The Silent Pool (21 page)

‘No problem,’ said Pete, and he left the kitchen to deal with Barry.

Giles began to come around. His eyes rolled and then focused on the knife that Erasmus was holding.

‘Don't worry Giles. We're friends. We are going to call the police and get you out of here.’

Giles shook his head.

Erasmus had finished cutting the tape that held Giles to the chair and he pulled back the tape that covered his mouth.

Giles gasped for air.

‘You're OK now, buddy.’

Giles’ breathing steadied. ‘You can't call the police,’ he said.

‘Two armed men have just broken into your home, beaten you and tied you up. If we hadn't turned up you'd be dead now and you don't want me to call the police. Tell me why.’

Giles shook his head. He was sweating, long rivulets of perspiration turning brackish as they ran down his fake-tanned face.

‘You can't. I'll just say these men are my friends.’

Pete had come back into the room and was listening to Giles. ‘OK, you heard the man. I'll untie these guys and we'll get going.’

Giles shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘No, don't do that! Look, I'm grateful you saved me but I just don't want to involve the police. It's a, it's a private matter. Who are you, by the way?’

‘I'm Erasmus Jones. I'm investigating the disappearance of a client's husband, Stephen Francis. I think you knew him and we had come to ask you some questions and it looks like it was a good job for you that we did. This is Pete.’

There was the vaguest suggestion of a nod from Pete and certainly no offer of a handshake. Erasmus could tell that he was seriously pissed off with Giles Petersen.

‘Thank you, both. I do appreciate what you've done. But there's nothing I can tell you.’

‘Stephen Francis,’ said Pete.

‘Well, yes I knew him at school but I've not seen him for, gosh, going on fifteen years. I didn't even know he was missing.’

Erasmus noted that Giles accent had no trace of Liverpudlian in it at all. Giles was, aside from the blood and sweat that covered his trimmed goatee beard, elegantly manicured. Erasmus thought he may even be wearing eyeliner.

‘So, Stephen goes missing and we happen to turn up just as two thugs are tying you up and beating you. Is that a coincidence, then?’ asked Pete.

Giles, still seated, looked up at Pete. ‘Yes.’

‘So why were they beating you up.’

‘I don't know.’

‘Why are you lying, Giles?’ asked Erasmus.

Giles just shook his head. ‘I'm not.’

‘OK, no problem. I believe you, I really do. But here's what I'm going to have to do. I'm calling the police, they can sort this mess out.’ Erasmus pulled out his mobile phone and began to tap out the number.

Giles said nothing.

Erasmus held up his phone to show Giles, the number clearly visible. ‘Anything to say?’

Giles twisted in the chair. ‘Please don't do that. You don't know what you're doing,’

Erasmus hit the green dial button. He was through straightaway. He hit speaker so Giles could hear.

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’

‘Police please. I want to report a shooting.’

‘No, you do that and you'll never find Stephen.’

Pete and Erasmus exchanged a surprised look. Erasmus hit the red button and hung up.

‘Start talking,’ he said.

‘OK, I will but first we have to get out of here. If we don't more men will come and that would be very bad for all of us.’

‘Tell me who sent these men and what this has got to do with Stephen?’ said Erasmus.

‘I will. I promise. But I want you to take me somewhere safe first.’

Erasmus sighed.

‘Do you have anywhere in mind?’ asked Erasmus.

‘Yes, my sister's place.’

‘Where is it?’ said Erasmus.

‘It's in Manchester.’

Pete groaned.

‘I fucking hate Manchester.’

‘Why?’ asked Erasmus.

‘It's full of Mancs.’

The Liverpool/Manchester divide was something that Erasmus was very aware of. It was impossible to be in the city for five minutes without someone saying something derogatory about the city's ‘ugly sister’, as Pete often referred to it. But the depth of the antipathy never ceased to surprise Erasmus.

‘Come on, we're going before these two come round,’ said Erasmus.

Erasmus offered a hand up to Giles and they left by the back door. It was dark outside now and the road was quiet.

They made their way over to Pete's Saab.

Pete shoved Giles in the back seat.

‘Attempted murder, guns and kidnap are one thing, but Manchester? I can't believe what you've got me into here.’

