One choice: run…or die.

It is a time of austerity. Financial cuts are biting hard and the once great City of Liverpool finds itself now almost bankrupt. At the eleventh hour funding is found in the form of enigmatic billionaire Kirk Bovind, a religious zealot, determined to change the moral fibre and bring salvation to the streets.

Against this backdrop a man disappears without trace. Solitary lawyer, Erasmus Jones, agrees to track the missing Stephen down, but quickly discovers that this is more than just a missing person case. Men are being brutally murdered across the city and Erasmus discovers that Bovind, the murdered men and Stephen once knew each other as boys…

How long can the past be kept secret? How long can secrets stay hidden? And who will be the next to die…?

The Silent Pool

Phil Kurthausen

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Phil Kurthausen 2014

Phil Kurthausen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472074294

Version date: 2018-09-20

PHIL KURTHAUSEN

was brought up in Merseyside where he dreamt of being a novelist but ended up working as a lawyer. He has travelled the world working as flower salesman, a light bulb repair technician and, though scared of heights, painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Ken Dodd once put him in a headlock for being annoying.

He has had work broadcast on BBC radio 4 extra, published some short stories and his novel ‘The Silent Pool’ won the Thriller Round in the Harper Collins People's Novelist Competition broadcast on ITV in November 2011 and appeared in the final. It was later shortlisted for the Dundee International Literary Prize in 2012. He lives in Chester.

“Wonderfully written, tightly written, Erasmus Jones is like Jack Reacher. Wonderful. Cathy Kelly

“This pulls you in at 100 mph. [The] sense of place is terrific. A great central character. I love Erasmus Jones.” Mark Billingham

“I read ahead of myself. Just cracking. Macabre, brilliant.” Penny Smith

“Totally un-putdownable.. Quite Outstanding.” Jeffrey Archer

To my parents

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Praise

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Endpages

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

‘Do you believe?’

In the cold of the early morning, the warmth of the man's breath on Stephen's neck, as he whispered those words, was almost comforting.

Before he could consciously form an answer, a low ‘yes’ slipped from Stephen's mouth.

Stephen turned around to face his questioner but in the busy crowd of human traffic no one stood out among the dark eyes and downcast faces of his fellow wage slaves heading for the heart of Liverpool's business district.

Just a crank, he thought, a further sign of the decay of standards and moral decline of the city. At least it was metaphysical yobbery and not a punch in the face, yet the question had caused Stephen's internal warning system to crank up and send a fizz of adrenaline through his bloodstream that left him feeling uneasy. It took him a second to work out why but when the realisation came it brought on a wave of instant nausea. He didn't recognise the voice but he recognised the question.

Stephen stood there for a moment, an obstacle in the path of the early morning commuters battling their way up the hill. Someone bumped into him and muttered ‘stupid wanker’. Stephen barely noticed the abuse, he was too busy trying to rationalise what he had just heard. It must be a coincidence. He had been suffering from a cold and work had been stressful recently, the councils’ cutbacks had hit the education department especially hard and his workload was becoming unmanageable. The city was in the seventh week of a teachers’ strike and every day brought fresh abuse from the pickets that Stephen had to pass by to get to the council offices. That sort of stress could lead to all sorts of things, maybe even hallucinations?

Yet, Stephen had heard the man ask the question. He stood for a moment, stung by the cold wind full of salt and industrial metal particles that whipped in off the Mersey. He needed a drink.

There was a Starbucks opposite the council offices and although Stephen never went in there due to the possibility of bumping into ex-colleagues or striking teachers, this morning he needed to sit down and make sense of what had just happened. He ordered a double espresso and took a seat in an armchair facing the window. He sipped the bitter liquid hoping it would kick-start his brain, remove the fugue that been responsible for his imagination misfiring.

From here he could see the four teachers who made up the picket line outside the entrance to the council building. They stood around a brazier and carried hand-painted dayglo signs covered with slogans demanding to be paid. Not an unreasonable request, but an impossible one as the city's finances stood.

The pickets looked like PE teachers, thought Stephen, and he bet that was why they were chosen. Every morning they subjected the few remaining council workers who still had jobs to a torrent of verbal abuse.

In the warmth of the coffee house, Stephen began to make sense of what had just happened. Stress was a killer and he knew from past experience that it could make people do the strangest of things. He must have misheard, there was no other explanation other than someone else knew and that was impossible. Stephen made a mental note to speak to his boss, Emma, about his workload when he got into the office.

He let out a breath that he felt he'd been holding for the last ten minutes and took a sip of the coffee. Disgusting, he thought, he even let out a little laugh. He checked his wristwatch. He was late and had to get moving.

He looked across at the picket line. A fifth man had joined the group. He had his back turned to Stephen. The man was wearing a corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows and Stephen decided that the man was probably a Geography teacher.

Stephen took another sip of his coffee and then looked up again.

Fifty yards away, on the opposite side of the street, the man was standing still as office drones flowed around him. Suddenly he turned around and looked directly at Stephen. He wasn't moving, he was watching; watching him. Stephen saw the man move his head slightly to one side and then smile.

Stephen recognised the man instantly.

He felt his sympathetic nervous system go to full thrust, chemicals flooding his muscles and brain, preparing him for action. It was the same feeling that Stephen, a poor flyer, felt seconds before take-off when the plane stood on the edge of the runway and opened its throttles, no turning back.

Stephen's world shrank to one choice: run or die.

He ran.

He jumped out of his chair and ran out of the café. He risked a quick look across the street, the man had vanished but Stephen knew he would be near. He snapped his head left and then right. Right. Towards the docks was the only real option.

He plunged into the crowd of commuters and early morning tourists sending Styrofoam coffee cups flying and eliciting furious insults in a host of different languages. He didn't have a plan; he just had to get away. He ran – legs pumping, muscles burning – focusing only on the narrow tunnel of pavement immediately in front of him.

He passed a policeman holding a submachine gun, guarding the entrance to the James Street train station. The policeman barely gave him a glance as he streaked past: Stephen didn't fit the current profile.

He ran fast and hard, not daring to look back. He knocked a businessman's briefcase flying, papers scattering behind him. As he ran down James Street his legs carved longer strides as the road sloped downhill towards the Mersey and the Pier Head. He turned left, if he could get to the Albert Dock there would be more tourists, people he could hide among, maybe jump in a cab down there and put some real distance between him and the man.

There was no sound of pursuit, just the passing traffic and the howl of the wind. He kept running. He shot across the street and was vaguely aware of the sounds of cars slamming on brakes and swerving, horns blaring, more cosmopolitan insults being flung.

He ran through the wrought iron gates of the Albert Dock. The dock's refurbished and refitted Victorian bonded warehouses now housed apartments, bars, shops, museums and the northern branch of the Tate. It was a perfect place to lose somebody, full of tourists even at this time in the morning.

Stephen was aware of his breathing now he had stopped: long, gasping breaths that racked his body. He took a lungful of the cold salty air and felt the cracking of his alveoli as they struggled to take in oxygen. Stephen pulled back on his heels, the rubber soles of his shoes sliding and then catching on the cobblestones. Wheezing, he dug out his blue inhaler and took a puff, and after a second, the coolness of the chemicals relaxed his lungs.

He looked up and there was the man walking through the gates only fifty yards behind him. The man paused and looked directly at Stephen. For a second Stephen was frozen to the spot, he wanted to give up, throw himself at the man's mercy. Adrenaline saved him, flooding his shaky legs, forcing them to push off and steering him deeper into the dock complex.

The dock warehouses had been built in a square around a deep water dock, a walkway ran around the inside of the square giving access to the various shops and galleries that had replaced slave quarters and grain storage.

Stephen tore along the walkway like it was an Olympic running track. He heard nothing save for the thump of the blood in his head. He couldn't feel his chest now. All he knew was air must be coming in because his legs were still moving. Peripheral vision had gone, replaced by a ring of darkness at the edge of his sight. All he could see were the cobblestones in front of his feet.

He ran all the way along one side of the dock and then was halfway down the other when he was grabbed by a man standing at the top of some stairs leading down into a basement.

The man was wearing green Lennon spectacles, a fake moustache and a mop top wig. From some tiny speakers either side of the stairwell the Beatles’ ‘All You Need Is Love’ was playing.

‘Here, mate. You need to take a chill pill. Take a walk down Penny Lane, see Strawberry Fields.’

Stephen didn't have the breath to reply.

The man pushed Stephen down the steps into the Beatles Museum. Stephen turned and saw his pursuer emerge around a corner of a warehouse. He wasn't sure whether he had been spotted so he ran down the steps and entered the museum. Behind a ticket desk sat a bored, spotty youth reading a magazine with a tanned soap star on the cover. He was wearing large headphones and moving his head back and forth in time to a silent beat. Stephen dug in his pockets, finding a twenty-pound note, which he threw onto the counter.

‘Keep the change!’ he said to the attendant who ignored him. He entered the museum at a half jog.

Stephen had been to this museum before. It was one of the first places he and Jenna had gone on a date. He had a fond memory of her posing in front of a life-size wax diorama of the Beatles as he took her photograph. That day the museum had been crowded and full of life. Today it was empty, Stephen the only visitor.

The museum took the form of a series of twisting underground tunnels that linked rooms charting the career of the Beatles. The tunnels themselves were dimly lit and decorated with painted cardboard Liverpool street scenes from the sixties. There seemed to be no other customers and Stephen quickly moved through a recreation of Brian Epstein's office and the street where John Lennon was raised. In Epstein's office he paused to listen for the sounds of pursuit: he could hear nothing.

He carried on and the tunnels became darker, a recreation of the Reeperbahn in Hamburg, complete with lurid cardboard prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers. The darkness was interspersed with flashes from the green, blue and pink neon lights advertising the Kaiserkeller, the Star Club and striptease acts.

The silence was broken as Stephen entered another room, tripping the beam of a hidden motion sensor and triggered the sounds of the Reeperbahn: screams; police sirens; the Beatles playing Buddy Holly's ‘Rave On’.

He didn't hear the first gunshot. Just the crack in the air as the shell passed within an inch of his head, before slamming into the wooden face of a young Stuart Sutcliffe causing woodchip to explode like confetti.

Terrified, he plunged into the next room at the end of the tunnel, weaving one way and then the other. The passageway was barely lit and he nearly lost his footing, a mistake that he knew would lead to the end of his life.

Stephen began to sob but he kept running.

The tunnel opened out into a cellar filled with life-size black and white cardboard pictures of screaming teenage girls and at the far end was a stage with four waxwork models in suits, holding instruments. It was the Cavern. Stephen's movement triggered another hidden sensor and the screams of a thousand young girls filled the room. ‘Please, Please Me’ began to play.

A huge gaping hole appeared in the cardboard face of the teenage girl nearest to him. Stephen ducked into a side room from which three further tunnels branched off into the gloom.

There was a red telephone box in an alcove to the side of the room. There was a gap behind it, a dark shadow just big enough to squeeze into and hide. Stephen almost collapsed into the space. He forced his lungs to slow down, letting his breath come in shallow gasps, but barely enough to satisfy the starving need for oxygen in his lungs. Sweat poured down Stephen's face, he didn't dare wipe it away in case he made a noise. He shut his eyes to stop the sweat from running into them.

There was silence in the room for a second as the digital loop of screaming ended. Stephen heard a sigh and then a figure passed slowly in front of the darkened alcove where he was hiding.

He watched as the man paused and scanned the room. The man was wearing a rubber Ringo Starr mask. The stage lights accentuated dark shadows on the mask making it grotesque. Ringo turned and seemed to look directly at him as he cowered in the shadow. Stephen held his breath and prayed.

The man's head moved ever so slightly towards Stephen's hiding place as though he was straining to hear something in the dark and then there was a noise, the sound of metal on concrete from somewhere ahead in one of the tunnels that led from the room. His head snapped around and he moved towards the nearest tunnel and disappeared into the darkness.

Stephen waited for a minute. He needed air. He took out his inhaler and squeezed. The medicine was like cool water on a burn. When he felt the air sticking in his lungs again he decided to move. Instinctively, his fingers went to the small bronze St Christopher that hung around his neck. Once upon a time, he had thought it brought him good luck. He stroked it, took a breath and then slowly, and as quietly as he could, he edged out of his hiding place and started to softly walk back the way he had come. If he could get out now then maybe he could jump a cab on the dock road and make good his escape. He could even warn the others or perhaps the best course of action would be just to leave town, he owed them nothing after all.

