The Silent Pool (11 page)

‘Nice piece of work.’

‘I was devastated. I threw the money back at him and ran from the bar. I didn't know what to do. My dad had died when I was a teenager and my mother just watched daytime TV and drank. I ran through from the bar and didn't stop running until I came to the college chapel. It was just a small room with plastic chairs and no religious iconography, and I was never religious, but that quiet room allowed me to stop and think. And I prayed, Erasmus, I don't know who or what to but I asked for help and the next person to enter that room was Stephen. He was the chair of the Student Catholic Society and he was there to set up the room for a prayer meeting. He saw me crying and he knew what to do straightaway, he came and held me and told me everything would be OK.’

Tears were beading in Jenna's deep brown eyes.

‘And was it?’

‘After a fashion, yes. I was with Stephen from that moment. He helped me through the pregnancy. I had to drop out of college, of course, but I had a family of sorts, Stephen and the other members of the Catholic Society. All my old friends thought I was mad, that I had become indoctrinated but that wasn't the case, I just felt wanted by them, secure.’

‘And the child?’

‘My son Benjamin was born, beautiful and healthy. I held in my arms and then he was taken away. I gave him up for adoption. It was what we both wanted. I always thought more children would follow but it was not to be.’

She moved her head to the side and snorted. Erasmus guessed it was an effort to hold back tears.

‘And you and Stephen?’

‘We never talked about the child again. We never went on any “dates”, we just became “together” and we have been ever since.’

‘What about the child, Benjamin?’

‘I decided long ago that it was best that I didn't keep in touch – for him, his new family and for me. I suppose he could choose to find me one day and I'll face that if it happens.’

‘Did you never, you and Stephen, want any kids?’

‘Oh yes, desperately.’ She looked down. ‘When we got married he gave me this – ’ her fingers pulled at the silver chain around her neck and she showed him the small, plain St Christopher ‘ – to represent the journey I had been on to reach him and to reach God. Stephen also had an identical pendent. But we never had any kids, we couldn't. God's reward for that journey maybe?’

She placed the book back on the table and cleared her throat.

‘But enough of me. This is ancient history. So, Erasmus, what have you got to tell me?’

A wave of anxiety came over him. He ignored it.

‘Of course, but it may be better if I show you.’

‘Show me what?’

He pulled out a leather portfolio binder from his briefcase and handed it to Jenna.

‘What are these?’

‘Equifax searches, credit information on Stephen’

‘I know what we owe, we have a joint account.’

‘I'm sorry about this but it's all there. About a year ago, Stephen owed a substantial sum of money to various lenders. It's about £50,000 in total.’

Jenna scanned through the documents.

‘I don't believe it. We shared everything.’

‘Addicts become experts in covering their tracks.’

She gave him a sharp look.

‘Addicts? Stephen barely touched a sherry at Christmas.’

‘He's a gambler. He has a number of spread betting accounts. He owes nothing on them now, but he did and he borrowed the money to pay them off. Did you suspect anything?’

Jenna hesitated for a second. ‘No,’ she replied.

For a moment Erasmus thought to push it further – there was something she wasn't telling him he was sure – but he held back.

‘The credit checks go back ten years.’ He spread the Equifax searches on the table, covering the Architecture book. ‘They show that Stephen was swapping loans around, always one step ahead of any legal action, borrowing from one lender to pay another.’

‘Borrowing from Peter to pay Paul,’ whispered Jenna.

‘That's right,’ said Erasmus. ‘How much did Stephen earn at the council?’

‘£32,000 a year. It was all accounted for with the mortgage and monthly outgoings. We had nothing spare. I kept asking him to speak to Theo, maybe see if he could help, as you can see he's a wealthy man and I know he would have helped.’

‘But he didn't want to?’

‘Stephen is stubborn and proud. He said that his father would have been ashamed if he'd known that he was borrowing from his brother. There is some family history there.’

‘Look at the bottom of that page.’

Jenna looked and then her eyes widened in surprise.

‘All the debt was paid off in one sum: £50,000 eight weeks ago. Every loan, credit card settled,’ said Erasmus.