‘You make it sound like downtown Mogadishu,’ said Erasmus.

‘It is but without the vibrant art scene and with worse architecture,’ snarled Pete.

As they settled down for the drive to Manchester Giles leaned forward from the back seat.

‘Get me to my sister's house and I'll start talking. Don't bother asking me anything until then.’

The drive down the M62 was largely undertaken in silence save for the worst of all expletives uttered by Pete as they passed the ‘Welcome to Manchester’ sign.

From there Giles directed them to Didsbury eventually stopping outside of a well presented, 1930s semi-detached house.

‘OK, we're here. Start talking,’ said Erasmus.

Giles undid his seatbelt.

‘I'm afraid it's not that easy. I need to speak to my lawyer first.’

Pete snapped his head around and began shouting in Giles face. ‘Look, pal, we saved your bacon back there and didn't call the cops because you said you would talk, and you made me come to Manchester which, if you hadn't gathered, is like making Bin Laden eat a pork chop. So, start talking!’

‘I don't think you will call the police actually. What will you tell them? That you interrupted a sex game involving some pals of mine dressing up. You see, that's what I might tell them.’

‘You little…’ Pete dived across the seats and grabbed hold of Giles’ lapels, his designer glasses went flying.

Erasmus dragged Pete back into the front. Then pulled out the photograph of the boat and handed it to Giles. ‘Look at this again. People who used to be your friends are disappearing or being killed. Stephen is missing and Ford was killed. I know the other people in the photograph – you, Father Michael, Bovind and Tomas – but who is the other boy in the photograph?’

Giles held the photograph and studied it for a moment. Then he laughed. ‘You two miss the obvious, don't you?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Erasmus.

‘My lawyer first and then I'll tell you what you need to know. Put this number on your phone.’ He recited his digits. ‘Call me at 6 p.m. tomorrow.’

Giles got out the car.

Erasmus watched him walk up the garden path.

‘Do you want me to go and get him,’ said Pete.

‘No, let's get back to Liverpool. We will pick it up with him tomorrow.’

‘I don't need to be told twice to leave here.’ He revved the engine in agreement before driving off.

Neither of them saw the Mercedes that had been parked in Petersen's road. And neither of them saw it pull up slowly a hundred yards behind them in Manchester.

CHAPTER 26

Giles Petersen had never really liked his sister Martha and the truth was she didn't really like him. There was an age difference of five years and Giles had always resented her controlling ways ever since he was a child. Things hadn't improved with age and they kept in contact mainly because of Giles’ elderly mother who lived in a granny flat – a converted garage – annexed to Martha's house.

Martha had been surprised to see him. Normally his visits were highly planned affairs, co-ordinating her and her husband Bryan's diaries and depending on whether her children had any real illnesses or the more imaginary kind when she needed an excuse not to have Giles in the house.

To her credit she had taken one look at Giles and invited him inside. He had mumbled something about a partner and drink and she mercifully had decided to probe no further. His lifestyle choices had never really fitted in with her worldview. She was a Third Waver, one of the first to sign up to the evangelical Christian movement when it landed in the UK four years previously.

Giles had long since given up on organised religion and the new super wealthy happy-clappy media savvy denominations were even less to his taste than the old-fashioned fire and brimstone Catholicism that he had grown up with and been so passionate about until he went to university and discovered drugs and sex.

But it seemed that religion hadn't quite given up on him.

Somebody had disturbed something that should have stayed buried in the sand and those men had wanted to know if it was him. It wasn't and he had told them that. He thought they had believed him, to drag that up would be to condemn himself as well as the rest of them. He had read about Malcolm but he hadn't made any link to him but now this and Erasmus Jones asking about Stephen disappearing? Could it be possible that somebody else knew what had happened? Was the past catching up with them? He didn't plan on hanging around to find out.

He was glad that the investigators had turned up when they did. It had saved him a beating and he was grateful to them. But he was equally certain that he was never, ever going to tell them why those men were there and what they wanted to know. To that end, Giles had booked a flight out of Manchester Airport for the following evening. A few weeks lounging in Barcelona sounded just the thing. He needed to make a few calls to the office first, make sure that some of his important clients were looked after by his business partner, Mark. Then he went to sleep on the sofa bed his sister had begrudgingly made up for him.