He moved forward through the forest of cardboard teenagers and too late remembered the sensor. There was a click and the screaming started. It was deafening.

Stephen ran. As he got to the other end of the room, a stride away from the exit, when a bullet slammed into his thigh, ripping apart muscle and bone. He was thrown forward with the impact, one moment standing, the next flat on his back looking at the soot-coloured bricks of the faux Cavern ceiling.

Stephen screamed, his scream joining the cacophony of screaming girls. He heard someone moving slowly towards him; leather soles on tiles. Careful and methodical steps.

Stephen tried to sit up. He got halfway and looked at his leg. The remains of his kneecap protruded from an ugly exit wound. Dark arterial blood was pumping, staining the floor brown. Stephen collapsed back onto the floor.

Fifty-year-old screams intensified in volume as the Beatles launched into ‘Twist and Shout’.

He had no time to lose. Stephen pulled out his mobile phone and hit speed dial.

A female voice answered. ‘Hello?’

Stephen felt the cold steel barrel of a handgun press gently against his temple. Stephen began to sob. The man knocked the phone from his hand. It clattered on the stone floor.

He could hear a far away, tinny voice. ‘Stephen, is that you?’

Stephen watched a patent leather brogue crush the phone, twisting and turning until the wires and circuitry spilled out like guts.

The barrel of the gun was withdrawn from his head. Stephen was beginning to feel cold. He looked up at the man and into the face of the Ringo Starr mask. Ringo pulled out a twisted length of black leather from inside his jacket. He swung it slowly from side to side for a moment and then, almost gently, placed a loop around Stephen's neck before pulling it tight.

Stephen felt no pain: endorphins were flooding his brain, the shock blanking the pain out, systems were shutting down.

In the distance Stephen thought he could hear the sound of sirens, but it could have been the screams producing a Doppler effect as the blood pounded in his skull.

Ringo raised his gun.

‘Answer my question.’

Stephen struggled for breath. He shook his head.

The man took the end of the gun and inserted it into the place where Stephen's kneecap had been. He twisted the gun back and forth in the fleshy void. Stephen's scream merged with the screaming joy of a thousand teenagers.

Ringo took the gun out of the wound.

‘Answer my question. Answer it truthfully and correctly and you live.’ The man's voice betrayed no accent, no passion and, to Stephen's horror, no mercy.

Stephen started to cry. He didn't know the right answer, the answer that would save him. He gave the only answer he could: the truth.

The man took off his mask.

‘Wrong answer, Stephen. Turns out you need more than love.’

He began to pull the leather cord tight.

Stephen screamed.

CHAPTER 1

Erasmus looked over at the two men in the corner and knew that things were going to end badly. He had agreed to meet Dan here. Now that was looking like a big mistake. He sighed and waited for the inevitable.

The Mosquito Lounge was one of Erasmus Jones’ least favourite places in the world. It was also the bar where his friend, and main source of work, Dan Trent, liked to conduct business meetings. A relatively new bar that had looked hip four years previously, it now had the settled, tired, post-crash air of resigned desperation. A neon blue mosquito with a red tongue occasionally flashing and giving off a hiss that spoke of an unhealthy combination of poorly wired electrics and water, hung over the stairs that led down to the basement bar.

The bar was one of the many that had sprung up as Liverpool embarked on its year as European Capital of Culture. Europe had poured millions into the city, mixing with the ever available drug money and government funds to form an intoxicating cocktail of new developments, bars, restaurants and call centres, transforming, on the surface at least, the face of the city.

Glass and steel had replaced red brick and Victoriana. Manhattan style lofts had replaced flats, stakeholders replaced citizens and, most obvious of all, bars and a hoped for coffee culture replaced the pubs and clubs.

Now the focus was off, attention and the money switched elsewhere, the city seemed to be breathing a sigh of relief, taking off its glad rags and reverting to a more comfortable, familiar type.

Before entering the bar, Erasmus had been through a familiar routine of patting his jacket pockets, searching for a packet of cigarettes that he knew wasn't there. The smell of stale beer and cheap perfume emanating from the stairwell seemed to trigger the receptors in his brain responsible for his nicotine addiction. Finding no cigarettes, he had given a shrug and popped a piece of gum into his mouth before descending into the bowels of the Mosquito Lounge.

It was dark inside. Ronnie, the septuagenarian owner of the place, thought that daylight polluted a good bar. Hence the heavy velvet curtains over the tiny street-level windows. It took Erasmus a few moments for his eyes to adjust from the gloomy, slate grey light outside to the subterranean murk of the Mosquito Lounge.

The room's walls were lined in purple faux velvet that had been ripped and stained within weeks of opening. The laminated dancefloor that Erasmus crossed to reach the bar was sticky with the residue of a thousand pints of spilled lager. Each step required a conscious effort to lift his foot and move forward. It felt like you could get trapped down here. The bar, like a Venus flytrap, never letting you leave.

Erasmus spotted Dan. He was sitting in his usual place at the end of the bar and pretending to watch a TV screen that was mutely showing highlights from the day's general election coverage. Erasmus looked around to find the real source of Dan's attention.

In one corner of the room, sat at a small table, were two women, a blonde and a brunette. In this light they could be anything from twenty to fifty years old. By the amount of waxy looking cosmetics that they had slapped on, Erasmus guessed that they probably pitched somewhere towards the higher end of that particular scale.

The Mosquito Lounge ticked all the boxes that Dan Trent needed in a bar. These were, in order of importance: firstly, his wife would never ever be seen dead in such a place, neither would her friends or any of his colleagues other than those he invited, and finally it attracted a certain type of woman, usually divorced and with low expectations of life, namely the type of women that Dan Trent, loving husband and father of two young boys, liked.

Erasmus planted himself on a stool next to Dan. Dan didn't even look round.

‘OK, Erasmus. Here's the deal. You push me off my stool and then I get up off the floor and hit you hard, Jackie Chan style. You hit the deck and beg me to stop.’

Erasmus signalled the bored looking bar man who rolled his eyes but nevertheless wandered over to take his order.

‘Mineral water,’ said Erasmus.

Dan turned his head and gave him a look of contempt.

‘Then, the girls come over to check I'm OK and I'll explain we are long lost brothers fighting in a Legends of the Fall type way over our massive inheritance. They get all emotional over the display of testosterone and wealth and we take them back to the Shangri La for some Schezuan then onto the Malmaison for an afternoon of Heat magazine type debauchery. If it's good enough for celebrities, it's good enough for us. What do you say?’

‘How's Grace?’

Grace was Dan's long-suffering wife. Dan groaned.

‘Ahh you've gone and dumped icy water all over my fantasy man. It's not fair, especially given the gift I'm about to give you. And just because you're on the wagon, though you know I think sex addiction is just a made up Hollywood thing?’

Erasmus noticed that the blonde sitting at the corner table was sneaking looks at him that were lasting a couple of moments too long. He pondered the possibilities for a second and then discounted them. He decided to ignore Dan's comments about his sex addiction. It had been a mistake to tell him about it when trying to talk Dan into getting help for tackling his own demons

‘Gift?’

‘Yeah, what does every PI in this city want?’

‘To get a job anywhere else?’ said Erasmus.

‘You need to be careful. We can be a proud bunch here. Especially when southern jessies like you start slagging us off.’ He gave Erasmus a mock punch to the head.

‘You know I love this place. What did you tell me Carl Jung said? “Liverpool is the pool of life”,’ said Erasmus.

‘That's right. And don't you forget it. I am about to do you a massive favour. I know you used to do that secret squirrel stuff when you were in Afghanistan.’

Erasmus groaned. ‘I told you last month, I'm through with it all, I'm studying to be one of you lot. Going over to the dark side.’

Dan mimicked the plucking of an arrow from his chest. ‘I'm wounded, truly I am, but hey, you'll be in need of funds?’

Erasmus didn't reply.

‘I have a client. A very beautiful and potentially very rich client.’

Dan took a sip of his drink and paused for a moment. He smiled as Erasmus took the bait.

‘Go on.’

‘She has an unusual problem.’

‘Tell her to go to the clinic,’ said Erasmus.

‘You wouldn't say that if you saw her, Raz. She's stunning.’

‘Your judgement on such matter is suspect.’

Dan turned and waved at the women sitting in the corner booth. They giggled and one of them, the elder one, by Erasmus’ reckoning, raised her drink in response. Reluctantly, Dan turned back to Erasmus.

‘I see the inner beauty. Look, it's straightforward. My client's husband is missing. She needs you to find him.’

‘Tell her to go to the police.’

‘She has already. He's been gone two weeks. You know what they do, add him to the Missing Persons Register and that's it. You know how many people are on that list? Thousands. Even I was on it once. Grace called the cops when I got stranded at a conference in London.’

Erasmus rolled his eyes. He knew what that meant.

‘He's been suffering from stress, work problems, the usual drill, so he's gone walkabout. If we can help track him down, she will be very grateful.’

‘Other woman, gay, breakdown or dead,’ said Erasmus.

Dan smiled at Erasmus. ‘And you're just the man to find out. I told her I knew the best, someone who was trained in these matters, who had fought in Afghanistan. Come on, you just need to help find a missing person. You tracked al-Qaeda, didn't you? This should be a doddle.’

Dan eyed up the two women for a moment just to let them know he was still interested, and then sipped his drink.

‘I told your boss after the last case that was the end of it.’

‘What was that?’ asked Dan.

‘An assault case.’

‘An assault on what?’

Erasmus knew then that Dan must have heard.

His last case had been digging for dirt on an attendant at the local Blue Planet Aquarium. He'd witnessed Eramus’ client's son, high on meth, stabbing a stingray. But Erasmus had found someone who had sold the witness some marijuana the day before and the case had gone away. Not his proudest moment.

‘I am giving you a beautiful woman who will pay a proper billing rate.’

‘So she's beautiful and rich. Have you tried to bed her? Is your firm going to be facing a harassment suit? Is this what this is all about?’

‘Not at all. If I wasn't married then I may have been tempted but you know me, faithful to the bone.’

‘She turned you down, didn't she?’

Dan laughed.

‘Oh and the part about her being rich, that's not strictly true either. It's her uncle-in-law, he's the rich guy. He has lots and lots of lovely money. He was a direct beneficiary of the war on terror. Before 9/11 he was running a wholesale business for medical supplies. Doing OK, but no Donald Trump. Post 9/11 he found himself with warehouses full of surgical masks, gloves and other stuff that he suddenly realised he could sell online to the public. Throw in a few flu pandemic scares and you have a very successful businessman.’

Erasmus’ drink arrived. He took a sip. Dan shifted in his chair.

‘So she comes to see me last week. Tells me that the day he disappeared he just never showed up for work. He works as a bean counter for the council. She got a call from him early in the morning. Seems he pulled a pervo – calls and then breathes heavily down the line – and she still wants to find him.’

‘And?’

‘That's it. He's been missing ever since. His mobile phone company say his phone is switched off or broken. No trace of him at any of the hospitals or any contact with relatives or friends. The police think he's probably had a breakdown and done a runner. Apparently, he was under a lot of pressure. He worked for the council in the education department and his boss thinks things were getting him down. He was a strike breaker.’

Before he could help it, an ugly word popped into Erasmus’ mind: scab. That's what his father would call a strike breaker. Inherited prejudices were often the hardest to break. He shook his head and tired to dismiss the thought.

Dan cast a glance over to the corner table. The girls had been joined by two men. He groaned.

‘I don't want the case. I saw this happen in the Army: once a shit-kicker, always a shit-kicker. I'm going to have to say no to this one,’ said Erasmus.

Dan had started to slur his words. Not a good sign at midday on a Friday afternoon, thought Erasmus.

‘Did I tell you I mentioned it to the Bean? You know how hard it is to get a training contract these days? Especially for a man of your, ahem, advancing years. Do this favour and you will be looked upon favourably. Does that help your decision?’

Erasmus’ hand went to the empty cigarette pocket. He had sent off nearly fifty letters already trying to get a training contract at a law firm. Without one, the money he had borrowed, the exams he had passed, all of it would have been wasted. And more importantly, one of the final building blocks in the bridge to a new life wouldn't be in place. He thought of Abby and sighed.

‘Why do I feel I have no choice?’

‘Because you haven't, my friend. We never do.’

