The Silent Pool (7 page)

When he arrived back at Atlantic Heights there was a text message waiting for him on his iPhone. Pete wanted to meet up at Keith's that afternoon. According to the text he had ‘the scoop on Stephen Francis’.

CHAPTER 8

Pete was sitting at his usual table at the back, facing the door and large windows that fronted onto Lark Lane, a leafy bohemian street populated by galleries, restaurants and bistros that occupied the decayed grand old buildings in this part of town. He was pretending to read the wine list as Erasmus walked into the bar. Erasmus knew he knew it off by heart. Pete was dressed as usual: immaculate in his Mod uniform of two button suit, wingtip collars and Italian loafers.

He waved Erasmus over.

‘Good night last night?’ asked Erasmus. Pete turned his head slightly to the left so his better ear could hear Erasmus more clearly.

‘It hasn't ended yet. Lock in at the Grapes, back to my laptop, and then lunch here,’ said Pete with a smile.

Erasmus never ceased to be surprised by Pete's ability to look and sound perfectly healthy despite his almost superhuman appetites.

‘You are a functioning alcoholic, you do realise that, don't you?’

‘I work better after a few looseners, clears the old synaptic pathways. That's why I've taken the liberty of ordering a good bottle for lunch.’

As if on cue an attractive waitress arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed them on the table before them. Pete smiled at her and watched her depart with a lingering look.

‘I can see why you like it here,’ said Erasmus.

‘The wine list, it's all about the wine list.’

‘You eating?’ asked Erasmus.

Pete shook his head.

Apart from the first time they had met, when Erasmus had caught Pete filling his pockets with vol-au-vents and samosas, Erasmus had never seen him eat anything in public.

‘I had a pie at the Grapes,’ he explained to Erasmus.

‘Ah, a pie, of course. Breakfast of champions,’ said Erasmus. Pete didn't seem to hear him although Erasmus suspected that this might be selective deafness on this occasion.

‘Where was I? Oh yeah, synaptic pathways. Take your man, Stephen Francis. I checked the National Criminal Database: no convictions save for a speeding offence ten years back, no county court judgements so no debt problem or so I think. So I check Equifax, nothing save for the Francis’ credit card with £500 outstanding, and Mrs Francis’ charge cards, nothing special. And then I spill a glass of red, look.’

Pete pulled out a sheath of papers from the canvas bag and waved them in front of Erasmus. He could see that half of them were covered in a dark red stain.

‘So, I spill my wine and as I'm separating the papers and I see an old Equifax report showing that twelve months ago old Mr Francis was £50,000 in debt and had been growing that debt for some time – credit cards and loans – and then bang, twelve months ago all paid off: problem solved.’

Erasmus saw where Pete was going.

‘Where did he get the money?’ asked Erasmus.

‘Well, either he got lucky and one of his bets came in big time or he did what everyone does when the wolves are at the door.’

‘He borrowed it? A bank loan?’

‘Yeah right, you know how hard it is to get credit at those levels these days and on his income, not a chance. No, think more traditional methods of finance.’

‘Loan sharks,’ said Erasmus.

Pete beamed triumphantly and put his finger to his nose. ‘Right on the money. And the biggest loan shark in this city is Purple Ahmed. I took the liberty of calling him – got through to one of his minions – he didn't put the phone down when I asked if they knew Stephen Francis, he asked who was speaking. A definite giveaway.’

‘Of course, that's the only conclusion, is that some sort of Scouse Jedi thing?’

‘Yes, you wouldn't understand being a southerner,’ said a deadpan Pete.

Erasmus wasn't one-hundred percent sure whether Pete was joking or not.

‘And Purple Ahmed?’

‘You'll see.’

Pete wrote down an address on a napkin and handed it to Erasmus.

‘Is Ahmed the type of man to use violence if someone hasn't paid their debts?’ said Erasmus.

At this Pete laughed and nodded. ‘It's rumoured the Mersey is full of people who fit that description. What are you going to do?’

‘Pay him a visit and there's no time like the present.’

Erasmus pulled five twenties from his wallet and pushed them across the table to Pete. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Are you sure you won't stay and help me drink this fine Nobile?’

Erasmus shook his head.

Pete took the money and took a sip of his wine.

