The Silent Pool (25 page)

‘Professor Cannon you know that's not the point. We have asked our teaching staff to teach the theory of Intelligent Design alongside the theory of evolution that's all, you need to realise – ’

He didn't finish the sentence. The Mayor looked at the screen. Professor Cannon was standing now and red faced. He was an imposing character, tall and strong and even though he was over two hundred miles away the Mayor felt physically threatened.

‘Just because they are both called theories doesn't give them the right to be treated and taught equally. One is a theory backed by evidence, a theory based on scientific method and observable in the natural world and supported by ample fossil, genetic and biological evidence and the other is wishful thinking that says because the world is a complex place that it must have been designed by an intelligent creator. Here you go, here's another theory: there is a teapot circling the earth full of Earl Grey tea and it created the universe, are you going to teach my new teapot theory, man?’

‘No but – ’

Professor Cannon didn't let him finish. ‘No, you are dammed well not and it has just as much evidence behind it as the Intelligent Design “theory” that is going to poison the minds of the children in your poor city!’

‘I don't think that comparison is fair.’

‘And all because you took the holy dollar, Mayor Lynch. You accepted the religious right's monies in exchange for your children's education. Shame on you!’

‘One textbook mentions the theory of Intelligent Design, you need to place this in perspective and consider that children in this city were receiving no education and now they are and,’

He held the phone away from his mouth and looked at Anthony for help.

‘Announce it,’ whispered Anthony.

‘And Professor Cannon I want to take this opportunity to announce that the Bovind Foundations kind donation of computers to guarantee a laptop to every year 3 student and above – ’

‘Yes, I know all about that,’ interrupted Professor Cannon.

How could he know about that
, thought the Mayor? He had only been told by Bovind the day before.

‘And we know that each laptop will come bundled with the Lightspeed search engine. Have you tried searching for “evolution” in that search engine, Mayor Lynch? You should try it sometime. The top twenty search results are links to Intelligent Design websites. Lightspeed works on a combination of funding and judgemental placing for the top slots in search results. It's a Christian commercial enterprise. Children rely on the internet for their independent learning and this, Mr Mayor, is a disgrace!’

The Mayor looked at Anthony who just held up his hands.

The Mayor began to speak and then thought better of it and just hung up instead.

Anthony looked horrified. ‘You hung up on him, that is not tactically astute, if I may so.’

The Mayor ignored him. He knew that if hadn't the next words out of his mouth would have been, ‘Fuck off, you bastard,’ and that would most certainly not have been tactically astute.

‘Turn the sound on,’ he said to Anthony.

Professor Cannon had turned directly to face the camera. ‘I want every enlightened citizen of the great city of Liverpool and indeed in this country to join me on a march this Saturday from St Georges Hall in Liverpool to Hope Street. We've picked Hope Street because it links the two cathedrals and that's what we need, some hope to lead this city out its religious morass. We will be marching for freedom of thought, independence of mind, and for rationality. We will be marching against the forces of ignorance, hate and religious bigotry. The people of Liverpool need their city back from the clutches of this cynical, expedient Mayor and his Christian right regime!’

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: 23
^rd
July 1990.