Out of the corner of his eye Erasmus noticed that the two men were looking over in their direction and one of them was pointing at Dan. The man was in his late thirties, had a huge balding head and was wearing a tight T-shirt that stretched over bulging muscles. Erasmus sighed and out of habit scanned the room quickly for weapons and exits. Dan was oblivious to the mounting danger.

‘I tell you what, I'll meet her, but that's it. I'm not giving up my life on this one.’

‘Excellent. The Bean will be delighted. He really wants the uncle's account. The firm will be grateful for this, you know that.’

Dan pulled out a white card from his suit jacket pocket and handed it to Erasmus.

‘That's her number. Most men would pay good money to get hold of those digits. Trust me on this one, Erasmus, I've just done you the biggest favour of your life.’

He handed the card to Erasmus.

Dan raised his glass in mock toast.

‘Salut!’

He downed his drink in one gulp.

‘You sticking around? Going to help me save those damsels in distress?’

Dan turned and winked elaborately at the women.

‘Shit,’ said Erasmus under his breath. He turned and faced the bar, taking hold of his glass of water, and hoped that he was wrong about was about to happen.

It was a forlorn hope.

The two men left their seats and walked right up to Dan, standing deep within his personal space.

The older man stood slightly ahead of the other, younger man. He was clearly the leader. Erasmus noticed both were wearing builders’ boots and had hands like shovels: Dan wouldn't stand a chance.

It was the bigger one who spoke, spittle landing on Dan's face.

‘And what fucking damsels are they, eh? Do you mean my fiancée? Twat.’

Dan, invulnerable with booze, made a mistake.

‘Fuck, those big ears aren't just for balance then?’ He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

The man knocked Dan's arm away making Dan lose his balance and fall from his stool.

In an instant, Erasmus was up and had shoved his glass bottom first into the man's sternum, causing him to double up. Erasmus brought his knee up, cracking the man's nose and then used his right arm to gently lower the unconscious man to the floor.

Erasmus’ eyes never left the second, younger man who now took a step back and began to raise his arms.

‘Help your friend. We're leaving. This is just a misunderstanding yeah.’

‘Yeah, a misunderstanding,’ mumbled the second man. He moved forward and began to help up his friend who had come round and was making whimpering noises.

Erasmus held out his hand to Dan. He took it and let Erasmus pull him up from the floor where he had contentedly watched the action.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Erasmus.

Dan hugged him and started to laugh almost hysterically.

‘Brilliant, that was fantastic. I knew you were the man for the job.’

‘Come on, let's get you in a taxi.’ He slipped out of Dan's embrace and led them away from the bar and up the stairs that crawled up out of the bowels of the Mosquito Lounge.

It was a relief to be in the cool air. Inside the Mosquito Lounge it had been heavy with humidity. Erasmus put it down to the years of sweat, beer and tears that seemed to be ingrained into the place.

He hailed a passing cab and shoved Dan inside. Dan sat back in the cab's rear seat and then sprang forward and rolled down the rear window.

‘Why did your client stab the fish? Was it a revenge attack for Steve Irwin?’

‘No, he told the police it was because he had just found out, and this is a direct quote, “That his bird was preggo”.’

Dan considered this for a second and then nodded in understanding.

‘You gotta love this city. By the way, Jenna Francis is expecting to meet you in Starbucks on Bold Street, in – ’ he checked his wristwatch ‘ – twenty minutes. She looks like Nicole Kidman, you can't miss her!’ And then he banged the driver's seat with his hand and the cab pulled away.

Erasmus instinctively searched for his cigarettes and then, for the thousandth time in the last four weeks, found himself remembering his promised Abby he'd quit. He had broken many promises over the last couple of years but there was no way he would break a promise to a six-year-old girl who also happened to be the most precious thing in his life.

CHAPTER 2

Mayor Lynch reached for the plastic pillbox in his jacket pocket. For a second he panicked as his hand failed to locate the box but then he remembered that he had left the dispenser in his desk drawer.

He opened the drawer and was rewarded with the sight of the opaque, light green pillbox. He eagerly popped a pill from the container, swallowing it before he realised he had no water to wash it down with.

The Mayor's aide, Anthony Torpenhow, watched the familiar scene. His face betrayed no emotion as he passed the Mayor the half empty can of Diet Coke he had been drinking.

The Mayor greedily accepted the can and flushed the pill down his throat, visibly relaxing long before the pill could dissolve and have any effect.

‘Ah. Thanks, Tony. I really don't know what I'd do without you.’

The two sat for a moment in silence.

The Mayor had noticed these silences growing in length in the last six months, as the depth and seeming impossibility of the financial crisis affecting the city hung over them like a hungry dog waiting to feed. He also blamed the oppressive atmosphere of the office that came with the Mayor's position, so different from the vibrant campaign offices in Bold Street surrounded by bars, bistros and the younger, more diverse population of that area. In this part of town, at the top of Castle Street, the streets were dark and silent after six o'clock and the gloom that descended on them seemed to pervade the town hall.

The office was lined with dark oak panelling and furnished with oil paintings of Liverpool maritime scenes and Victorian merchants. In places there were pale patches of oak surrounding newer photographs of the Mayor with visiting dignitaries and local football and reality TV stars. The placing of the photographs had been the Mayor's first executive decision: replacing oil paintings that depicted aspects and notable personages of Liverpool's commercial history as a major port in the slave trade. His actions had echoed his campaign slogan: A break from the past!

It was Anthony who usually broke the silence. Sometimes, he thought that if he did not speak the Mayor would be happy to sit in silence for the rest of his term in office.

However, on this occasion, it was the Mayor who spoke first.

‘I was thinking about how we won the election. Do you remember it?’

‘I do indeed, Mr Mayor. It was history in the making, the first Liberal elected mayor of Liverpool, the first in the country. Your speech was very special.’ He didn't need to add that he had written it.

‘Remember what I said?’

‘How could I forget?’ said Anthony.

The Mayor didn't pick up, or chose to ignore, Anthony's tone.

‘I talked about Churchill uniting the country in adversity, of this city's proud past fighting the fascists and how we would stand together, shoulder to shoulder, to face this new challenge, to build a modern, tech-based city, modern but with values, to come together in a noble purpose.’

There might have been tears welling in the Mayor's eyes. Anthony's were dry and unblinking.

‘And how the best party for the job was the Liberals and I the best man. We made it a matter of principal, party politics goes in the dustbin when the barbarians are at the gates. And the city came together in a common purpose, to save Liverpool.’

‘Great days indeed, Mr Mayor.’

The Mayor looked up as though only just realising that Anthony was present. The Mayor scratched behind his right ear, a trait that Anthony had come to treat as a warning.

‘And now we know why the Labour fuckers didn't put up a fight! They knew it was a poisoned chalice didn't they, Anthony, eh! We, you, should have seen this coming. The fucking city is bankrupt. We are the fucking hangover after the party. Crash, bang fucking wallop, eh! 2013 we haven't got fifty pence for the meter, 2014 we are going to end up a Third-World city.’

‘It's developing nation, Mr Mayor.’

The Mayor looked confused. ‘Eh?’

‘It's not “Third World” any more, that is considered an insensitive Western expression. We say “developing nation” now.’

The Mayor waved his hand in the air and looked at Anthony in disgust. He ignored the interruption.

‘I've got Craig, the snivelling little cockney twat, demanding that I don't screw up the first real chance to show that we can govern on our own but he hasn't got any cash to give me, has he? No, just wise fucking words!’

The Mayor swept his arm across a pile of blue folders that covered his desk, the folders and the paperweight went flying onto the parquet floor. He slumped back into his chair.

‘We are well and truly fucked. The city is bankrupt. Unless your Oxbridge educated arse can pluck a rabbit out of a fucking hat!’

Anthony got up from his chair and slowly picked up the folders and placed them back on the Mayor's desk. He picked up the paperweight weighing its heft in his hand before gently placing it on the desk. He took out a Mulberry wallet from his inside jacket pocket and removed a white business card embossed with grey lettering from its folds. He handed it to the Mayor.

‘May I present to you, Bugs Bunny.’

The Mayor looked at the card.

‘Have we really come to this?’ he asked.

‘It's this or the city goes under.’

The Mayor felt something twist in his stomach. Maybe it was the pill lodging in his bowel, causing an internal bleed, a contraction that would be the first step on an organic breakdown that would lead to a total system failure.

He sighed.

‘Call him.’

CHAPTER 3

Bold Street ran north to south up a hill to the gutted St Luke's church that had been bombed out by the Nazis and left empty as a reminder of the destruction the city had suffered in the war. The roofless church was now filled with sculpture: dozens of multicolored lamb bananas – crosses between a lamb and a banana by Taro Chiezo that had become the unofficial mascot of the city, second only to the Liver Birds.

The street was filled with small, independent shops, galleries, bistros and Paola's, a tiny espresso bar run by Mario that had been there for years before coffee became a chain store concern. Erasmus passed Paola's, waving at Mario through the plate-glass window and cursed before entering the Starbucks a few hundred yards further on.

It was exactly the type of place that Erasmus hated. Everything about it screamed ‘contrived’. From the antiqued objet d'art that were scattered around the place, to the company's commitment to climate change that was loudly proclaimed on every mass-produced cup, coffee mat and every poster that covered the walls. Erasmus gave an involuntary shiver as he ordered his espresso and scanned the room for a Nicole Kidman lookalike. The place was busy but he couldn't see anyone who might be Jenna. Erasmus found the only empty table in the place and took a seat.

Ten minutes later the door swung open and a woman who Erasmus instantly knew was Jenna entered the coffee shop. She had the slightly upturned nose of the Hollywood star and Erasmus instantly saw the resemblance. Red hair framed large blue eyes and a pretty, pale face.

He waved at her and she waved back before going to order. Erasmus tried his best not to stare as she ordered her drink. He failed.

She walked over to his table and took the seat opposite him dragging it closer to him. Erasmus suddenly become extremely self-conscious and for a second wondered if the groan he had heard in his head had actually passed his lips.

‘You must be Erasmus,’ she said.

OK. First-name terms. This is good, thought Erasmus. Currently, the only women on first-name terms with him were: Abby – if you counted Daddy and he did, his PA, Sandy, and Miranda.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

Mercifully a small voice in his head sent out a command to his mouth, ‘Talk.’

‘Hi, yes, I'm Erasmus, it's good to meet you, and green tea, I see. It's meant to be good for you, isn't it?’

She looked at him with a hint of pity. ‘Yep, the antioxidants. I'm a debit/credit person. Nicotine debit, green tea credit. You must have walked right past me?’

Erasmus a non-smoker for 6 weeks, 2 days and 14 hours probably had. Part of his withdrawal technique was to ignore all smokers. Service denial he called it.

‘I probably did. I'm trying to give up at the moment.’

‘A noble cause. People make all sorts of moral judgements about you because you smoke, these days. Have you noticed all the villains in Hollywood movies now smoke? They used to be either Russian, English or South African. Now they're all smokers.’

‘Benson & Hedges are the next axis of evil.’

Jenna laughed. ‘I think we're going to get along,’ she said, brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

Erasmus smiled and they both fell silent for a moment. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Molly's, his sponsor's, number was in his phone, he could always step outside and call her like he had done so many times before. Let her remind him of how far he had come, the damage he was repairing.

He looked down at the table, anywhere but at Jenna, and said nothing.

Jenna broke the silence. ‘So to business. I presume Dan has filled you in on my situation?’

‘He's given me the basics.’

‘And what do you think?’

She looked Erasmus directly in the eye. For a moment he considered soft-soaping the matter, and just as quickly decided to give her the truth as he saw it.

‘OK, you know the reasons behind most adult disappearances are not foul play, it's usually down to mental illness, work problems or, top of the list, relationship breakdown.’

This time it was his turn to look her in the eye. She didn't blink but instead lent back and sipped her tea. She maintained eye contact. He shivered involuntarily but ignored the pleasure filled adrenaline stream lapping at his nerve endings.

‘Stephen has worked for the city council's education department for eleven years and it's been stressful in the last couple of years with the budget cuts but nothing he can't handle. I've been married to Stephen for fourteen years. He's mentally stable, never takes a day off work, never been in trouble with the police, never had an affair or even flirted with another woman, as far as I am aware. Sometimes I wished he had some bloody faults, make him more like me. Two weeks ago, he got showered and dressed for work, picked up his briefcase, got the train to town and never made it into work. He disappeared.’

