’

‘Come on, let's get you in a taxi.’ He slipped out of Dan's embrace and led them away from the bar and up the stairs that crawled up out of the bowels of the Mosquito Lounge.

It was a relief to be in the cool air. Inside the Mosquito Lounge it had been heavy with humidity. Erasmus put it down to the years of sweat, beer and tears that seemed to be ingrained into the place.

He hailed a passing cab and shoved Dan inside. Dan sat back in the cab's rear seat and then sprang forward and rolled down the rear window.

‘Why did your client stab the fish? Was it a revenge attack for Steve Irwin?’

‘No, he told the police it was because he had just found out, and this is a direct quote, “That his bird was preggo”.’

Dan considered this for a second and then nodded in understanding.

‘You gotta love this city. By the way, Jenna Francis is expecting to meet you in Starbucks on Bold Street, in – ’ he checked his wristwatch ‘ – twenty minutes. She looks like Nicole Kidman, you can't miss her!’ And then he banged the driver's seat with his hand and the cab pulled away.

Erasmus instinctively searched for his cigarettes and then, for the thousandth time in the last four weeks, found himself remembering his promised Abby he'd quit. He had broken many promises over the last couple of years but there was no way he would break a promise to a six-year-old girl who also happened to be the most precious thing in his life.

CHAPTER 2

Mayor Lynch reached for the plastic pillbox in his jacket pocket. For a second he panicked as his hand failed to locate the box but then he remembered that he had left the dispenser in his desk drawer.

He opened the drawer and was rewarded with the sight of the opaque, light green pillbox. He eagerly popped a pill from the container, swallowing it before he realised he had no water to wash it down with.

The Mayor's aide, Anthony Torpenhow, watched the familiar scene. His face betrayed no emotion as he passed the Mayor the half empty can of Diet Coke he had been drinking.

The Mayor greedily accepted the can and flushed the pill down his throat, visibly relaxing long before the pill could dissolve and have any effect.

‘Ah. Thanks, Tony. I really don't know what I'd do without you.’

The two sat for a moment in silence.

The Mayor had noticed these silences growing in length in the last six months, as the depth and seeming impossibility of the financial crisis affecting the city hung over them like a hungry dog waiting to feed. He also blamed the oppressive atmosphere of the office that came with the Mayor's position, so different from the vibrant campaign offices in Bold Street surrounded by bars, bistros and the younger, more diverse population of that area. In this part of town, at the top of Castle Street, the streets were dark and silent after six o'clock and the gloom that descended on them seemed to pervade the town hall.

The office was lined with dark oak panelling and furnished with oil paintings of Liverpool maritime scenes and Victorian merchants. In places there were pale patches of oak surrounding newer photographs of the Mayor with visiting dignitaries and local football and reality TV stars. The placing of the photographs had been the Mayor's first executive decision: replacing oil paintings that depicted aspects and notable personages of Liverpool's commercial history as a major port in the slave trade. His actions had echoed his campaign slogan: A break from the past!

It was Anthony who usually broke the silence. Sometimes, he thought that if he did not speak the Mayor would be happy to sit in silence for the rest of his term in office.

However, on this occasion, it was the Mayor who spoke first.

‘I was thinking about how we won the election. Do you remember it?’

‘I do indeed, Mr Mayor. It was history in the making, the first Liberal elected mayor of Liverpool, the first in the country. Your speech was very special.’ He didn't need to add that he had written it.

‘Remember what I said?’

‘How could I forget?’ said Anthony.

The Mayor didn't pick up, or chose to ignore, Anthony's tone.

‘I talked about Churchill uniting the country in adversity, of this city's proud past fighting the fascists and how we would stand together, shoulder to shoulder, to face this new challenge, to build a modern, tech-based city, modern but with values, to come together in a noble purpose.’

There might have been tears welling in the Mayor's eyes. Anthony's were dry and unblinking.

‘And how the best party for the job was the Liberals and I the best man. We made it a matter of principal, party politics goes in the dustbin when the barbarians are at the gates. And the city came together in a common purpose, to save Liverpool.’

‘Great days indeed, Mr Mayor.’

The Mayor looked up as though only just realising that Anthony was present. The Mayor scratched behind his right ear, a trait that Anthony had come to treat as a warning.

‘And now we know why the Labour fuckers didn't put up a fight! They knew it was a poisoned chalice didn't they, Anthony, eh! We, you, should have seen this coming. The fucking city is bankrupt. We are the fucking hangover after the party. Crash, bang fucking wallop, eh! 2013 we haven't got fifty pence for the meter, 2014 we are going to end up a Third-World city.’

‘It's developing nation, Mr Mayor.’

The Mayor looked confused. ‘Eh?’

‘It's not “Third World” any more, that is considered an insensitive Western expression. We say “developing nation” now.’

The Mayor waved his hand in the air and looked at Anthony in disgust. He ignored the interruption.

‘I've got Craig, the snivelling little cockney twat, demanding that I don't screw up the first real chance to show that we can govern on our own but he hasn't got any cash to give me, has he? No, just wise fucking words!’

The Mayor swept his arm across a pile of blue folders that covered his desk, the folders and the paperweight went flying onto the parquet floor. He slumped back into his chair.

‘We are well and truly fucked. The city is bankrupt. Unless your Oxbridge educated arse can pluck a rabbit out of a fucking hat!’

Anthony got up from his chair and slowly picked up the folders and placed them back on the Mayor's desk. He picked up the paperweight weighing its heft in his hand before gently placing it on the desk. He took out a Mulberry wallet from his inside jacket pocket and removed a white business card embossed with grey lettering from its folds. He handed it to the Mayor.

‘May I present to you, Bugs Bunny.’

The Mayor looked at the card.

‘Have we really come to this?’ he asked.

‘It's this or the city goes under.’

The Mayor felt something twist in his stomach. Maybe it was the pill lodging in his bowel, causing an internal bleed, a contraction that would be the first step on an organic breakdown that would lead to a total system failure.