‘Shame you're missing out. And Erasmus?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Be careful.’

CHAPTER 9

It didn't take him long to find Purple Ahmed's place. The address Pete had given him was on Smithdown Road, the main arterial route through the south of the city. The decaying Victorian red brick terraced houses that lined the road were regularly interspersed with churches, new and old, reflective of the city's religious past and vigorous present. New denominations that had spread like viruses from the US and Asia dominated, their steel and glass churches the only modern buildings other than the occasional petrol station. Their neon signs sold sin and salvation.

Just before the lines of terraced housing turned into the grander Georgian townhouses and the leafy avenues of the Allerton and Mossley Hill suburbs stood Purple Ahmed's scrap merchants like some rusted border crossing post. Huge piles of orange metal towered above the street from a large plot fenced in by a tall steel fence that bore the legend, ‘Ahmed's: Metals Bought and Sold’. To Erasmus’ eyes the scrap yard looked like the resting place of some giant rusting dinosaur. He parked up directly outside of the main gate.

The gate to the yard was closed but unlocked. There were two signs on the front of the gate, one stated trespassers entered at their own risk and the second was just a picture of a dog's snarling jaws. Erasmus felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't like dogs.

When he was seven years old he was bitten by a neighbour's Border collie. Not a bad bite but it had drawn blood and he had to pass that dog every day on the way to school. His neighbour, Mr Whitmore, had no job, bad skin and had refused when politely asked by Erasmus’ father to keep the dog tethered. Instead it ran around the front garden snarling and drooling and Erasmus had had to walk a different, longer route to school until a week later the dog disappeared upon the same day that Mr Whitmore nose was mysteriously broken. Erasmus’ father was the type of man who only asked politely once.

He pushed open the corrugated iron gate and entered the yard. There was no sign of life. In every direction there were piles of twisted, broken metal that had once been washing machines, cars, radiators, bicycles. The piles were separated by small gaps of perhaps two metres, enough room for a fork lift truck, supposed Erasmus, and these gaps formed paths through the towering junk. One of these paths was directly opposite the front gate and at the end of it stood an old decrepit caravan. It was the only structure that looked like anything resembling an office. An old tattered orange armchair sat in front of the caravan.

Erasmus headed towards the caravan. The piles of scrap blocked out the November morning's weak sun, making it. Feel a few degrees colder.

He had covered about half the distance from the gate to the caravan when the door opened and a large Asian man wearing dirty jeans and a white vest stepped out. The man was carrying a cup of something hot: Erasmus could see steam rising from the drink. He gave Erasmus a quick glance and then sat down in the orange armchair. Even at this distance Erasmus could make out the large dark purple birthmark that covered half of the man's face.
One mystery solved
, thought Erasmus.

The man searched in his trouser pockets, pulled out a lighter and held it to the large cigar he held between his teeth. He took a few puffs and then settled into the armchair in the manner of someone relaxing in front of a television set. Erasmus wondered if he was about to become the entertainment.

No sooner had the thought occurred to him then he heard something that made the hairs on his neck leap to attention: a primal growl that was the noise of a thousand nightmares. Slowly, Erasmus turned around. At the point where he had entered the narrow path between the garbage heaps now stood a man barely holding back a huge Rottweiler straining at a taut metal chain. Erasmus could see drool running off the dogs jaws and forming small pools next to its enormous front paws.

Think calm and you are calm
, Erasmus told himself. He didn't feel calm.

‘Hello, do you know where I can find Mr Ahmed?’ asked Erasmus, addressing the man with the dog.

He didn't answer. Instead Purple Ahmed spoke.

‘Who wants to know?’

Erasmus was loathe to turn his back on the dog but he forced himself to. He remembered his Army Psych training had drummed into him the precept that 90% of human beings will do what they consider ‘normal’ or what they are told even when the situation demands that they do the opposite. If you told people to get on board the cattle wagons they usually did: being polite could get you killed. Erasmus hoped that this wasn't one of those occasions.

‘I'm Erasmus Jones. I was hoping to ask you some questions about Stephen Francis?’

Purple Ahmed crossed his arms and chewed on his cigar clamped. Erasmus didn't like the body language one bit.