This was going to be more difficult than Erasmus had first thought.

‘What's your relationship like with your husband?’

She studied Erasmus coolly. She didn't say anything for a second but he noticed her fingers were playing with a packet of sugar on the table.

‘We've been married a long time. I don't want to sound like a cliché but I love my husband, I'm just not necessarily in love with him.’

‘And does he know this?’

‘Are you married?’

‘Separated.’

‘Well then, you'll know that marriages change over time. We are life companions, love sometimes changes into that doesn't it? I feel responsible for him, I always have done, and I am frightened for him.’

For a moment her cool façade slipped. Erasmus saw the beginnings of a tear bead in her eye and she dropped her head momentarily. When she brought her eyes back to his, the mask was back.

‘Do you think he had a lover maybe?’

She twisted the sugar pack into a ball and its contents spilled onto the table. ‘He is not the type to keep secrets.’

‘I'm sorry and I don't mean to upset you. I'm just trying to establish what caused him to disappear and if it isn't a random event, if he had a hand in it, whether by choice or not, then it must have been something that was important to him. And if you don't know what that was then I guess he kept it secret from you. People can keep anything secret from the ones they love the most.’

Jenna's eyes narrowed.

‘Is that cod psychology or spoken from experience?’

‘It's just the way it is sometimes,’

She lent back in her chair and took a deep breath.

‘Look, Erasmus, the only things important in my husband's life are God, me and his job, probably in that order.’

Erasmus detected a note of bitterness.

‘He's a religious man then?’

‘Yes, he always was, though less so in the last few years. He was a choir boy at St Mary's when he was a kid and then when Father Michael left he followed him to the World Evangelical Church, the Third Wave.’

‘He's a born again?’

‘He's there come rain or shine every Sunday, he's a regular Ned Flanders.’

‘And you?’

‘Weddings, funerals and Christmas. We used to argue about it years ago, but not for a long time now. My husband is a good man. He just wanted to make sure my soul would be saved and now it's my turn to save him. He would never disappear like this unless something had happened. The police think he's run off with another woman. I know that's not the truth. I need your help.’

She reached across the table and took hold of Erasmus’ hand.

‘Will you help me Erasmus?’

‘Hang on a second.’

Erasmus stood up and walked across to the next table. A girl in her late twenties was busily writing in her notebook. Erasmus snatched the notebook off the table. There were gasps from the other customers.

‘What do you think you are doing!’ said the girl, looking up at him with large blue eyes hidden behind thick, black plastic spectacles. She looked frightened but Erasmus recognised something else there as well, defiance.

Erasmus looked at the notepad and cursed. It was shorthand.

The girl stood up and stretched out her hand.

‘Give me my book back,’ she said.

Erasmus looked around; there were at least twenty pairs of eyes staring at him, waiting to see what he would do. He put the notebook back on the table.

‘My apologies, miss. Mistaken identity. I thought the notebook was mine.’

The girl looked down and spoke quietly. ‘Bullshit.’

As soon as the notebook was on the table the girl snatched it and shoved into her oversized bag before hurrying out of the café. Anxious silence was replaced by the regular café background noise as the threat of unpleasantness receded.

Erasmus sat back down. Jenna looked appalled.

‘Do you want to tell me what that was about?’

‘She was listening in to our conversation and making notes.’

‘What had she written?’

‘I couldn't read it, it was in shorthand.’

‘How do you know it was about us then?’

‘There was one bit I did understand, my name, “Erasmus” and a question mark. Do you know why someone would be following you Jenna?’

Jenna looked him dead in the eye.

‘I haven't got a clue. We aren't important people. But it must be connected to his disappearance surely? It can't be a coincidence, can it?’

‘I don't know, maybe, maybe not,’ said Erasmus.

‘Will you help me find Stephen?’

Erasmus leaned back in his chair. He very much wanted to see more of Jenna Francis and the truth was he didn't think it was a coincidence that somebody was making notes on their conversation.

‘Yes I will.’

CHAPTER 4

Marcus hadn't been to a church for over ten years and even now he wasn't sure that he could bring himself to go in.

It was a Friday service, late afternoon, and he supposed that the fresh-faced vicar standing forlornly at the entrance to the church could blame the filthy weather for the poor attendance although Marcus knew, from having walked past the city centre World Evangelical Church earlier that day, that they had no problems with attendance on such a shitty day.

He gave the lead a tug and pulled Toby, his black Labrador, away from the tombstone of an unknown soul lost at sea. The graveyard attached to St Christopher's, here at the estuary mouth of the Mersey in Crosby, was filled with such tombstones, testament to the killing power of the sea that lay beyond.

Toby who had been about to leave his calling card on the tombstone gave a low grumble and then rubbed himself on Marcus's leg. Marcus patted his haunches.

‘Good man,’ he said to the dog.

The vicar had noticed Marcus now and was waving to him, beckoning him over. For a second Marcus considered walking over but instead he raised his hand and turned his back to the vicar, pulling Toby towards the graveyard gates.

Outside the churchyard the eastbound carriageway was beginning to clog up with the evening exodus of vehicles from the city heading towards the suburbs of Crosby, Formby and Southport. It was almost dark at 5 p.m., and black clouds were rolling in from the Atlantic carrying rain destined for the west coast. Marcus drew up the high collars of his overcoat and decided that he would cut Toby's walk short this evening. A quick stroll down to the beach, let him do his business and then home to a four-pack of Stella and Coronation Street.

He cut down Shore Drive and soon he was on the beach. It had been transformed with the arrival of the Gormley statues a few years previously. Part of the whole Capital of Culture thing. Most of it a massive waste of money, in Marcus’ opinion. There were people starving in this city, you only had to open your eyes to see it, and yet it was acceptable to have millions of pounds going into the pockets of non-local celebrity artists for a pile of junk.

But, the statutes, even he had to admit, were an impressive and moving sight. The work was called Another Place. One hundred ghostly, life-size cast-iron figures dotted along three kilometres of the Crosby shore, sparse in some areas and becoming more congregated as they reached out far into the sea. The statues were cast from a mould of the artist's own body, his genitalia on open show. And had the church spoken out about it? Not a dickybird, as usual. It seemed anything was allowed these days, except criticising the deviants. No wonder everything was going to Hell in a handcart.

Marcus led Toby across the sand dunes and down onto the shore. The beach was deserted and the incoming tide was already covering some of the statues. Soon they would soon be completely submerged.

Toby sniffed at a dead seagull and then took an exploratory nibble. Marcus dragged the dog onwards along the shore. He wanted to get away from the orange sodium streetlighting that cast its soft glow on the sand.

The rain was getting heavier. It was slating in off the sea almost horizontally and straight into his face. In the distance the Seaforth Atlantic terminal was lit up with arc lights, like a cityscape from some future metropolis. In front of it, huge wind turbines were revolving in the first of winter's real storms.

Out of the gloom another dog walker appeared, his face almost totally obscured by the hood of his Berghaus jacket. The man was being led by a Malumute. Some people had no idea about dogs, thought Marcus. He would never be led by Toby.

He gave the chain a tug. Toby's muzzle was cast downwards now as though even he wanted his walk to end. Marcus turned his face towards the rain driving in from the dark sea and pulled Toby out towards the shadows where there was a statue not yet surrendered to the advancing sea.

The statue was over six foot tall. It faced the oncoming sea as though in silent expectation. Marcus stood for a moment looking at the eyeless statue facing the Atlantic and the New World. Maybe he should have left all those years ago when he had the chance.

‘Bollocks to it all!’ he shouted into the wind and rain. He took a nip from his hip flask, the brandy was cheap but it felt like home.

Toby wagged his tail.

The sand was mushy here but it would be twenty minutes or so he reckoned before the sea covered this statue.

Toby sniffed around the base of the statue and then settled on his haunches.

‘Good lad,’ said Marcus. He patted the dog.

The water was lapping at this feet and he would have to get out of here soon. Maybe a pint and a packet of cheese and onion crisps in the Hangman's Noose, his favourite pub on the front. That would be just the ticket on a night like this. He gave a shiver, part from cold and part in greedy expectation of his pint.

And then a hand gripped his shoulder.

Marcus froze, an image of the statue coming to life filled his mind. The muscles in his legs loosened. He thought he might collapse but the hand remained on his shoulder.

Slowly, he turned around.

There was a man standing next to the statue, his arm outstretched, gripping Marcus's shoulder tightly. The man was wearing a black balaclava and only his eyes, dark against a pale skin, could be seen.

Marcus didn't need to see any more of the man's face, he knew instantly who he was: he was judgement. Marcus felt his knees begin to buckle. Toby had adopted a submissive position sprawled by Marcus's feet on the wet sand, ears back and whimpering.

‘What do you want?’ Marcus managed to splutter.

The man had something in his hand and he was teasing it back and forth. Marcus, an ex-soldier, recognised it for what it was: a ligature made of black leather.

Marcus crossed himself. ‘I'm so sorry.’

The man asked Marcus a question.

CHAPTER 5

For Erasmus, home was an apartment in the rather grandly named Atlantic Way complex. Part of a development that had originally been built for aspiring young professionals, a mix of new build apartments and regulation town houses built on the site of an old cotton warehouse as part of the process of Capital of Culture gentrification prior to the crash. Post-crash the tide had started to come the other way and now the complex was on the outer rim of what was considered acceptable housing for the middle classes who had moved into the city from the surrounding suburbs. It stood like a Roman fort at the edge of the city, abutting the neighboring ‘problem’ estate of the Dingle with its black bricked terraces, survivors of slum clearances, and sixties tower blocks.

Built quickly and running to seed even quicker, the apartments were originally intended to be the first apartment for a class of young professionals that simply didn't exist post-crash. Now the complex was for the lonely and those whose relationships had broken down: the last apartment.

At weekends there was a seemingly never-ending procession of deliveries from the IKEA store. When he thought of his new home Erasmus thought of broken people putting together flatpack furniture.

Erasmus’ apartment didn't suffer from this surfeit of Swedish pine. It didn't suffer from a surfeit of furniture full stop. There were two bedrooms, his, which contained a bed, some clothes rails and lots of books scattered on the floor, and Abby's which he had painted pink and filled with cushions, a large bed and some of her favourite toys liberated from Miranda's house. The living/dining area had an old couch and a small TV. Erasmus refused to buy anything that suggested permanence. This was not his life, not yet.

He plugged his mobile phone into a charger and it blinked into life. He had three new messages.

The first message was from Miranda asking him how Abby's ‘show and tell’ class had gone. As soon as he heard the message he shut his eyes and cursed Dan, Jenna and most of all, himself. How could he have forgotten?

The second message was from Miranda and was more strident and urgent and eventually pleading that her appointment schedule meant she couldn't get to the school without letting down her patients and he had promised Abby and her that he would be there.

On the third message her tone had changed. She told him that she had ducked out of her meeting, handing over her work to a junior colleague and gone to Abby's class, and thanked Erasmus ‘for his kind fucking assistance’.

Erasmus clicked off his messages and as soon as he did so his phone began to ring. He recognised the tone immediately as one that Abby had downloaded as her identifying tone on his phone. It was a sickly saccharine pop song version of the Smiths ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ from the latest X Factor winner.

Erasmus hit answer.

‘Hi Daddy,’ said Abby.

‘Hey sweetheart, I'm sorry I missed your class today. I was caught up in work.’

‘I didn't get a chance to do it, Daddy. The teachers sent us home. Mum had to come and pick me up with Jeff.’

Erasmus felt sick. Jeff was a name he didn't know. He took a deep breath.

‘Daddy, what's a scab?’

He decided to duck the ‘scab’ conversation. ‘I'll tell you when I see you, better yet, ask your mum. By the way, honey, can you put your mum on?’

‘OK, Daddy, I love you! Are you still not smoking?’

Her anxiety for him caused Erasmus’ stomach to churn. She shouldn't have to worry about him.

‘Honey, of course. I made you a promise and you know what they are?’

There was a pause.

‘I remember. It's the most important thing in the world. Mum, Dad wants to speak to you!’

‘Love you, Abby,’ he replied to an empty line.

The phone crackled as it was passed from daughter to mother.

‘Erasmus.’

Miranda's tone of voice was one that Erasmus had filed under ‘Disappointment’. It was a resigned and frustrated tone that had not appeared in their marriage until after he returned from Afghanistan. She had plenty to be disappointed about. The word ‘irresponsible’ was repeated over and over. She had a point and Erasmus had been prepared to let her vent but there was a ‘Jeff’ in the equation now.

