‘That's right,’ said Erasmus. ‘How much did Stephen earn at the council?’
‘£32,000 a year. It was all accounted for with the mortgage and monthly outgoings. We had nothing spare. I kept asking him to speak to Theo, maybe see if he could help, as you can see he's a wealthy man and I know he would have helped.’
‘But he didn't want to?’
‘Stephen is stubborn and proud. He said that his father would have been ashamed if he'd known that he was borrowing from his brother. There is some family history there.’
‘Look at the bottom of that page.’
Jenna looked and then her eyes widened in surprise.
‘All the debt was paid off in one sum: £50,000 eight weeks ago. Every loan, credit card settled,’ said Erasmus.
‘Stephen didn't have that sort of money. Where did he get it from?’
‘Purple Ahmed. Do you know him?’
‘I grew up in this city, Erasmus, everybody knows Purple Ahmed. He's a nasty loan shark with a reputation for violence.’
‘Stephen borrowed the money off him to pay off the banks.’
There was a look of that Erasmus thought of as shock on Jenna's face. Much later he would think back and realise it was something else entirely: disgust.
‘And you think that he had something to do with Stephen's disappearance?’
‘I'm not sure but I don't think so. Guys like Ahmed, they are ultimately businessmen and he would have a graduated collections policy. I think you would have seen Stephen coming home with bruises and then broken bones before anything terminal. And Ahmed tells me that somebody paid off the debt eight weeks ago in cash.’
‘Not Stephen?’ said Jenna.
‘No, he said two men paid it off.’
‘Did he say who they were?’ asked Jenna.
‘No, he didn't have their names. I guess in his line of work if someone gives you £50,000 in cash you just accept it and don't ask any questions. He couldn't even give me a description aside from the fact that they were white guys wearing red shirts.’
Jenna raised an eyebrow.
‘Red shirts? Are you sure he said red shirts?’
‘Yes, I'm sure. Does that mean something to you?’
Jenna got up from the couch.
‘Hang on, Theo has a picture here somewhere.’
She went to the piano in the corner of the room and rummaged through the dozen or so photo frames that stood like menhirs on the cool, black, polished surface. She picked one up and held it aloft in triumph.
‘Yes, this is the one!’ She handed it to Erasmus.
It was an old colour photograph. It was a picture of six teenage boys standing next to a priest. The haircuts, a mixture of fringes and crew cuts, and the slightly faded quality of the print pointed to it being taken sometime in the early nineties. The boys were standing in front of a boat. None of that was what interested Erasmus. What caught Erasmus’ attention was the fact that all the boys were wearing red polo shirts.
‘That's Stephen there on the end,’ said Jenna. She pointed to a curly haired boy, squinting at the camera flash. He was smiling at the same time as squinting and he looked happy.
‘Stephen was a member of Faith in the Community; it's a youth action group that used to be run by Father Michael out of the catholic school he attended, St Edward's.’
‘Is Stephen still a member now?’ said Erasmus.
Jenna laughed.
‘He left about six weeks after that picture was taken. He must have been seventeen then. They used to do charity work, bash some tambourines and help old ladies across the street, that sort of thing.’
‘And are they still going, this Faith in the Community group?’
‘Christ knows. I know Father Michael is still around, but he's Third Wave now, like just about all the Catholics. His church is on Smithdown Road, one of those new ones.’
Erasmus knew it. All angular glass and steel, it looked like an arts centre or modern museum not a church. It was a testament to the money and power of the Third Wave.
‘But I don't see the connection. That was twenty-five years ago.’
‘It may be nothing. I still think our best theory is the most likely, namely that Stephen has run because he can't pay his debts. It happens all the time.’
‘He is still missing. He wouldn't run over money and I knew him and don't think he would gamble. Stephen wasn't interested in that, he would see it as a sin.’
Erasmus said nothing. He looked at the photo again.
‘Who are the other boys?’
Jenna looked at the photo again. ‘I don't know. Stephen never really talked about those days but everybody knows that one.’ She pointed at a small boy with a mop of blond hair, he too was squinting at the sunlight behind the photographer.
Erasmus didn't recognise the boy. ‘Who is it?’
‘Kirk Bovind, although he was called Kevin back then. The saviour of our city.’
Erasmus took a deep breath. He thought about what Rachel had told him. Was it just another coincidence?
Jenna let out an exasperated sigh and this time she couldn't hold back the tears.
‘You must miss him a lot?’
She sighed, half laughing, half crying. ‘Marriage is a funny thing. I think you understand that, and it changes over time. Me and Stephen were very much in love once and I still love him now, but it's a different type of love, more familial.’
She tried to smile but it came off as awkward, a weakening barrier against a hidden well of tears.
He looked at this beautiful, strong, woman and felt an urge to kiss her. For a moment he thought he would have no choice in the matter. The old sensation welled up in his stomach, sending out invincible armies of desire. And she felt it too, he was sure. The air seemed to thicken and grow heavy. Somewhere in the house a phone rang. They said nothing.
‘Do you want to get that?’ said Erasmus.
‘No,’ she replied.
Erasmus leaned forward, and Jenna, hesitantly at first, moved towards him.
