Читать книгу The Silent Pool - Phil Kurthausen - Страница 16

CHAPTER 7

The lonely evening stretched out ahead of Erasmus. He fumbled with his iPod deck, selected some early The Fall and contemplated how he could fill his time. As Mark E. Smith's, grimy laconic voice filled the room he came up with two choices: drink and read or drink and watch the TV. He decided to call Pete instead, postpone the inevitable.

Erasmus had met him at a wine tasting evening the firm held for its clients. He had always hated those sorts of occasions and only attended as the Bean thought them marvelous opportunities to network. Work masquerading as a social event should, in Erasmus’ opinion, be added as the eighth circle of Hell but he had been eager to please and grateful for the job given his immediate references. Erasmus had attended but had occupied himself by skulking at the back of the room, drinking wine and eating as much as possible in order not to have become engaged in small talk.

He had met Pete at the buffet table where he was adopting the same technique: drink, eat and avoid small talk. They had eyed each other cautiously at first, each jealous of their own space at the back of the room and threatened by an interloper who may drag them into conversations about house prices, schools, work or any of the other of the chitchat that usually accompanied such networking events.

Pete had spoken first, asking Erasmus whether he had been in the Army. He had shouted the question. Erasmus, busy chewing a vol-au-vent, had nodded and then Pete had yelled that it was obvious to him because that he still stood like he had a Sergeant Major's boot halfway up his arse.

Pete had followed this by suggesting that they get out of there and go for a proper drink at the Grapes. Erasmus had agreed if only to get Pete out of there. Everyone else could hear Pete's views on the party and the Bean had looked disapprovingly at Erasmus as though he were guilty by proximity to the loud, brash guest who nobody owned up to inviting.

He found out that night that Pete had been at the event because he had swept the premises for bugs on behalf of one of the firm's clients, a young South African business man who had set up a string of private alternative health HIV clinics and who was looking to open up clinics in Liverpool and Manchester. He had hung around purely to get access to the buffet and he confided in Erasmus that he ate this way two to three times a week.

‘I live off samosas and tiny wraps of mayonnaise,’ he shouted between mouthfuls of an egg sandwich.

The shouting was, Erasmus later learned, as a result of Pete's previous career as a pathfinder in the Parachute Regiment. He had been honorably discharged after he lost 75% of his hearing when an IED exploded ten feet away from him in a compound in Helmand Province. As he got to know Pete, Erasmus began to suspect that he had always been loud. It went too well with his personality to be purely the result of an injury.

They had been the last to leave the Grapes that night, drunk and laughing. Pete had given Erasmus his card.

‘Pete Cross, Security Consultant?’

‘I know this city. You can never know this place as a true Scouser can, though you may think you can. I was born in Two Dogs Fighting, what about you?’

Erasmus replied. ‘Witney.’ When he received a blank stare he had added, ‘Oxfordshire.’ He had later discovered from a laughing Dan that Two Dogs Fighting was the local name for the district of Huyton, one of the city's tough outer estates.

Pete had smiled his lopsided smile. ‘If you need any help, which you will in this city, call me.’

Erasmus had needed help. He had used Pete on several occasions since then for witness location, serving summons and obtaining information in ways Erasmus had no access: Pete knew the city and its people.

He called Pete on his mobile. He knew that somewhere in the city a mobile phone would be ringing and his assigned tone was the theme from Minder. Pete's little joke.

Pete was where he always was when not at work or sleeping. In the Grapes, swapping stories with the other regulars.

‘Raz. How you doing?’ As usual Pete was bellowing. ‘I'm in the Grapes, come down for a pint.’

In the background Erasmus could hear the sounds of the pub: laughing, music and what sounded like tiny foot steps.

‘I would love to but listen I need a favour.’

‘Plus ca change,’ said Pete.

Erasmus told Pete he was looking for somebody and gave him Stephen's name.

‘OK, no problem. I'll make a call, check some things out. Sure I can't tempt you down here?’

Erasmus demurred. There was a cheer and then inexplicably some squawking from what sounded like a bird.

‘Gotta go. Blind Bob's brought his parrot in. You are missing out,’ said Pete.

Pete's techs skills were second to none. Any digital information on Stephen Francis would be Erasmus’ by the morning.

Erasmus reached for the packet of cigarettes, found they weren't there and then, disappointed, sank back into the sofa's embrace. The apartment's sole redeeming feature was the view from the floor to ceiling French windows out across the Mersey. From here Erasmus could see almost to the mouth of the river and the bright lights of the Seaforth container terminal in Crosby. Tonight the river was swollen and frothing and the bruised night sky hung over it as a storm battered its way west.

Erasmus opened a kitchen cupboard and took out a new bottle of Yamizaki, single malt. He poured himself a large glass and collapsed into the sofa. Mark E Smith was grumbling something about there being a ghost in his house. Erasmus hit the remote and the TV sprang to life: General Election coverage. It was looking like a landslide for the woman. He sank his scotch and poured another three fingers into the glass, drinking that immediately after the first. He was asleep within minutes.

Always the same dream. Blood. A child's pale face, kohl-coloured eyes and a machete slicing. Slicing the child's limbs, which fell like timber to the dark earth. And then the child was Abby, then blood, flesh and finally soil. Soil being poured over Erasmus’ face, lodging in his nose, coursing down his throat, blocking his airways, causing him to choke, to die.

He woke with a spluttering cough and realised he couldn't breathe, panic overwhelming his senses. A weight pressed against his chest he knew he was dying. Then the weight purred and flicked its tail away from Erasmus’ mouth.

Fucking Midori. A Siamese cat, a present from Abby – read Miranda – on his last birthday, given to him with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, ‘You need to look after something to keep you sane.’ The little shitbag had nearly killed him. Erasmus pushed Midori off his chest and stumbled to bed.

He slept fitfully but was still out of the apartment by seven o'clock for his morning run. He needed to clear his head so he ran hard and fast. It was just too easy to lose his routine when he was the only person to look after. He knew from experience that once you lost discipline over the small things it could have disastrous, even fatal consequences.

His route took him across town, up Toxteth's Parliament Street with its once elegant Victorian mansions and Edwardian grass promenade and on into Sefton Park. It was a crisp, November day, sunshine and sharp breaths. Rain from the previous night's storm lay in dark puddles which he had to run round as he progressed through the park. His heavy head began to lighten.

The light was that particular diamond hard light peculiar to late autumn. Erasmus thought it was going to be a beautiful day. As the sweat began to pour he felt like the poison was seeping out of him, the night's terrors being purged. Maybe tonight they wouldn't return. He ran on.

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’.