‘Why was your phone switched off?’

An image of Jenna popped into Erasmus’ head. He dismissed it. ‘The battery was dead and I had a meeting with a client. And what's so important that you can't get away?’

‘Patients. You know I was lucky to get a job with the breaks in my CV. I can't let people down.’

‘Yeah me too especially in a place two hundred miles away from home.’ A cheap shot that made Erasmus wince even as he said it. They both knew why she had moved north.

‘Look, we need to keep things as normal as possible. Liverpool represents a new start for all of us, including you.’

‘You chose to come here. I only came to be near Abby!’ Even as he was shouting he hated himself, he knew how petulant it all sounded but he couldn't stop.

Miranda sighed. ‘Look, just try and keep your phone switched on. The two of us have to look after Abby.’

He knew he was going to say it, knew it wouldn't help, but he couldn't stop himself. ‘Aren't you forgetting to count Jeff.’ He spat out the name.

There was a catch in her voice when she responded and for a second Erasmus thought that Miranda was going to cry.

‘Jeff's not important.’

‘Except when you're fucking him.’

‘Goodbye, Erasmus.’

The line went dead.

Erasmus banged his mobile phone on the dining table repeatedly. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

CHAPTER 6

Across the city, on the steps of the town hall, Mayor Lynch stubbed out his cigarette and then popped a mint into his mouth. He had promised his wife Daphne that he would give up once in office, but, like many of his election promises, it was proving harder to deliver than promise.

The Mayor hesitated before opening the service door that led back into the council offices. He didn't want to have to make the decision that was waiting for him inside. He looked up into the cold blue skies as though hoping for inspiration. None was forthcoming.

‘Sod it,’ he said to nobody.

He opened the door and stepped back into the building. When he reached the antechamber outside his office he noticed that his door stood ajar. Andrea, his PA, was standing outside looking flustered.

‘I told them you weren't in but Anthony was with them and said it was fine. I told him that they should wait out here but you know Anthony. I'm sorry Mayor Lynch.’

He gave her wrist a sympathetic squeeze. ‘Don't worry, you did the right thing. I told Anthony to take them straight in.’

He had told him no such thing and he felt a wave of angry blood break across his cheeks. He pushed the door to his office open and was initially relieved to see that no one was sitting behind his desk. He had expected Anthony to be sitting there with his feet up.

The Mayor recognised the sound of Anthony's polite cough and turned to face him. By the window were four armchairs. He recognised the occupants of two of them. The third was a man he had never seen before.

The Mayor put on his game face and smiled at his guests. ‘Mr Bovind and Mr?’

The third man didn't speak or indeed move a muscle to register the Mayor's presence. He was wearing a black suit over a tough wiry frame and the way he sat in the armchair reminded the Mayor of a cat: relaxed but poised, ready to strike. The man's head was bowed, his hands resting in his lap. He looked asleep, or at prayer. The Mayor noticed a roughly inked tattoo of an angel on the man's right hand.

Anthony stood up. He could always rely on Anthony's manners.

‘Yes, you know Kirk, of course.’

The Mayor extended his hand to the software billionaire who ignored it but instead stood up and embraced him like a long lost brother.

Kirk Bovind was one of the world's richest men and certainly the richest man that had ever come from Liverpool since the days of the slavers but he looked like a catalogue model from the seventies. He had a slim build, was tall, had a Californian golden tan, dark brown hair and the shiniest, whitest teeth and eyes that the Mayor had ever seen. Kirk was dressed in a pastel green polo shirt and chinos with bare brown feet wrapped in expensive Italian leather loafers and he didn't look a day over thirty although the Mayor knew that he was at least forty-five.

The Mayor had Googled Bovind a couple of times but Bovind's lawyers and computer experts were ruthless in the removal of any personal information from the web. Information on his company Intracom was widely available but little was known about its founder, CEO and main shareholder. The Intracom PR department had only released a few scant details: Bovind was born in Allerton, Liverpool, to a single mother and educated by the brothers at St Edward's until the age of sixteen when he left for America having gained a scholarship to study Computer Science at MIT. Ten years later he founded Intracom, providing cheap software solutions to schools and winning contract after contract from state governments before launching the product that made Intracom a global business, its family friendly search engine, Lightspeed. The rest was counting dollars.

Kirk let the Mayor free from his embrace.

‘You look tired, Mayor,’ said Kirk.

The Mayor tried to laugh it off.

‘What can I say, the pressures of the job.’

‘I've heard all about it from Anthony and I'm here to help you.’

Kirk flashed his brilliant teeth at the Mayor and then sat back down in his armchair, looking at the stranger sitting in the other armchair and then at Anthony.

Anthony stared back at the Mayor but didn't say a word and for an absurd moment Mayor Lynch thought that they would stay stuck in this silence as no one wanted to introduce the man to the Mayor and the man seemed in no hurry to speak or even acknowledge the presence of the Mayor.

Bovind obliged.

‘And I don't think you've met my spiritual adviser, Pastor Thomas Canch?’

Thomas Canch didn't offer his hand but rather nodded his head ever so slightly in the Mayor's direction. The Mayor got his first proper look at the man. Taut pale skin covered the man's bald head and face. His eyes were sharp flints of grey and shadowed in the recesses of deep sockets. The Mayor nodded back and was relieved that he could turn his eyes away from the Pastor back towards Bovind.

Anthony sat down. ‘We've been discussing Kirk's kind offer,’ he said by way of explanation to the Mayor.

Mayor Lynch noticed the ‘we've’ and wondered what Bovind had promised Anthony. ‘You know my difficulties with this proposal,’ said Mayor Lynch.

Bovind smiled again. ‘I do and I respect that position but I believe that you are going to want to change your mind Mr Mayor. Your city's situation is common knowledge. Only I can save you and our city.’

The Mayor felt a twist in his stomach. He knew he would have to accept the offer but even now he wanted to refuse and run from the building but he knew that he couldn't do that. What stopped him, he wondered? Ambition, pride, or most likely just the lack of will to extract himself from this difficult situation. And there was something else too. He realised with a start that he was frightened of these men, Bovind and the Pastor. There was something unspoken between them, something he would never understand, and it was something dark and strong. The Mayor started to shake his head.

Bovind leaned forward in his chair and placed his hands, palm upwards, on his knees.

‘Let's cut to the chase: Liverpool is bankrupt. Anthony has shared the figures with me. It's grim reading. If you were one of my companies I would be shutting you down today, hell yesterday! Essential services – the hospitals, waste management – are just about coping but the money will run out in, let's see, three weeks’ time unless you get some more central funding.’

‘We are hopeful that will happen.’

Bovind chuckled. ‘I can tell you right now that it will not happen.’

‘The Minister hasn't given any indication one way or the other. We're very hopeful that we can get the additional funds, we meet the hardship criteria.’

‘I'm afraid, Mayor Lynch, you don't have the bigger picture. The Government has been speculating with the family silver, issuing bonds that frankly just aren't what they used to be. I have it on good authority that the credit agencies will shortly be downgrading UK's credit rating again and the value of those bonds will plummet.’ Bovind placed a hand on Mayor Lynch's knee. ‘The Minster, you may or may not know, is a fellow Third Waver and he knows there is nothing left in the cupboard. You are on your own, or rather would be, if it were not for me.’

Anthony mirrored Bovind's movement and leaned forward. He reminded the Mayor of an eager schoolboy. ‘Mr Bovind– Kirk has outlined a very, very generous proposal. His Foundation will provide funding and sponsorship of the city's school system equivalent to the salary costs of all teaching staff for the year.’

Bovind licked his lips and then opened his mouth revealing the whitest of teeth. They looked out of place in a middle-aged face.

‘Let's call it what it is, £50 million for this fiscal year and an option to review annually thereafter.’ Bovind's accent slipped between a Californian drawl and hints of Scouse. It made the Mayor feel a little sick listening to its rolling vowels and pitched endings. ‘Do you realise what I am offering you, Mayor? I am offering you the white charger for you to jump on and save this city with.’

The Mayor had heard the offer before but never directly from Bovind.

‘But the price? Your foundation wants the science curriculum to incorporate Intelligent Design as scientific theory in and the expansion of Religious Education in the overall curriculum. You want us to place Lightspeed in every school yet you know it censors results. You know we can't do it, the teachers’ unions wouldn't stand for it for one thing.’

‘Have you spoken to Ted Coyne recently?’ asked Bovind.

Ted Coyne was the leader of the local branch of the National Union of Teachers, a staunch socialist and the driving force behind the current strikes by teachers across the city. The one thing he hated more than the council and the Mayor was big businesses like Intracom.

‘He's an atheist and probably a communist, he would never agree to the change in curriculum you want.’

‘We will speak to him. Try to enlighten him. Richard, can I call you Richard?’

Bovind didn't wait for an answer.

‘Richard, all we want to do is give the children of this city a choice. What's wrong with that? Intelligent Design is scientific theory supported by many top scientists and it deserves a place alongside other theories. Lightspeed is a great tool and yes it does censor pornography and other filth. What's wrong with that?’

‘Filth like the theory of evolution, you mean?’ said the Mayor.

‘It ranks search results. It does not censor them,’ whispered Bovind. Then he leaned forward further and, to the Mayor's alarm, placed his hands on top of his.

‘We do good, Richard. We know what is best for children's young, vulnerable minds. There is nothing wrong with protecting the innocent.’

‘But if you search for “evolution” and the theory ranks on the tenth page it may as well not exist.’

Bovind's smile, which had disappeared for a moment, crawled back up his face.

‘Look, Richard, all we are saying is give kids the facts, let them hear the competing theories, don't place one above another and, you know, Richard, your electorate want this. Do you know that religious belief is growing across all demographics? Sure there may be different ways to God but one thing is certain, everybody wants to believe in something. All we're saying is give the kids of this city a chance to learn about alternative viewpoints. We'll even supply the teaching materials. It's a no-brainer.’

The Mayor's headache returned. He mentally rehearsed the familiar argument.

‘And supposing that everything you say is right that the central funds are not forthcoming, that the unions agree, when would this all happen?’ asked the Mayor.

Bovind grinned. ‘Immediately. Half your schools are shut now because of strikes. I will arrange for the Foundation to provide full training and materials to all science teachers and the funds will start to flow. You will have a school system that works and funds freed to clear the streets of rubbish. It will be a great deal for the city and for the Bovind Foundation. Faith can be like a tsunami. This world senses it needs salvation. You can ride that wave, Richard, or try and hold it back.’

Anthony was squirming in his chair like an eager child wanting a parent's attention.

‘After Liverpool, Mr Bovind plans to role this programme out across the country. People will be demanding it once they see the success in Liverpool. It will give us the Christian vote and it'll give us a national platform. No one has done this yet. We could have the Christian votes all to ourselves!’

Yes, the Mayor could see that if the plan were a success then he would be the man who saved the city from bankruptcy and revitalised its school system. Most people did believe in something, didn't they? Really, in the end, what was the harm of teaching an alternative version of the origins of life? Maybe it was even true. No, he couldn't believe that. As a life long rationalist he could no more believe in a divine creator than Father Christmas but who was he to judge, after all?

‘Anthony, I want you to ring the minister for local Government and get an update on those funds and then I want Ted Coyne on the phone, see what his members think of this. I'm making no promises though.’

‘I'm on it right now,’ said Anthony, taking out his ever-present BlackBerry® and clamping it under his jaw as he walked out of the room to make the calls.

The Mayor turned back to Bovind.

‘Tell me. There's something I don't understand though. You will be spending millions and will get next to nothing in return save maybe a street named after you. What's it in it for you?’

Bovind's smile disappeared. He let go of the Mayor's hands. For a moment he was silent and then he began to speak softly. ‘I grew up in this city. For better or worse it made me and then I left. I prayed to leave this city and God answered my prayers and more. He made me richer than Croseus but it was for a purpose. I want to save souls, Richard, and one thing life has taught me is that you need to save souls before they become fully formed and corrupted. A child's soul is the purest form of God's love but it turns black quickly and I intend to capture as many as possible so that when the Rapture comes the streets of this city are empty of God's children.’

Mad as a box of frogs, thought the Mayor.