Through gritted teeth Ahmed mumbled, ‘Tell me, you can read, can't you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you can read, you should have read the signs on my front gate. One of them says beware of the dog, well I can see you're aware of the dog now at least. The second sign and this is the important one, that sign, that sign says trespassers enter at their own risk. Now put those signs together and what do you get?’

A witty riposte was only a second away but before it arrived on Erasmus’ tongue he heard the click of a chain being released and the excited bark and movement of a large animal rushing towards him.

‘Dog meat,’ said Purple Ahmed.

Erasmus’ legs were moving before the word ‘run’ had even entered his mind. There was only one way to run and that was towards Ahmed.

Erasmus could hear the sound of the dog grunting and the noise of its claws as they scraped over pieces of metal that littered the ground. He risked a quick look back and there it was: a head the size of a watermelon, but a watermelon filled with razor sharp teeth and black soulless eyes, and all just five yards behind him.

He wasn't going to make it to Ahmed and what to do when he got there? There was only way out and that was up. There, about eight feet up, overhanging the path, providing a link between the two piles of rubbish, was an old exhaust pipe. Erasmus jumped for it. He made the jump and his hands gripped the metal. His fingers grasped the pipe desperate to keep hold on. He risked a look down. The dog was jumping up on its hind legs, jaws snapping back and forth in between its manic barking.

His fingers began to slip, there was engine oil on the pipe. His hands slid off the pole and Erasmus came crashing down on top of the Rottweiller, which splayed out beneath him, winded and defeated. Erasmus rolled off the dog quickly and gave it a sharp punch on the nose. The dog whimpered. Erasmus stood up and added a kick in the dog's ribs for good measure.

The dog got up on unsteady legs and turned tail, its head bowed. It ran back towards the man who had let it off the leash.

‘Princess, are you OK?’ said the man cuddling the dog. Erasmus thought the man may burst into tears such was the level of emotion in his voice.

Erasmus dusted himself down in a satisfied manner and then heard a click and felt cold metal against the back of his head.

‘You want to consider yourself lucky that Mo does not have a gun. He loves Princess, Mr Jones, more than his wife, though, to be truthful, the dog is more attractive. Trespassers are not welcome here and are likely to be shot.’

Erasmus slowly turned his head, the barrel never moving from his flesh until he was facing Ahmed. Purple Ahmed took a step backwards but never lowered the gun. Up close Erasmus could see the purple welts that covered half of Purple Ahmed's face.

‘So why do they call you Purple Ahmed?’ said Erasmus.

Purple Ahmed kicked Erasmus hard in the stomach. Erasmus sank to the ground, gasping for air.

‘You got some mouth on you. I could shoot you down right here as a trespasser. But instead I'm going to let Mohammed here get a little payback for how you treated poor Princess.’

Mohammed walked towards him, pausing only to pick up a heavy looking piece of pipe from the floor. He tested its weight by slapping it back and forth in his palm.

With an ill-judged timing responsible for so many of the ills in Erasmus’ life he heard himself speaking before his brain had time to veto his mouth. ‘Hey Mo, do you squeal like your dog when a man sits on
your
back?’

Mohammed raised the pipe.

Erasmus’ foot shot forward hard into Mo's left knee and he cried out and staggered backwards. Erasmus leapt to his feet and punched Mo hard in the face. It was like trying to stop a runaway train by blowing on it, Mohammed barely flinched. He felt his arms pinned back as Ahmed grabbed hold of them. Mo moved forward and swung the pipe. Instinctively, Erasmus closed his eyes and waited for the blow to land.

He didn't see the pipe go flying, but he heard Mohammed's yelp of pain.

Purple Ahmed, caught in two minds, moved his gun slightly to face the new, unknown threat. It was all the time Erasmus needed. He dropped his shoulder and swung his elbow fast and hard into Ahmed's throat. He made a deep gurgling noise, dropped the gun, and sank to his knees. Erasmus picked up the gun and pointed it at Ahmed.

Mohammed was rolling around on the floor, hands rubbing his eyes. Standing behind him holding a can of mace was the girl from the coffee shop with the notebook. She had one hand clamped to her mouth in shock.

Erasmus walked over swiftly and kicked Mohammed hard in the ribs. The girl raised the mace and pointed it at Erasmus. He snatched it off her.