The Silent Pool

by Phil Kurthausen

  The Mayor got up and switched off the television.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Anthony.

  The Mayor pulled out a small white tub, removed its top and then knocked back an uncertain number of pills like he was downing a pint of beer.

  ‘We need to cancel that march, there will be chaos, Bovind's Third Wave cathedral is at one end of Hope Street and you know how passionate those Third Wavers can be. Get me Chief Constable Mulholland!’

  Anthony picked up the phone and spoke to Andrea. A few seconds later the phone rang. It was Andrea again.

  ‘I have Mr Bovind holding for the Mayor?’

  ‘It's for you,’ said Anthony as he handed the phone to the Mayor. ‘Bovind.’

  The Mayor's face collapsed like melting plastic.

  Bovind was delighted.

  ‘I saw it all, a bravura performance Mr Mayor, if I may say so, I am having champagne sent to your office immediately!’

  ‘He made me look like a fool,’ said the Mayor.

  ‘Not at all, not at all Mr Mayor. You lured him into the trap. No amount of publicity in the world is going to benefit the no-hopers. Those atheists have nothing to offer but darkness and the void, we have eternal life. This Saturday will show them for what they are: empty vessels and without Jesus’ compassion.’

  The Mayor slumped into his chair. ‘I am going to ask Mulholland to cancel the march. It's too volatile, the city is already cranked up about this issue and Cannon's march will take the protestors past your cathedral. The place is likely to blow.’

  ‘You won't cancel them. It will seem like they've won, I can't have that.’

  Mayor Lynch chose his words carefully. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Bovind, I have to do what's in the interests of the city and I think this march will only bring trouble and bad publicity for the city.’

  ‘Listen you,’ hissed Bovind. ‘You are not going to cancel the march, do you understand, it's the starting point for my plans.’

  ‘But the city?’

  ‘This is bigger than “your” city. May I remind you who is paying to keep this city afloat? You are not to make that call to the Chief Constable, not that he would listen to you anyway.’

  ‘But there may be trouble!’

  ‘I am counting on it. The war starts here, Mayor Lynch, and you should be a proud man! We are going to save souls and a crusade demands sacrifice along the way. This is your city's time for that sacrifice!’

  ‘It's not legal though, we know there will be violence.’

  ‘Let me and the Lord take care of that, Mr Mayor. His law is superior to any man-made law. You need some sleep, Mr Mayor. I tell you what, next week I'm going to send you and your lovely family for a vacation somewhere warm and relaxing, how does that sound?’

  ‘I don't need a vacation. I need you to understand!’

  ‘The Caribbean. You can use my yacht out there, it's a beautiful 30 footer called The Marigold. You and the family are going to love it, you need the break.’

  Bovind's tone had switched from screaming egomaniac to that of a soothing counsellor in a moment. The Mayor took a deep breath and was about to start arguing with Bovind but then from somewhere deep within there came an enormous sense of weariness. The slow moving wall of glacial antipathy that had been building for what seemed like an age had finally reached his core.

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  There was a chuckle from the other end of the line.

  ‘You know your problem, Mr Mayor, you worry too much. Everything is going to be fine, you just wait and see.’

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 31

  Erasmus tumbled through the darkness and tried to tuck his neck under his body so he would land on his back. Not a great choice, but a broken neck was death, paralysis at best.

  He landed hard on his back and heard bone snap. The pain came a moment later, agonising streaks of hot fury up his spine causing him to cry out. He was elated. Pain meant intact nerves.

  He turned his head. Rachel was laying next to him, her arm stretched out underneath his back.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.

  She groaned. ‘I think you broke my wrist when you landed on me.’

  Gingerly he stood up. The building behind them was fully consumed with fire now. In the light that it cast he quickly spotted a magazine and picked it up. He bent down and pulled out one of his shoelaces and placed it between his teeth.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he said to Rachel and he gently took her hand.

