‘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.
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