Suddenly, a large, black Labrador jumped up onto the couch and started to lick Erasmus’ face: the spell was broken.
‘Get down, Dunbar!’ said Jenna and she pushed the dog away from Erasmus. The dog gave him a last lick for good measure and then bounded away from him.
Jenna took hold of Erasmus’ hand and looked him square in the eyes. He knew he was in trouble now.
‘Erasmus, I need you to find Stephen. He needs rescuing, do you understand?’
His old Army instincts screaming that something was very wrong here, he knew he could only answer one way: ‘Yes, I do, but I think I need to go back to Church first.’
CHAPTER 13
The town hall was a happier place without all those bearded teachers and rough-looking bin men standing outside with their placards, thought Mayor Lynch as he stepped out of the mayoral Mercedes and bounded up the steps that led to the mayor's office. He felt happier than he had done in months.
Things had gone better than he ever could have hoped. With the budget balanced, things just started to fall into place; interest penalties were avoided and statutory monies released.
The obstacles he had envisaged had proved to be nothing. The unions had rolled over and let Bovind tickle their tummies with his money. The Teachers’ Union, which he had thought would present the biggest obstacle, had just been delighted that their members would be paid.
There had been the usual quid pro quos involved when a wealthy benefactor bestowed such a generous gift: certain planning permissions, mostly for churches and church-related community projects sponsored by the Bovind Foundation, had been given the green light or fast-tracked through the planning committees. There was even talk of renaming the Carnatic Road, the street where Bovind grew up, as Bovind Boulevard. But such back scratching and compromises were part and parcel of council life and something he had felt comfortable with long before the appearance of Bovind.
The leaders of the main opposition, Labour council
members, had congratulated the Mayor warmly on landing such a big fish as Bovind. The Mayor had even received a call from the Prime Minister and she had congratulated him on his handling of the financial crisis. Yes, life was better. Hell, life was good!
As he bounded up the council steps, feeling ten years younger than he had a month before, a pretty young woman approached him. She was carrying a digital recorder. In the week since the funding had been announced he had become used to such media attention and rather welcomed it.
The reporter, who looked to the Mayor like she was just out of college, stepped in front of him blocking his way, and shoved the digital recorder in front of his mouth.
‘Mayor Lynch, Rachel Harrop, Liverpool Echo.’
He fixed his media smile in place. Welcoming but hiding a warm intelligence was how he thought of it.
‘Hey Rachel, if it's about the deal to save the city you need to speak to Anthony Torpenhow, he has a press package prepared, you should know that by now, and the Echo have already had a full briefing, speak with your editor.’ He switched tack before she took offence at his brush off. ‘Or if you want to do a feature maybe we could talk over a latte? There is a Starbucks over the road.’
The reporter smiled sweetly back at him. ‘My sources in the council tell me that you are proposing to pass city planning rules outlawing any clinic that provides health services specifically to women, namely abortions. Care to comment?’
Mayor Lynch's smile dropped. ‘That's nonsense! I don't know who your sources are but it's rubbish!’
‘And that there is a proposal that under the Free School discretionary curriculum the teaching of evolution in Merseyside schools is taught as merely an alternative to the theory of Intelligent Design?’
‘Where are you getting this stuff?’
Rachel hit pause on her recorder. ‘From the highest of sources.’ She hit record again. ‘Any comment?’
‘None.’
‘One last question Mayor, do you know anything about the disappearance of Stephen Francis and his links to Kirk Bovind?’
‘I haven't got a clue what you are talking about and if you could excuse me I've got a city to run.’
Mayor Lynch dodged around her and trotted up the stairs. He stormed through the building. At this time in the morning the tiled halls were largely empty and his footsteps echoed around the corridor as he made his way to his Anthony's office.
He opened the door without knocking.
Anthony was sitting behind his desk and didn't seem surprised to see him.
‘What the hell is going on?’
Anthony gave the Mayor a look that he didn't care for one little bit.
‘Take a seat and tell me what's on your mind.’
Mayor Lynch didn't sit down. ‘I've just been doorstepped by a baby reporter from the Echo, our friends, you said, and given the third degree about “our so-called plans” for the city. I want to know if you know anything about planning permission refusals for a private health clinic that offers abortions and the removal of evolution from science lessons. What have you got us into here, Anthony?’
Anthony remained calm.
‘You're not seeing the bigger picture here. For both of us this is the start of something big. You are the Mayor who saved Liverpool, and you could run for the leadership of the party on the back of this success! So what if an abortion clinic doesn't get built, who cares apart from some women in cardigans with bad breath. And as for science lessons you knew that was part of the deal.’
‘Not to drop the theory of evolution! What next? Will we be teaching our kids that the earth is only six-thousand years old?’
Anthony laughed. ‘Have you seen the latest OFSTED test results for the city's schools? Most of the little bastards don't even know the earth is round.’
The Mayor shook his head. ‘Look Anthony, we may have saved the city from bankruptcy but what's going to happen when we announce this? Abortion clinics banned, evolution taught as an alternative to Intelligent Design? People will think we've turned the city into Texas.’