  He could see the break, swollen and distended. She let out a cry of pain.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He folded the magazine in half and then placed it along her arm and next to her wrist. He dropped the shoelace from his mouth so it landed on the improvised splint and then tied it around the magazine.

  Rachel was looking at him questioningly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have just made a splint for my wrist out of Big Jugs monthly. I'm touched.’

  He looked at the magazine. Sure enough, large glossy breasts now adorned her wrist.

  Suddenly Rachel's face went pale.

  ‘You will be in shock. We need to get some fluids in you.’

  ‘Behind you,’ she whispered.

  Erasmus acted without hesitation. He dropped backwards, swinging his legs quickly around him in a scissor kick and swiping the legs of the man standing behind him who fell to the ground.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Pete was on his back, gasping for air. ‘You fucking winded me,’ he wheezed.

  ‘Where were you? Someone set the church on fire. We could have died! You were meant to be keeping watch! Someone tried to kill us?’

  Pete rubbed his head. ‘Some fucker got the drop on me, coshed me.’

  Erasmus could see in the flickering light the sticky matt blood down the side of Pete's face.

  Rachel groaned.

  ‘Pete, this is Rachel, she's the journalist I mentioned.’

  ‘Charmed, I'm sure. Nice splint by the way,’ said Pete.

  In the distance there was the sound of sirens.

  ‘Come on, let's get out of here,’ said Erasmus.

  They walked back out to the front of the church and jumped into their cars. Rachel climbed into Erasmus’ car. He chucked the two framed pictures he'd taken from the church onto the back seat then climbed in beside her. They drove out of the city and Erasmus tried as best he could to fill her in on the developments he'd made since they last met. Eventually they stopped in a layby out towards Runcorn. It was a quiet spot with little passing traffic.

  Pete pulled over behind Erasmus’ car and then joined them, taking a seat in the back of the car.

  Erasmus handed the photographs he had found to Rachel.

  ‘Look at the boys in this photograph. Francis – missing, Tomas – murdered in childhood, Ford – dead, this one,’ he pointed at Petersen, ‘dead, and here, Bovind, the current saviour of Liverpool. It's not a coincidence. I was hoping to find out who the final boy in the picture was.’

  ‘Fuck, I can help you with that,’ said Rachel when he had finished. ‘Check this out.’

  Rachel pulled an iPhone from her bag and quickly navigated to the Liverpool Echo website. She handed the phone to Erasmus.

  Erasmus read the story out loud. ‘Man drowns on Gormley statue – Crosby Beach. The body of a Crosby man was found yesterday morning on Seaforth Beach. The police spokesman confirmed that they were working on the assumption that the man, provisionally identified as Marcus Wareing of Hall Road, Crosby, drowned as he tried to rescue his dog whose lead had become entangled with one of the world famous Anthony Gormley bronze sculptures. It is thought the man was trapped by the quickly rising tide. The dog's corpse was also found at the scene. Police have issued a reminder to the public to take care on all Merseyside beaches and to be aware of fast rising tides.’

  ‘I have been checking every death that fits the demographic. Care to take a wild guess which school Marcus went to or which volunteer
Catholic boys group he belonged to? Want to take a wild guess at whether Marcus was that boy in your photograph?’ Rachel spoke through teeth gritted against the pain in her wrist.

  ‘Someone is killing the boys in that photograph and somebody wanted to kill us tonight,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘It's Bovind,’ said Rachel. ‘It has to be. Stephen said he knew something about Bovind and that's why he died.’

  ‘We don't know that Stephen is dead and we don't know it is Bovind. Why would he risk killing all these men now after so many years and why would he do it? What could justify it?’ said Erasmus.

  ‘Powerful fat cats think that they can do anything. You see it happen time and time again. Stephen knew something, he told that to me. We know he was in debt and Father Michael paid off that debt. It's blackmail, it has to be. Stephen was killed because he tried once too often to blackmail Father Michael or Bovind?’

  ‘And Ford, Petersen, Wareing. Why them?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘I don't know,’ said Rachel.