‘Stephen didn't have that sort of money. Where did he get it from?’

‘Purple Ahmed. Do you know him?’

‘I grew up in this city, Erasmus, everybody knows Purple Ahmed. He's a nasty loan shark with a reputation for violence.’

‘Stephen borrowed the money off him to pay off the banks.’

There was a look of that Erasmus thought of as shock on Jenna's face. Much later he would think back and realise it was something else entirely: disgust.

‘And you think that he had something to do with Stephen's disappearance?’

‘I'm not sure but I don't think so. Guys like Ahmed, they are ultimately businessmen and he would have a graduated collections policy. I think you would have seen Stephen coming home with bruises and then broken bones before anything terminal. And Ahmed tells me that somebody paid off the debt eight weeks ago in cash.’

‘Not Stephen?’ said Jenna.

‘No, he said two men paid it off.’

‘Did he say who they were?’ asked Jenna.

‘No, he didn't have their names. I guess in his line of work if someone gives you £50,000 in cash you just accept it and don't ask any questions. He couldn't even give me a description aside from the fact that they were white guys wearing red shirts.’

Jenna raised an eyebrow.

‘Red shirts? Are you sure he said red shirts?’

‘Yes, I'm sure. Does that mean something to you?’

Jenna got up from the couch.

‘Hang on, Theo has a picture here somewhere.’

She went to the piano in the corner of the room and rummaged through the dozen or so photo frames that stood like menhirs on the cool, black, polished surface. She picked one up and held it aloft in triumph.

‘Yes, this is the one!’ She handed it to Erasmus.

It was an old colour photograph. It was a picture of six teenage boys standing next to a priest. The haircuts, a mixture of fringes and crew cuts, and the slightly faded quality of the print pointed to it being taken sometime in the early nineties. The boys were standing in front of a boat. None of that was what interested Erasmus. What caught Erasmus’ attention was the fact that all the boys were wearing red polo shirts.

‘That's Stephen there on the end,’ said Jenna. She pointed to a curly haired boy, squinting at the camera flash. He was smiling at the same time as squinting and he looked happy.

‘Stephen was a member of Faith in the Community; it's a youth action group that used to be run by Father Michael out of the catholic school he attended, St Edward's.’

‘Is Stephen still a member now?’ said Erasmus.

Jenna laughed.

‘He left about six weeks after that picture was taken. He must have been seventeen then. They used to do charity work, bash some tambourines and help old ladies across the street, that sort of thing.’

‘And are they still going, this Faith in the Community group?’

‘Christ knows. I know Father Michael is still around, but he's Third Wave now, like just about all the Catholics. His church is on Smithdown Road, one of those new ones.’

Erasmus knew it. All angular glass and steel, it looked like an arts centre or modern museum not a church. It was a testament to the money and power of the Third Wave.

‘But I don't see the connection. That was twenty-five years ago.’

‘It may be nothing. I still think our best theory is the most likely, namely that Stephen has run because he can't pay his debts. It happens all the time.’

‘He is still missing. He wouldn't run over money and I knew him and don't think he would gamble. Stephen wasn't interested in that, he would see it as a sin.’

Erasmus said nothing. He looked at the photo again.

‘Who are the other boys?’

Jenna looked at the photo again. ‘I don't know. Stephen never really talked about those days but everybody knows that one.’ She pointed at a small boy with a mop of blond hair, he too was squinting at the sunlight behind the photographer.

Erasmus didn't recognise the boy. ‘Who is it?’

‘Kirk Bovind, although he was called Kevin back then. The saviour of our city.’

Erasmus took a deep breath. He thought about what Rachel had told him. Was it just another coincidence?

Jenna let out an exasperated sigh and this time she couldn't hold back the tears.

‘You must miss him a lot?’

She sighed, half laughing, half crying. ‘Marriage is a funny thing. I think you understand that, and it changes over time. Me and Stephen were very much in love once and I still love him now, but it's a different type of love, more familial.’

She tried to smile but it came off as awkward, a weakening barrier against a hidden well of tears.