From the chair next to the Mayor's came a low, rumbling noise. It took the Mayor a second to reconcile the fact that it was a man's voice, the Pastor's.

‘“He who hath no soul I will blot out his name from the book of life.”’

The Pastor was looking at him. His pale grey eyes held the Mayor's gaze until he was forced to look away.

‘Revelations,’ said the Pastor.

The Mayor was lost for words.

Anthony was talking in low tones in the corner of the room.

‘You save the city, I save the souls,’ said Bovind. ‘A deal made in Heaven!’

Anthony finished his call.

‘Well?’ said the Mayor.

‘Ted Coyne said the union is on board, his exact words were, “If you pay his members you can teach the kids that the Flintstones is a fucking documentary.”’

Bovind's hand was extended.

‘Do we have a deal, Richard?’

Reluctantly the Mayor extended his hand.

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’.

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.

‘Wait there,’ he said ‘And thank you.’

Erasmus turned back to Ahmed and helped him up.

‘What do you want?’ asked Ahmed.

‘You see, normal human discourse can be a wonderful thing. We could talk philosophy, economics, football – what do think of the Everton's chances this year? If we just take the guns and attack dogs out of the equation then maybe we could even be friends?’

‘Fuck you,’ said Mohammed, who had started to come round.

Erasmus kicked Mohammed hard between the legs. Mohammed gave a high-pitched yelp and started shaking again.

‘Do you have to do that?’

It was the girl.

‘What?’ said Erasmus.

‘If he doesn't answer do you have to use violence?’

Erasmus considered this for a second.

‘I suppose I could take him to a spa for a treatment, but as none are on the doorstep, violence works, yes.’

‘Your friend is more sensible than you, eh? Come. Let us put this misunderstanding behind us. Ask me your questions,’ said Ahmed.

Erasmus kept the gun pointed at Ahmed. He was breathing heavily and looked pale but his eyes sparked with anger.

‘Well, OK. Now, we are getting somewhere. Did Stephen Francis owe you money?’

‘Stephen. Yes, I remember him. He was a bad one that Stephen. I liked him but he was a chaser and he thought he could catch his losses. Alas, people very rarely do.’

‘How much was he into you for?’

‘This is purely a private matter, yes? If you are recording this conversation then I wish to make it clear that I have a gun pointed at me and I have no involvement with illegal moneylending in any capacity.’

‘I'm not with the police,’ said Erasmus.

‘I'm sure you're not, you have the smell of chaos about you.’

‘Spare me the philosophy. How much did he owe you?’

‘Stephen owed me £50,000.’

‘Are you a Muslim, Ahmed?’ asked Erasmus.

‘Of course,’ said Ahmed.

‘Forgive my ignorance but isn't usury frowned upon?’

‘You are right, Mr Jones, and I would never, in sha’ Allah, be involved in such disgusting practices. I abide by Sharia law even when dealing with the kafirs. I lent your friend Mr Francis £50,000 and charged him an administration charge of £15,000. All very correct, and Sharia compliant, you understand.’

‘Sophistry. Did you kill him because he couldn't pay up?’

Ahmed started laughing, a deep rolling laugh.

‘Did you only mean to warn him? Did Mohammed hit in him one too many times?’ continued Erasmus.

The laughing stopped.

‘I didn't kill him, Mr Jones. If people fail to honour their commitments things can occasionally happen, but Stephen, well he always honoured his debts. I know it was a great relief to him. If he is dead I can assure you it was not my doing’

‘He's gone missing. You say he paid his debt but Stephen works for the council. Where did he get £50,000?’

‘I assure you that I am not. As for the source of his funds, well, that's no secret. His friends were very generous.’

‘What friends?’

‘Two men. They didn't give me their names just cash.’

‘No names? They just paid you cash and you didn't ask any questions? What did they look like?’

Ahmed raised his hands.

‘Cash is my preferred payment method. I can tell you they both wore red T-shirts. Mohammed thought they must be Liverpool fans.’

Erasmus looked down at Mohammed who was still laying on the ground holding his nether regions. He was nodding.

‘If something has happened to Stephen I can assure you I had nothing to do with it,’ said Ahmed, holding out his hands palm upwards.

‘I don't believe you,’ said Erasmus.

‘I do,’ said the girl.

‘What?’

‘It's true. He had nothing to do with it.’

Erasmus grabbed the girl's elbow and began to frogmarch her away from Ahmed.

‘You're coming with me,’ said Erasmus.

‘Let go of my arm and I'll consider it.’

Erasmus started to drag her forward and then thought better of it. ‘Do you promise not to run off?’

The girl raised her right hand and crossed her index and middle fingers. ‘Guides’ honour,’ she said.

‘Come on then, let's get out of here before these two units come to their senses.’

‘You are not a religious man, are you, Mr Jones?’ shouted Ahmed from behind him,

Erasmus shook his head. ‘I've never quite seen the upside.’

‘Then I will pray that religion finds you before it is too late. And, Mr Jones, I look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps things will be a little different when I don't have a gun pointed at my head?’

Mohammed was now in the recovery position, his breathing more regular.

‘Don't count on it,’ said Erasmus.

He gave Mohammed a kick to his side for good measure, sending him back into a prone position. Then he threw the gun far and high into the scrap metal mountain and turned to leave. The girl shook her head.

Outside he pulled her away from the entrance. ‘OK, who are you and why are you following me?’

The girl smiled. ‘Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?’ she asked.

Erasmus grinned at her. ‘Where are my manners? Thank you, thank you very much.’ The smile dropped like an anchor. ‘Now tell me, who the fuck are you?’

The girl reached into her handbag – Erasmus could see the notebook in there that she had at the café – and pulled out a card, which she handed to Erasmus. He read it: Rachel Harrop, journalist, Liverpool Echo.

‘Oh shit. Come on we need to talk,’ he said.

‘You can buy me a coffee. We both know you like coffee, Erasmus.’

‘How do you know my name?’ he asked but she was already walking away from him. Erasmus looked to the sky and then followed.

She led him to a low rent coffee bar off a side street of Smithdown Lane. The café was empty apart from an old woman playing the rather incongruous fruit machine in the corner. Rachel insisted on buying and fetched them two coffees.

As she approached the table Erasmus could see that the cockiness had gone. She looked pale and shaky and the coffee was slopping out of the cracked mugs she carried. Erasmus stood up and took the mugs from her, placing them on the table. He guided her into her chair.

‘Post combat stress. You need sugar and then rest. Hang on.’

Erasmus went to the counter and bought a chocolate bar from the bored looking woman behind the counter.

‘She had a skin full, has she?’ said the woman, laughing so hard that the fat under her arms flapped like an giant bird's wings.

Erasmus ignored her and returned to the table. He broke a chunk of the chocolate bar off and handed it to Rachel. ‘Eat it.’

She half smiled and then took the chocolate and popped it in her mouth. ‘I don't know what happened, I felt fine back there, elated even, and I hate violence.’

‘It's normal. You'll feel better in a minute. If you tell me why you're following me it may take your mind off things.’

‘Ha, I knew it was a ploy you being kind.’ She took a deep breath, composed herself and then looked at him. ‘What do you know about the Bovind Foundation?’

‘I know Bovind is one of the richest men on the planet, his company invented Lightspeed, the family friendly web browser. He's from Liverpool originally, isn't he?’

‘He is but you'd never guess it now. He speaks and looks like an American. But more importantly he has that crazy messianic religious belief of the truly deluded and self righteous.’

‘So you're not a fan. But what does Bovind have to do with me?’

Rachel studied Erasmus carefully. Her glasses and sweater reminded Erasmus of one of the girls from Scooby Do.

‘To my editor Bovind is Liverpool's only hope of staving off the city's bankruptcy. There are rumours the Mayor's office is about to announce a unique funding deal: Liverpool the city as sponsored by Intracom. My editor sees this as the best thing that could happen to the city. They are even running a feature on him this week. The working title's “Liverpool's Messiah”. Trust me my sources are impeccable. Bovind is coming to the rescue tomorrow.’

Colour had returned to her cheeks. Erasmus handed her some more chocolate, which she eagerly accepted.

‘So what's the problem with someone saving the city? My daughter's classes were cancelled yesterday because the city can't pay the teachers. Maybe your editor is right and, by the way, what does this have to do with you following me?’

Rachel nodded slowly. ‘Lightspeed in every classroom means your kid only gets to see what they, Intracom, want her to see. It's the only software that can robustly censor out porn, violence, the dark netherworld of the web that you gravitate to when you're growing up. But it also ranks searches according to their own criteria.’

‘Every search engine does that, even Google, it's how they make money.’

‘The difference is that Intracom do it according to their own secret algorithms. Nobody knows how they work but you just try typing in “evolution” and see what comes up. The top search results are all pseudo-scientific organisations promoting Intelligent Design. Intracom are influencing how knowledge spreads.’

‘Come on, these are conspiracy theories. And anyway they can't influence textbooks.’

Rachel raised an eyebrow. ‘Jeez, do you talk to your kid much lately? Intracom own the publishing houses that publish the standard school book works in Biology, Physics, Maths.’

Erasmus felt a guilty pang. ‘What's this got to do with me?’

‘Kirk Bovind is the biggest fundraiser for the World Evangelical Church.’

‘The Third Wavers. Stephen was a Third Waver,’ said Erasmus.

A look of triumph appeared on Rachel's face.

‘But so what, so are half this city, and a huge proportion of the US and rest of the UK,’ said Erasmus.

‘I'm a junior reporter, yeah. I get to deal with the crazies, the ones who confess to a dozen murders and think that they are Napoleon, yeah. But occasionally in the shit there is a pearl. Stephen was one of those pearls, maybe even my ticket to a national. He rang me two days before he went missing, told me he knew a secret about the Church and Bovind. I was due to meet him but he disappeared. Did you know he was last seen entering the Beatles museum?’

Erasmus shook his head. Seemed like Rachel had had more success than him and Pete.

‘I did some digging, old school journalism, asked around, spoke to a barista who saw him in a Starbucks opposite the council office the day he went missing and then left heading towards the Albert Dock. I went into every shop on the dock and then struck lucky: he went into the Beatles Museum at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday morning! Why would he do that on a work day?’

‘A fan of the Beatles?’

Rachel tutted. ‘The spotty youth who was working the ticket booth remembered Stephen. It was so early in the morning and it was so unusual for him to have two customers at that time of the day?’

‘Two?’

Rachel looked triumphant.

‘Someone came in two minutes after Stephen entered. There's something else as well.’

‘Go on.’

‘He's not the most reliable of witnesses though. He was stoned out of his mind when I talked to him. But he did say he doesn't remember either of them leaving the museum. The exit is the entrance. So where did they go?’

Erasmus didn't know but he was willing to bet there was a service entrance somewhere in the building. As part of his training for 14th Intelligence Company he had had it drilled into to him to look for alternative exits in every building he entered. Even now it was a habit he couldn't break.

‘So why were you following me?’

‘I started following Jenna and she led me to you. I thought you two might be having an affair, maybe you knocked off the competition, but after today I can see we both want the same thing, we both want to find Stephen.’

The mention of Jenna in the context of an affair with him distracted Erasmus for a second. Rachel caught the change in him.

‘Are you?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Having an affair with Jenna Francis.’

‘Of course not,’ said Erasmus, but he had a suspicion that the growing flush on his face was betraying him. Rachel looked delighted that she had hit home.

‘Why did Stephen approach you?’ asked Erasmus, hoping to move the conversation along quickly.

‘I did a fluff piece on Bovind for my editor. It nearly made me puke doing it. It was hardly Woodward and Bernstein you know. All about him being a philanthropist, a man of God, the saviour of the city. I tried to put in some stuff about Lightspeed, refer to the search rankings but my editor was having none of it. Not my finest hour. It went in the paper on a Friday carrying my byline, that same evening I got a call from Stephen. He was emotional, angry at me; he said I didn't know the truth and that Bovind wasn't a saint, but that he was the Devil.’

‘The Devil?’

‘His exact words. He then told me it wasn't safe to talk on the phone and we arranged to meet up. I turned up, he didn't, and next thing his wife has reported him as missing. Suspicious huh?’

She looked up at him.

‘What should we do?’ she said.

‘We? I'm going home for a large drink. I suggest you do the same and make sure you get some sleep.’

‘But what about you, what do you know? You promised me you would tell me?’

She was talking to Erasmus’ back.