  Pete leaned over from the back seat. ‘You may want to take a look at these photographs.’

  The first photograph was the photograph of the young boy with writing on it that Erasmus has found on the floor.

  ‘Is that Russian?’ said Erasmus.

  ‘No, but I recognise that language. It's Serbian,’ said Pete.

  ‘Serbian, you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I did a tour of Kosovo when I was seventeen. I recognise the graffiti.’

  ‘Any idea what it says?’

  ‘None, whatsoever,’ said Pete.

  ‘Hang on, I'll Babelfish it!’ said Rachel. She took the photograph and started typing.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ she said.

  ‘In Father Michael's office. I think it's Tomas’, the Bosnian kid who was murdered by Burns.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘Hang on,’

  Rachel typed in the Serbian to her phone.

  ‘“Uvek ću te volimti si moj otac i majka”, which is “I will always love you. You are my father and my mother”.’

  ‘Well, Father Michael was a Catholic priest,’ said Pete.

  ‘Eww,’ said Rachel.

  Erasmus pulled out the other picture, the one of the group of boys he'd recovered from the wall of Father Michael's office and showed it to Pete.

  ‘That picture is starting to get on my nerves,’ said Pete. ‘But what's that there?’

  A damp stain on the photo had brought the writing on the boat's hull into focus.

  ‘The Everlong,’ said Pete. ‘They named the boat. I wonder what else we've overlooked.’

  ‘I wonder?’ Erasmus removed the picture from its frame and turned it over. There in black pen was a list of names and a date: 23rd July 1990.

  ‘Jesus, their names are all here: Ford, Francis, Radzinski, Bovind, Petersen, Wareing and…holy shit!’

  Erasmus showed the writing to Rachel and Pete.

  Pete looked shocked. ‘You've been lied to, Erasmus,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next morning Erasmus called Dan. He was in the Mosquito Lounge.

  ‘So they've had a change of heart?’

  ‘I guess they didn't want to lose his best customer, what's profit compared to love eh, Erasmus.’

  By the slight slur in his words Erasmus guessed Dan had been in the bar for some time already.

  ‘Listen, Dan, I need you to do me a favour. I know what you said but I need you to get me in to see Kirk Bovind.’

  There was a pause. Erasmus could hear the sounds of laughter in the background and easy music.

  ‘I told you, it's never going to happen. The firm are chasing his account. We have our best guys on it and you want me to get you in front of him, a man with a restraining order on him for assaulting a member of the clergy who also happens to be a close personal friend of Bovind's. No way.’

  ‘Listen, if I'm right his life could be in danger. Someone is killing his old friends.’

  ‘No way. This is a favour too far and anyway you don't just call Kirk Bovind. I only have his PA's number.’

  Erasmus seized upon the opening.

  ‘Call his PA and tell him that I want to see Bovind and it's in connection with the Everlong. If you don't then I'm just going to drive to his hotel and speak to him anyway. At least this way you're either giving him a warning or arranging an interview he is going to want to have.’

  This time there was a longer pause and the sound of a drink being sipped.

  ‘I believe you. I will call his assistant tell him that some crazy wants me to pass on a message and then that's it, Erasmus. We are through. I warned you about this. Stay on this number.’

  Pete was driving and didn't take his eyes off the road. ‘Well, that sounded as though it went well,’ he said darkly.

  Erasmus said nothing.

  But Dan had made the call to Bovind's assistant and it had only taken five minutes for a reply that Kirk Bovind would happily see Erasmus. Dan had been, if anything, more pissed off when he called Erasmus back and told him that Bovind could see him right away in his hotel suite.

  Erasmus sensed something was wrong with Dan, drinking this early in the day was unusual for him. He made a mental note to talk to his friend.

  The hotel, the London Carriage Works, was positioned directly opposite the Philharmonic Hall and was a renovated tobacco warehouse. Dan had told them that Bovind had taken an entire floor as his base in Liverpool until he could find somewhere permanent.