He looked at this beautiful, strong, woman and felt an urge to kiss her. For a moment he thought he would have no choice in the matter. The old sensation welled up in his stomach, sending out invincible armies of desire. And she felt it too, he was sure. The air seemed to thicken and grow heavy. Somewhere in the house a phone rang. They said nothing.

‘Do you want to get that?’ said Erasmus.

‘No,’ she replied.

Erasmus leaned forward, and Jenna, hesitantly at first, moved towards him.

Suddenly, a large, black Labrador jumped up onto the couch and started to lick Erasmus’ face: the spell was broken.

‘Get down, Dunbar!’ said Jenna and she pushed the dog away from Erasmus. The dog gave him a last lick for good measure and then bounded away from him.

Jenna took hold of Erasmus’ hand and looked him square in the eyes. He knew he was in trouble now.

‘Erasmus, I need you to find Stephen. He needs rescuing, do you understand?’

His old Army instincts screaming that something was very wrong here, he knew he could only answer one way: ‘Yes, I do, but I think I need to go back to Church first.’

CHAPTER 13

The town hall was a happier place without all those bearded teachers and rough-looking bin men standing outside with their placards, thought Mayor Lynch as he stepped out of the mayoral Mercedes and bounded up the steps that led to the mayor's office. He felt happier than he had done in months.

Things had gone better than he ever could have hoped. With the budget balanced, things just started to fall into place; interest penalties were avoided and statutory monies released.

The obstacles he had envisaged had proved to be nothing. The unions had rolled over and let Bovind tickle their tummies with his money. The Teachers’ Union, which he had thought would present the biggest obstacle, had just been delighted that their members would be paid.

There had been the usual quid pro quos involved when a wealthy benefactor bestowed such a generous gift: certain planning permissions, mostly for churches and church-related community projects sponsored by the Bovind Foundation, had been given the green light or fast-tracked through the planning committees. There was even talk of renaming the Carnatic Road, the street where Bovind grew up, as Bovind Boulevard. But such back scratching and compromises were part and parcel of council life and something he had felt comfortable with long before the appearance of Bovind.

The leaders of the main opposition, Labour council members, had congratulated the Mayor warmly on landing such a big fish as Bovind. The Mayor had even received a call from the Prime Minister and she had congratulated him on his handling of the financial crisis. Yes, life was better. Hell, life was good!

As he bounded up the council steps, feeling ten years younger than he had a month before, a pretty young woman approached him. She was carrying a digital recorder. In the week since the funding had been announced he had become used to such media attention and rather welcomed it.

The reporter, who looked to the Mayor like she was just out of college, stepped in front of him blocking his way, and shoved the digital recorder in front of his mouth.

‘Mayor Lynch, Rachel Harrop,
Liverpool Echo
.’

He fixed his media smile in place. Welcoming but hiding a warm intelligence was how he thought of it.

‘Hey Rachel, if it's about the deal to save the city you need to speak to Anthony Torpenhow, he has a press package prepared, you should know that by now, and the
Echo
have already had a full briefing, speak with your editor.’ He switched tack before she took offence at his brush off. ‘Or if you want to do a feature maybe we could talk over a latte? There is a Starbucks over the road.’

The reporter smiled sweetly back at him. ‘My sources in the council tell me that you are proposing to pass city planning rules outlawing any clinic that provides health services specifically to women, namely abortions. Care to comment?’

Mayor Lynch's smile dropped. ‘That's nonsense! I don't know who your sources are but it's rubbish!’

‘And that there is a proposal that under the Free School discretionary curriculum the teaching of evolution in Merseyside schools is taught as merely an alternative to the theory of Intelligent Design?’

‘Where are you getting this stuff?’

Rachel hit pause on her recorder. ‘From the highest of sources.’ She hit record again. ‘Any comment?’

‘None.’

‘One last question Mayor, do you know anything about the disappearance of Stephen Francis and his links to Kirk Bovind?’

‘I haven't got a clue what you are talking about and if you could excuse me I've got a city to run.’

Mayor Lynch dodged around her and trotted up the stairs. He stormed through the building. At this time in the morning the tiled halls were largely empty and his footsteps echoed around the corridor as he made his way to his Anthony's office.