CHAPTER 10

Malcolm Ford looked out from his office on the twenty-third floor at the top of Beetham Tower. The floor to ceiling plate-glass windows afforded him a magnificent view of the city at night. He could see the blinking green and red harbour lights at the mouth of the Mersey estuary, and then south towards Perch Rock and the lighthouse that stood by the fort guarding a dock that had silted up many years ago. The Mersey lay in the centre of his view, dark and brooding. From his vantage point, Malcolm Ford felt that the city belonged to him. Far below he could see a pedestrian, probably a drunk staggering home from a bar at this time of night. He was the size of an ant. Malcolm cocked his hand like a gun and shot him as the staggering man made his way home to his tiny life.

Tonight he was a happy man. A deal had been done, bringing his firm a huge amount of income and Malcolm had been the lawyer leading the transaction team. It had been months of work culminating in this last late night session. Malcolm had in equal parts cajoled and rewarded the junior lawyers and accountants to make sure that the documents were signed, the takeover completed.

The client and the nature of their business was unimportant in Malcolm's mind. It had been something to do with a paper merchant, but who cared; it was the deal that mattered. It had been completed at 1 a.m. in a flurry of faxes and congratulatory phone calls. The client had been satisfied and the rest of the team overjoyed that the weeks of overnighters and endless paperwork was over for a short time at least, until the next deal came along.

Malcolm had slapped backs and, even at the end there, made a rather good speech, so he thought, about teamwork and success. He had sent them all home and told them if he saw anyone in before midday on Monday they would be sacked.

Now the office was empty and Malcolm was alone, surrounded by empty pizza boxes, coffee cups and boxes of files. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small crystal topped vial. He poured out a generous line and snorted it in triumph. He poured himself a large Balvenie from the bottle on his desk and then sat back in his chair and soaked up the view from the top of the city.

He considered whether he should go home to Steph and the kids or whether he should use this opportunity to visit Katrina. He checked his watch. Too late to call home and he wouldn't want to wake Steph. Yes, he could tell her the deal completed late on and he had to sleep in his office. It was never too late to call Katrina in her dockland flat and even if she was asleep, so what, he was the client and, as he told his staff, what the client wants the clients always fucking gets. He began to get aroused at the thought of a sleepy Katrina and how maybe she would need a bit of the rough stuff to wake her up. Just the ticket, he thought.

He didn't hear the lift door open and a man step out into the reception area of the Grantham & Lucky Partnership.

Malcolm closed his eyes savouring the peaty taste of the whisky his thoughts skipping ahead to the next hour or so of bliss with Katrina.

‘Hello Malcolm,’ said a voice.

Malcolm swung his chair around.

‘Who said that?’ he shouted with all the Colombian confidence that was buoying up his neuro-receptors.

At the end of the corridor leading to the lift a man appeared. Tall, dark and angular, he wore a black jacket with a hood that covered the top half of his face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

The man said nothing but stood there, silent and still. Malcolm could see the lower right half of his face was exposed, revealing a white scar the sight of which made his guts twist and turn. For a second he thought he recognised the man but no, it was impossible, and he didn't know anybody with such a disfigurement. It wasn't the type of thing you would forget easily.

‘I'm calling security!’ Malcolm picked up the phone: the line was dead. Slowly, he put the receiver down.

‘What do you want, money? I've got money.’

The man moved closer.

‘Well, what do you want? I tell you what you need! You could do with seeing a good dermatologist I see. I have the number of an excellent consultant. He could sort you right out, you know.’

The man said nothing.

Malcolm put his hands behind his head and pushed back his chair. He had been surprised, maybe even a little frightened if the truth be told, but now he was back in charge. It was the natural order of things: winners and losers, and this man, this apparition, he was a loser.

‘You see, you come up here trying to frighten me but what are you going to do? You're just another of life's little losers, Scarface.’

The man dared to come in here, at his moment of triumph and threaten him. Who was he? Some tramp? A wronged client? He was a nobody and he was going to get the full Malcolm Ford treatment. Malcolm was beginning to enjoy this now.

The man was standing a foot away from the front of his desk.

‘People like you are scum. What is it? A heroin habit? Did Mummy not give you enough teat? Did Daddy touch you so now you have to go around taking other people's, successful people's property. Eh, so which is it?’

He remained silent and impassive.

‘So, either tell me what you want or just fuck off!’

‘Do you believe?’

In that moment Malcolm's world disappeared. His house, his cars, his mistress, his kids, all were gone, replaced by a bloody void and a memory buried as deep as a corpse.

From a million miles away Malcolm could hear a voice, monotone and expressionless.

‘Do you believe?’

The scream in Malcolm's throat never made it to his lips because with a movement so quick that he didn't even see where it came from, the man slipped a leather rope around his neck and pulled it tight, cutting off Malcolm's supply of air.

He tried to scream but he couldn't produce a sound. He passed out.

He had no idea how long he was out. When he awoke he was woozy, his vision blurry. But then he recognised where he was, the corridor outside his office. There was an agonising pain from his neck where it had been crushed by the rope. He tried to move and then quickly realised his hands were bound to the arms of the chair with rolls of sticky tape and his legs were tied together with a plastic tie. He could taste blood in his mouth. He could hear breathing behind him and then closer until there was hot breath on his ear.

‘Do you believe?’

‘Listen,’ said Malcolm. ‘Whatever you want I'll give it to you. Money? I've got money, I won't say a word.’

The man laughed.

‘Are my children OK?’

‘First the money and only now you ask about your children. You'll never know whether they are alive or dead.’

‘You bastard. If you've touched them I'll…’ He began to sob.

The man spun the chair round so Malcolm was looking directly into his eyes.

‘You'll do what, Malcolm Ford, kill me?’

Malcolm's chair was spun again and then pushed, accelerating hard down the corridor towards the window and then the hands pushing the chair pulled away as the chair gained speed.

But Malcolm knew he would just bounce off, these windows were made of toughened safety glass. He might break his nose though. He steeled himself for the blow.

The sound of the gun was dampened by the silencer fitted on the muzzle. However, the sound of the bullet was deafening as it tore through the air above Malcolm's head, breaking the sound barrier with a crack. It slammed into the window causing a starfish pattern of cracks to splinter across its surface.

In the split second before he hit the window, Malcolm knew he was going to die and the realisation caused him to howl like a beast, a sound cut off as the glass tore open his cheeks from jaw to ear as he hit the window.

The glass gave way as it shredded his body and then Malcolm Ford, father, husband, lawyer and deal-maker plunged twenty-three stories in 4 seconds before hitting the concrete below and ceasing to exist.

CHAPTER 11

Monday morning had never sat well with Erasmus. Even during his time in the Army when the days of the week were made redundant by the all-encompassing military routine, he reserved a special loathing for Monday morning and reckoned that it always brought with it that extra little dose of fear and loathing.

He had read that suicides and heart attacks peaked at around 9.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, something to do with the release of the stress hormone cortisol. Erasmus thought that Mondays were just plain evil and today was just proving the point.

The problem today was that the strikes had been called off and the teachers and other council workers were back in work. The city was in funds and the school runs were back on, clogging up the roads and making him late for work.

His office was two rooms, an office and an antechamber in an old shipping building off Water Street. Back before the war, the building had housed the headquarters of one of the world's largest mineral and ore shippers. Now the grand offices were carved up with stud walls, and microbusinesses operated from the cells formed.

Next door to Erasmus’ office was a tooth whitening operation run by Katy, a fortysomething ex-stripper with a permanent tan and eyebrows as thick as carpet swatches. Through the thin walls Erasmus could hear the low hum of the infrared lamps she had purchased off eBay as they bleached her seemingly never-ending queue of customers.

Sandy, his admin assistant, was sitting outside. Sandy was looking, as ever, immaculate in a crisp white blouse and perfect hair and make-up. Sandy was thirty-three and a single mum to ten-year-old Max. She was everything he wasn't: organised, tactful and professional.

‘Dan's already here, I sent him in.’ She shook her head. ‘Late again, Erasmus. You need to set that alarm clock earlier.’

Erasmus considered a witty riposte. They'd all sound petulant given that Sandy had, as she did every morning, got up, fed, dressed and got her little boy to school and still had time to make herself look like a million dollars.

‘As usually, Sandy, you are right. Good weekend?’

‘I took Max to see his father. You?’

Max's father was currently doing a ten-year stretch for armed robbery in Strangeways.

‘I had a gun pressed to my head by a homicidal Islamic loan shark.’

‘Nice. So still no girlfriend then?’

Erasmus harrumphed and walked into his office.

Dan, looking relaxed, pointed at two Styrofoam cups of coffee on the desk. ‘Breakfast!’ he declared.

‘Thanks and sorry I'm late,’

Dan waved the apology away. ‘Always like to see how the other half is getting on and I come bearing more gifts than just the coffee. But first tell me all about Jenna, she's hot stuff, isn't she?’

Erasmus was forced to agree and he told Dan about his meeting with Jenna and the subsequent introduction to Purple Ahmed. He didn't tell Dan about Rachel and her theory about the Third Wave. In the cold light of day it seemed a little too much like paranoia.

‘Well, looks like you've made some progress and more importantly you're keeping Mrs Francis happy. And we want her happy so we can get the uncle's account. I've just been in with the Bean talking about this, among other things – more of which in a minute – and he is really grateful. There could be a training contract on offer if you play your cards well here.’

A training contract in a law firm for a thirty-eight-year-old dishonourably discharged ex-Army officer was all but unthinkable without the right connections. Dan represented that connection.

Erasmus’ experiences at his own military trial had given him an appetite to become a lawyer but he couldn't deny that part of it was about proving to Miranda that he could hold down a real job and that the demons of the past could be caged. Erasmus had been studying part-time for his legal practice qualification for two years now but getting the training contract was always going to be the stumbling block.

‘That's great, when will this be available, I don't take my final exams for another six months?’

‘Well, given I'm moving on, there's going to be the need for another dogsbody fairly soon.’

Erasmus stared back at Dan. ‘They've made you a partner?’

Dan smiled and nodded. ‘Correctemondo! It seems that three years running of being the highest billing associate counts for something after all. So as of 1st January you are looking at the youngest equity partner at the firm.’

Erasmus shook Dan's hand. ‘Congratulations, you deserve it.’

‘Never a truer word spoken. Now listen to me when I tell you that the Bean is going to be looking to get another trainee on board if he bumps up Erik to my role. If you can keep Mrs Francis sweet and maybe bring in the uncle as a client your days of sitting in this cupboard are over.’

‘OK, that's great news. You heard the teachers’ strike is over?’

‘Finger on the pulse, eh Raz? That was news last week. It does mean I can do the school run again and get a chance to bump into those yummy mummies. Maybe I'll see you down there? But only after you find Stephen Francis. Make Jenna a happy woman, yeah?’

Dan left him with that thought. He might not have the perfect marriage, thought Erasmus, but Dan did get to spend time with his kids. Erasmus decided he would call Miranda later that evening and see if they could work something out, maybe Abby could stay over in the week for a couple of days and he could drop her off at school. He might even drop some reference to the training contract into the conversation but then he remembered Jeff and his mood darkened. Work, the habitual dampner of emotions beckoned and Erasmus happily followed.

The rest of the morning Erasmus ploughed through his large caseload of small time personal injury work and drug crimes. At 1 o'clock he got up and went outside to grab a sandwich from Philpotts, his favourite deli, which was situated in a large square behind the town hall. The square was filled with the usual mix of business people sitting on benches enjoying some cold, November sunshine while they ate their lunch and a gang of young skateboarders that were there every day performing tricks on the steps of the derelict offices that fronted the square.

Erasmus recognised one of the skateboarders. Her name was Heather, and Erasmus had helped her get off a charge of damaging public property by obtaining CCTV footage showing that the benches she was alleged to have broken by landing her skateboard on them had already been damaged by drunks the night before. Erasmus raised his hand and gave Heather a wave. She grinned and waved back. Even from fifty yards away Erasmus could see that Heather was smoking a large spliff.

With a shake of the head Erasmus walked into Philpotts and placed his order for the king of sandwiches: cheese and salad cream. It was what his elder brother Paul used to call the dum dum sandwich because when it hit your stomach it exploded with joy. As he waited for his sandwich he wondered what Paul's advice would be regarding Miranda and Abby. He would probably have told him to just kidnap Abby and let down the tires on Miranda's car on the way out. Paul had always had a direct approach to matters. Erasmus missed his advice.