  There were two burly men standing outside the hotel on the pavement. They were wearing microphone headpieces and black jackets identifying them as a conspicuous first layer of security. One of them flagged their car down. Erasmus was sure there were others, out of sight, providing a more discrete, secondary level of protection.

  The man motioned to Pete to wind down his window. Erasmus recognised him straightaway: it was Barry from Giles’ house. His nose was flattened to one side and he had two black eyes. The other bodyguard stood back checking the car while his friend stepped to the side of the car and shoved a bomb detector mirror underneath the car.

  ‘You see that guy?’ said Erasmus.

  ‘Roger that,’ replied Pete.

  Pete wound down the window.

  ‘Identify yourself, please?’ said Barry.

  ‘I'm Bugs Bunny and the other guy is Elmer Thudd. We're here to see Porky Pig. Come on, you just flagged down our car because you've been briefed on who we are,’ said Pete.

  He looked over to Erasmus in the passenger seat.

  ‘You!’ said Barry.

  ‘Hi Barry, we are here to see your boss. Sorry about the nose, it's looking pretty bad.’

  Barry paused and Erasmus guessed he was weighing up whether pulling Erasmus out of the car and beating him to death would be a bad career move. Erasmus winked at him.

  ‘That's it! You're dead!’

  Barry dived through the driver's open window and went for Erasmus. Before he reached him he was pulled backwards suddenly by his colleague. Barry looked startled. The man put his right hand on Barry's cheek and leaned in close to whisper something to him.

  Barry nodded and then returned to the car. He was ashen faced.

  ‘Give me the keys and I'll park your car for you, sir,’ he said to Pete.

  Pete handed the keys to Barry.

  ‘If you accompany my colleague, Edward, he will show you up to Mr Bovind's suite.’

  ‘Be careful with that, it's a vintage Saab.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Barry.

  Erasmus and Pete followed Edward.

  ‘Do you want him to destroy your car?’

  Pete smiled. ‘Actually yes, the gearbox is going. I was sort of hoping he might take it for a spin and write the thing off.’

  ‘I don't think he will do anything. Did you see his eyes? He was terrified of something or someone.’

  Pete nodded. ‘I saw.’

  Edward led them through the minimalist
lobby and then into one of the elevators. Inside, there was another gym toned guard. Edward beckoned them inside the elevator.

  ‘Matthew will take care of you from here.’

  ‘Hello Matthew,’ said Erasmus.

  Matthew didn't reply. Instead he hit one of the buttons and the elevator began its ascent. Erasmus noticed that there was only one button and assumed this must be a private elevator purely for the purposes of reaching the suite. He was right. The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened, revealing an opulent living room area furnished with leather chaise-longue, elegant chairs and a mahogany writing desk.

  Matthew stepped out into the room.

  ‘This way please,’ he said.

  ‘Swanky. It reminds me of your place but without the takeaway cartons and air of desperation,’ said Pete.

  ‘Very funny,’ replied Erasmus.

  Erasmus and Pete followed Matthew into the suite. The living area was empty and Matthew led them through a door into an adjoining room.

  This room was smaller than the previous room and there was a desk at one end behind which sat Kirk Bovind. Erasmus recognised him instantly from the newspapers. The man before them looked the same as his picture but the reality was very different. Erasmus was struck straightaway by the man's skin. At first glance it was perfect, blemish free, but after a moment it felt like he was looking at a high definition image of the man rather than the man himself. Bovind's tanned skin almost seemed to be vibrating with an eerie luminosity. It was though he had been bleached and machine cleaned to a highly engineered shiny finish. His hair, lush and blond, sprouted in a uniform, surgical pattern and was moulded into a solid mass of a side parting. Bovind looked like a man in his late twenties but the effect close up was of a man wearing another man's skin. It made Erasmus want to look away.

  Bovind got up from behind the desk and shook their hands. His hands were delicate and the handshake feathery. Bovind's smile, which had switched on the moment they entered the room, was wide, bright and fixed.