Surprisingly, he had slept well, woken late and to an empty house and a list of chores left by his sister: she didn't believe in charity without payback.

His first chore, and Giles really did see it as a chore, was he had to make lunch for his mother. She was eighty-nine and though not very mobile due to crippling arthritis she was as bright as a button and acerbic with it.

He had popped in to see her that morning and the first thing she had asked him was whether he was still munching mattresses. He had given her a smile that he used to mask the mixed feelings of hatred and love, and asked her about her arthritis.

And she had told him all about it at great length.

He walked into Martha's well-appointed kitchen. She was tidy, obsessively so, and it was virtually impossible to figure out that two small children lived in this house. All the toys were hidden away behind smooth pine cupboard doors.

Giles opened the fridge. His mother had asked for a cheese sandwich for lunch. He looked in the cavernous American-style fridge and took out a block of cheese. He had less luck with the bread as the bread bin was empty.

He cursed. Maybe she'd have some soup instead. He checked the cupboards. There was a wide selection of cans of soup in there.

He made his way down the passageway that joined the kitchen onto the utility room and then through into the converted garage that was his mother's flat.

His mother was sat in an armchair, a blanket drawn up over her knees. She was about three feet away from the television set and was in the process of changing channels by using her walking stick to push the buttons on the set.

‘Mum, there is a remote control for that. Let me find it for you.’ Giles made a move towards the bed upon which there seemed to be a pile of blankets, throws and sheets. Anything could get lost in there.

‘Keep away from my bed!’ she barked and waved the cane in his direction. ‘I'm quite capable, you know. Your Father knew that,’ she gave him a leery look that made Giles feel quite sick.

‘Mum, there is no bread in the kitchen so I wondered whether you'd like some soup. There is minestrone or a nice vegetable broth.’

She looked at him like he had announced the outbreak of World War III. ‘I want a cheese sandwich. Martha always brings me a cheese sandwich.’

‘But Mum, there's no bread and I haven't got time to go to the shops.’

She turned back to the TV. A quiz show had just started and there was annoying theme tune playing. She used the stick to increase the volume.

‘There is bread in the freezer in the outhouse. Martha keeps it in there in case of bird flu.’ She didn't divert her attention from the screen.

Giles sighed. ‘I'll go and get it.’ He turned to leave.

‘Your friend says hello,’ she said.

He spun on his heels. She was still watching the game show.

‘What did you say?’ he asked.

‘Pick box two,’ she said to the television. Giles saw a contestant on the screen open a large red box marked with a blue two.

He hesitated but she didn't even register that he was still there. ‘OK, I'll be five minutes and then you can have your damned cheese sandwich.’

The outhouse was attached to the house but Giles would have to go out into the back garden to access it. He put on his trainers and stepped outside. It was a beautiful sunny day, but cold. He shivered and then walked across the grass to the outhouse. He smiled to himself. In Liverpool parlance this wasn't an outhouse it was a shithouse.

There was a black door to the outhouse. He pushed it open and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him. Martha had expanded the space knocking through the old WC and the coal shed so there was an area big enough for a large chest freezer and some shelves along the wall holding dried foodstuffs and cans.
More Armageddon supplies
, thought Giles. One thing you could say about Third Wavers was that they certainly planned for the worst.

There was a bang behind him and Giles spun round. The door to the outhouse had blown open and was banging against the wall.

Giles let out a sigh of relief. His nerves were shattered after the events of yesterday. He pulled the door to and slipped on the catch.

He moved back to the chest freezer and opened it. It was a bit tough at first as the ice had bonded with the seal and he realised that Martha must not use the freezer very often.

He pulled it open and it swung upwards with a thump. He peered inside and saw the post-Armageddon rations.
Lots of bread and chicken that would rot or be eaten in a week
, he thought. The chest freezer was a commercial unit, maybe four or five feet deep. Martha's husband, Bryan, worked at a food distribution company and Giles made a mental note to tease Martha as to how it looked like a lot of this stuff had managed to fall off the back of a lorry. She didn't take such jokes well and at the thought of her creased face Giles gave a little smile of pleasure.