Anthony waved a hand in the air. ‘The big picture is that 75% of the population believe in some form of deity, and the Third Wave and Islam are more powerful and influential in the majority of British people's lives than any political party. Look, the first national leader to realise that and seize the spiritual high ground is going to reap the electoral rewards. Look at the US. The stand, the spiritual stand you can take in Liverpool, with the resources that Bovind has to offer, are going to make you that man. And Mr Mayor, I want to be there beside you.’
‘We are selling ourselves out here,’ whined the Mayor.
‘Look at it this way. We have no choice, and once we have that power, real power, then maybe we can ditch these religious cranks and actually do something, do the things we both dreamt about.’
The Mayor wasn't sure what Anthony was referring to. As far as he was aware Anthony didn't actually have any real political views. He always assumed that Anthony saw politics as a career rather than a vocation. In fact, when he talked politics with Anthony, a glazed look came over his eyes that only disappeared when they started talking tactics.
But he knew Anthony had a point, and he knew there were compromises to be made. He could see the possibilities, not for himself, of course, but if there was an opportunity here to be seized, a wave to be ridden, then he would be an absolute fool not to take it. Everyone in the city knew the story of the man who didn't sign up the Beatles. Mayor Lynch didn't want people to talk about him in the same vein.
‘Look, the beauty is that the two main faiths believe, if you take a holistic view, in roughly the same things. Socially conservative but they like certain freedoms when that pertains to their right to practise and promulgate their faith. We need to concentrate on that. Freedom of conscience will be our way forward. It's a win-win situation, until we can ditch them. They are a necessary evil, nothing more.’
The Mayor considered for a moment.
‘It would mean we had a power base I suppose. The religious are voters too, of course.’
Anthony picked up an iPad from the desk and pressed the screen. ‘Have you seen your polling numbers? A month ago, 15% favourable; this morning, 64%. That is unassailable. Think of that on a national scale. This is only the beginning.’
The Mayor drummed his fingers on the desk. At forty-nine he had maybe one last chance to do something nationally. If fate, hell, why not think it, God, or whomever – not that the Mayor believed in God but his philosophy was that surely there was something out there – dropped this in his lap then maybe Anthony was onto something.
‘Maybe you're right. It's a matter of positioning thought. I want the focus on economics and budgets, and this evolution and abortion stuff, I want that swept under the carpet. Normal planning process, scientific theories are just that, theories, that sort of stuff. I don't want this becoming the focus of my administration.’
Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘What is it?’ said the Mayor.
‘Well, Bovind has sort of different ideas on that. It's a tactical thing. He wants maximum publicity on the city and his foundation is releasing a press release this morning. They have probably already given it to their press contacts.’
‘Well, do you have it? Let me read it!’ demanded the Mayor.
‘I don't have it. One of Bovind's PR team called me this morning. I got the feeling we were last on a longlist. She was very excitable, said the eyes of the world would be on us.’
‘Who exactly is running this city? Us or them?’
Anthony remained silent. ‘On a tactical note there was a murder in the city last night. It might push the announcement from the front pages.’
‘Who died?’ asked the Mayor.
‘Just some lawyer. Pushed from his office, council waste operatives found him this morning splattered on the pavement.’
‘Pity it's a lawyer, no one will care. Now if it had been a celebrity we could have stood a
chance of taking this Bovind Foundation crap off the front page. Get him on the phone now!’
Anthony made the call. The direct line number Bovind had given him rang out. Anthony tried the Bovind Foundation office and was passed from department to department eventually reaching Julia, Mr Bovind's administration assistant. She explained that Mr Bovind was visiting a sick relative and couldn't be reached today.
Anthony was left with a promise that she would pass his message to Mr Bovind when he became available.
‘I want to see that press release before it goes and then I want it stopped,’ said the Mayor.
‘I think that boat has sailed Mr Mayor,’ said Anthony.
The Mayor felt a twitch around his temples that signalled the start of a migraine. He rubbed his forehead in exasperation.
‘There was something else as well. The reporter, she mentioned a Stephen Francis, asked me if I knew anything about his disappearance and Kirk. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Not at all, but if this reporter was from the Echo what is she doing giving you a hard time, anyway? I'm going to ring Ralph at the Echo, get her transferred to reporting on supermarket openings and lost cats.’
‘Good idea,’ said the Mayor.
The Mayor stormed out of Anthony's office.
Once he was sure that the Mayor was gone and wouldn't be coming back, Anthony took out his BlackBerry®. It had been vibrating silently in the inside pocket of his suit throughout his conversation with the Mayor.
Anthony hit speed dial.
The response was instant.
‘What is it?’
‘Stephen Francis. Someone knows.’
‘We need to meet.’
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 14
It had been a long time since Erasmus had been to church and a lot had changed. To begin with, he didn't have to wait until Sunday to go. Post-crash, unemployment was at all time high but this was just expanding the church's customer base. Desperate, unhappy people were grist to the church's mill, in Erasmus’ opinion.
Erasmus drove past the church. The building seemed incongruous with the rest of the architecture on Smithdown Road. Its steel and glass was at odds with the red brick terraced shops either side of it. It looked too new, too cared for, in this part of town.
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