Before the sandwich was ready his mobile rang.

‘Hey Erasmus. How are you doing? I got your message.’

Erasmus felt a tingle down his spine.

‘Hello Mrs Francis.’ He paused to allow her to say, ‘I told you, it's Jenna,’ and she obliged.

‘Look, Jenna, I've got something I need to discuss with you. Can we meet today?’

‘Sure, have you got a pen?’ asked Jenna.

Erasmus fumbled about in his suit pockets and pulled out a small blue bookies’ pen.

‘Oi, love, your butty's arrived,’ said the generously sized woman in the queue behind Erasmus.

And indeed there it was on the counter, and Sharon, the bored looking sandwich technician as her name badge informed him, was holding out her hand waiting for his money.

Suddenly, there was a screech of tires from outside, followed by shouting and the sounds of a scuffle. Everyone in the shop turned and looked towards the direction of the sound. Unfortunately the door didn't open directly onto the square. It was set off at a slight angle meaning the patrons couldn't rubberneck properly and no one was prepared to give up their place in the queue to walk to the door and see what was happening outside.

‘Hey love, your sandwich!’ It was the fat woman again. She gave Erasmus a dig in the ribs.

‘Are you OK?’ said Jenna.

Sharon was shaking her head. ‘That's four pound la. Come on I haven't got all day, there are other customers.’

And then from outside came the unmistakable sound of Heather's voice. ‘Erasmus help!’

‘Yeah, I'm fine. OK, give me the address!’ Erasmus hurriedly wrote down Jenna's address on a Philpotts napkin. ‘I'll see you late this evening. Got to go.’ And he hung up.

‘Yer butty, lazy arse. I'm starving!’ The woman dug the knuckles of her right hand into Erasmus’ ribs.

Erasmus ran out the door of Philpotts.

In the middle of the square there was a police wagon and a policeman was attempting to bundle Heather into the back of the van while another threatened her friends with a TASER as they crowded round and shouted at the cops.

Heather was struggling on the floor and she kicked out and caught the policeman square on the shin. He gave a yelp of pain. Heather saw Erasmus and started shouting for him. The cop who had been kicked pulled out his baton. Erasmus could see he was bleeding from the nose where Heather's foot had connected. The cop lifted the baton as though he was about to strike Heather.

‘Stop that right now!’ shouted Erasmus at the top of his voice.

The bloodied policeman turned his head in Erasmus’ direction. He had a name badge: PC Cooper.

‘Who the fucking hell are you then you beardy streak of piss?’

Nice of the policeman to remind him that he hadn't had a shave that morning.

Heather who was still laying on the floor gave Erasmus an elaborate wink. Luckily for her none of the officers saw because as Erasmus was daily reminded of by the pain in his right knee, policemen the world over didn't like people laughing at them. Erasmus decided to go full pompous.

‘I, Officer Cooper, work on behalf of Dakins solicitors and that,’ Erasmus pointed at Heather, ‘is my client you are assaulting.’

‘Resisting arrest,’ said Officer Cooper. ‘She kicked me in da nose.’

‘I saw a policeman holding down a sixteen-year-old girl and dragging her into a van. What's the charge?’

Erasmus knew what the charges would be and, sure as eggs is eggs, Officer Cooper obliged.

‘Possession of a Class B drug namely GM Skunk and resisting arrest, of course,’ he smirked and waved a Ziploc® bag containing a roach smudged with black lipstick.

Erasmus presumed that Heather had managed to ditch her stash somewhere or had it concealed in a place that would require a female officer to search.

‘Officer Cooper, I am guessing that now the strikes are over and you are back on performance related pay per arrest that you have targeted my client, who, by the way, has a prescription for her medical marijuana use, and in the rush for hitting your daily quota have inadvertently arrested a disabled young girl, confiscated her medicine and beaten her, and all in front of her representative.’

Cooper glowered at Erasmus. ‘Show me her prescription.’

Erasmus suddenly realised that without thinking about it he had put his whole career in jeopardy. Lying to a police officer and impersonating a solicitor probably wouldn't sit well with Dan's law firm. He gave an inner curse. And all he had done was pop out for a sandwich.

‘That's sensitive personal information under the Data Protection Act, do you have a court order for such disclosure?’

PC Cooper glared at him. ‘I've got this,’ he said, swinging his baton into his fist.

The other police officer, Erasmus could see his name badge said Higgs, let go of Heather and put his hand on Cooper's shoulder. Cooper didn't take his eyes from Erasmus.

‘Easy, Coops,’ said PC Higgs.

Erasmus realised that now Cooper was also putting his career on the line and in doing so had yielded all his advantage.

‘Are you threatening an officer of the court, PC Cooper?’

There was a crackle from the radio that PC Higgs carried on his belt. He pulled it out and Erasmus caught a crackly voice mention a 187. Erasmus knew what that one meant, a homicide.

Higgs pulled Cooper aside. ‘There's another one,’ he whispered to Cooper.

Cooper pulled away and turned back to Erasmus. ‘You got lucky, we got to go so I'll leave you and your jailbait but I won't forget you.’

‘Which is funny, PC Cooper, because I think I've already forgotten about you.’

Erasmus helped Heather off the floor.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.

Heather was smiling as she moved towards Erasmus and tried to give him a hug. Erasmus tried to dodge the hug but Heather was nothing if not nimble and she jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘Raz, if you weren't such an old dude I tell you you'd be my man, ha ha!’

Erasmus managed to put Heather down. Her friends had started to drift off, skateboarding to friendlier pastures.

‘Look Heather, you've got to take care. I can recognise an evil streak and that cop has one a mile wide. With the end of the strike they are looking for busts and with your record next time you get convicted you are going down.’

Heather's smile dropped. Maybe he was getting through to her, thought Erasmus.

‘Listen Raz, if I've told you once I've told you a million times it's “H” not Heather and you could be right but you are making some big assumptions about what life is about. I owe you one. Catch you around!’ And with that she dropped her board and skated after her friends.

Erasmus stood there for a second and then noticed he was being watched. It was the fat woman from Philpotts. She was eating a sandwich. His sandwich.

She saw Erasmus staring at her.

‘Whaaa?’ she said through a mouthful of cheese and salad cream.

CHAPTER 12

The address Jenna had given him was in Aigburth. It was a part of the city that he was not familiar with. It seemed like he wasn't the only one as the cab driver drove around narrow streets looking for a road that didn't seem to show up on his sat nav. Eventually, it was Erasmus who spotted a set of stone gateposts set back from the road that marked the entrance to a private road. Just beyond the posts, Erasmus could see an old black street sign with grey lettering spelling out Grasmere Road. The cabbie performed a quick U-turn and took them through the gates.

The change once through the gates was clear. Redbrick Victorian terraces gave way to grand Georgian mansions partially hidden by oak and beech trees.

The road ran down towards the river. Erasmus ticked off the numbers eventually stopping at the last house before the road ran out, just before the railings that marked the division between land and sea.

The house overlooked the black strip of the Mersey and across to the Wirral. It was a large Georgian house, white stucco and columns that spoke of merchants, slaves and molasses.

Erasmus paid the cabbie and stepped out into the cold early evening. It was already getting dark, old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps casting little puddles of light in the gloom. Erasmus imagined not much had changed on this road in the last hundred years.

A curtain flicked at one of the large downstairs windows and then a coach light came on above the shiny black front door. A few moments later, the door opened and Jenna appeared under the pale light, beckoning him in. She was wearing skin-tight jeans with leather boots and a fitted mohair jumper. Erasmus felt his heart quicken. He briefly thought of the sirens that lured sailors to their doom. Instinctively, he felt for the phone in his jacket pocket: Molly was a call away.

‘Hi,’ she said as he approached. Her eyes were twinkling with an amusement that Erasmus had seen before. It was the knowledge of charms worked.

‘Bet you weren't expecting this place, were you?’

Erasmus shook the proffered hand. ‘Well, no not really. I thought Stephen worked for the council. And you…’ He floundered.

Jenna laughed

‘Yes, I'm a housewife and it's a noble profession so you don't need to feel embarrassed. I made my choices and am happy with them. Anyway, come and let me fix you a drink.’

Erasmus followed her inside.

She led Erasmus through the large hallway towards a reception room. They passed a corridor that led to the kitchen and as they did so Erasmus noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, a dark shape moving quickly, as though to get out of sight.

Erasmus paused and looked towards where he had seen the movement.

Jenna turned around.

‘You OK?’

‘I thought we were alone?’

‘Ever the investigator, eh? As you may have guessed this is not mine and Stephen's house. It's Stephen's uncle Theodore's house. Come on, you can't tell me you don't know about him. I know why Dan's firm have taken my “case”. He's kindly agreed to put me up for a few days until, well, until Stephen comes back. And yes we are alone. I think you may have just seen Theo's Labrador though. ’

She held open a door.

The reception room was different from the hall. Instead of white walls and oak floors this room was an explosion of primary colours and soft furnishings. Jenna gestured towards a sofa and Erasmus sat down. Jenna took a seat on the same couch, turning to face him. She was so close her thigh was brushing the top of Erasmus’ leg.

He took a deep breath. He was here to give her bad news and he would do it professionally and then leave, he told himself.

‘What can I get you?’

Erasmus declined the offer of a drink. The truth was he didn't want Jenna to move from right where she was sat. She, however, got up anyway and went across to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. She fixed herself a long slug of neat Absolut over ice and then sat back down next to him. There was an awkward silence for a moment.

Erasmus tried to focus on something else. On the coffee table there was a large book. Erasmus picked it up and looked at the cover: Architecture – the Masterworks by Will Pryce.

‘Is Theo into architecture?’

‘It's mine actually. First a housewife and now assuming this must be Theo's? Shame on you.’

Erasmus started to blush but then he saw that Jenna's lips were upturned and a mischievous glint was in her eye.

She took the book from Erasmus’ hands and flicked through its pages. Then she shut it sharply and placed it back on the table.

‘A housewife doesn't have much use for architecture,’ she said, and for the first time there was a hint of frustration in her tone.

‘You sound resentful.’

She sipped her drink and looked away from him into middle distance.

‘I was Stephen's first girlfriend and he married me. It sounds so old-fashioned in this day and age but that is the way Stephen has always been. He loved me from the first moment he saw me. He has always been sure and free of doubt.’

‘And you? Are you the same?’

‘Not at all. I am full of doubt, always have been. Stephen wasn't my first real boyfriend either.’

‘Where did you two meet?’

‘I met him at university, Manchester Met.’

‘Let me guess, your eyes met over a pint of snakebite?’

Jenna picked up the book again and placed it on her knees.

‘Not quite. I was a third-year Architecture student and he was a first-year Theology major. We were oil and water.’

‘So how did you meet?’

She sighed.

‘He rescued me.’

‘From what?’

‘From myself. I enjoyed University. I grew up five miles from here in a dirt-poor part of this city and education was the only way out for me. I knew this from an early age so I ignored everything and concentrated on learning. I played by the rules and I was rewarded. I got my A-levels and I went to university.’

‘So, what happened? Why did you need rescuing?’

Jenna looked away, when she turned back to face Erasmus any hint of playfulness had disappeared.

‘I fell in love.’

‘With Stephen?’

Jenna flipped open the book that was resting on her lap.

‘No, not with Stephen, with Dietrich. He was a visiting professor, he drank coffee not lager and smoked Turkish cigarettes, he talked passionately of ideas and not the latest indie pop band sensation. He was, as I imagined, all that university would be. I felt like I had finally met someone who understood what life was about.’

She was smiling now.

‘But you ended up with Stephen?’

Her fingers played with a small St Christopher that hung around her neck.

‘Dietrich was always honest with me. He told me that we were “lovers” and not tied to each other. I agreed but of course I had fallen head over heels in love with him.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘God no! He would have been off like a shot. “Love” to Dietrich was a materialist invention of the decadent bourgeoisie.’

‘So, how did it end?’

‘I got pregnant. When I told Dietrich he was very serious, but businesslike, as though this were an occupational hazard. I don't think it was the first time for him. He told me he would get it fixed. The next day he met me at the Student Union bar. I thought – and looking back, I just want to hold the young girl who could have believed this – I thought, he was going to ask me to marry him. Instead, he handed me an envelope with £750 inside and a card for an abortion clinic. And that was the end of my dreaming days.’

‘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.’

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