Phil Kurthausen - Sudden Death

‘I was sent this three weeks ago.’

Ted handed the piece of paper to Erasmus. It was an email printout. The recipient was Ted. The sender was x546fg@hotmail.co.uk. Erasmus read it.

Wayne has become sick on The Flesh at the Blood House. Stop him or he will never play again.

He passed it to Pete.

‘A classic of its oeuvre,’ said Pete. ‘It’s a shame though that email has all but made extinct the fine art of cutting out newspaper print and gluing it to paper. A real shame.’

Erasmus shrugged.

‘Yes, but no request for payment, which is unusual if it is an attempt to blackmail? Have you asked Wayne about it?’

Ted shook his head.

‘I can’t and neither can the manager. Contractually we are forbidden from raising any non-football issues with Wayne directly. They have to go through his agent, Steve Cowley. I asked him and he said he would take care of it.’

‘Take care of it?’ repeated Erasmus.

‘That’s exactly it. If it was rubbish he would have laughed in my face. Like you say, these things are ten a penny. But he didn’t, he said he would take care of it. There is an “it” and I want to know what “it” is!’ He slapped his palm down against the rich mahogany. ‘Something’s happened and I think it’s the reason Wayne’s form has dipped. He’s a sensitive kid and something is bothering him. When normal teenagers are troubled you get dirty sheets and late nights, with this one, he could bankrupt the club. I want your firm to find out what’s going on. I need to protect my asset!’

‘But why us?’ asked Erasmus, although he already knew the answer.

‘You are lawyers, you can’t go running to the press, and well I know your history, Mr Jones, I know how far you will go.’

Ted looked directly at Erasmus.

‘You want us to find the blackmailer?’ said Pete.

Erasmus shook his head.

‘No, that’s not it. You want us to get Wayne scoring again, isn’t that right?’

Ted placed both hands face down on the table.

‘Will you do it? Peter explained your hourly rates. They are not a problem.’

Erasmus hesitated for a second. He didn’t like this environment, didn’t understand it, but wasn’t it ever thus? Wasn’t it always the appeal of the unfamiliar that attracted him, that usually ended up nearly killing him?

He looked over to Pete and nodded.

‘This one is for you, Pete, we’ll try and save your club.’

Ted was beaming. He walked around his desk and slapped Erasmus hard on the shoulders with one of his bear-like hands.

‘Excellent!’

‘One question, what is the Blood House?’

CHAPTER 5

The Blood House Bar or, as Pete explained, the unofficial home of the city’s Premiership footballers, the hangers-on, WAGS and wannabees, was the type of place that made Erasmus fear for western civilization.

He had no objection to music, albeit the music here seemed to be a sickly RnB, totally unrelated to what he thought of us as RnB: Franklin and Mayfield this was not. He was not against people dancing and having fun as long as he wasn’t forced to participate. No, what he really objected to was people wanting to be seen, to be photographed, to be vindicated by attention. ‘Posing’ his dad would have called it, and the Blood House Bar seemed to be the capital of the city’s posing fraternity.

Pete had cried off. He had a day pass from Debs to come to the football as it was work but an evening in a nightclub was never going to fly. So Erasmus sat with Ted alone in his Maybach on the way to the club.

In the back of the car, his bulk amply supported by the thick leather upholstery, Ted had reclined and had explained Erasmus’s cover story.

‘You are Wayne’s scorta .’

‘What is a scorta ?’

‘It’s an Italian term, it means you do things for him, like a batman in the army.’

‘A bodyguard?’

‘Yes, that and more, you look after him.’

‘Do the other players have a scorta ?’

Ted shook his head.

‘Footballers are not always educated but they are football smart. They understand the dynamics of a club clearly. Wayne may be young and he may be under the influence of the older players, but make no mistake, they all understand the pecking order of talent and value. The best players get a scorta , particularly if they are young.’

‘And what qualifications do you need to be a scorta ?’

Ted smiled, the fat on his eyelids almost obscuring his eyes.

‘A willingness to do anything that is asked. You’ll be fine.’

Erasmus knew the building; he had passed it many times as he made his way to his office in the Cunard Building. Once home to the city’s only abattoir and prior to that the base for the merchants who dealt in African flesh, the grand India Building was now home to Blood House.

The car stopped outside and the driver came around and let them out. Outside the chilly night air, edged with the sharpness of an Irish Sea wind, had not stopped hundreds of people, dressed in clothes more appropriate for a summer’s day, queuing outside on the pavement. Erasmus noticed eyes flicker with interest and then fade into cold boredom as they realised Erasmus was a nobody.

There were two doormen, one older and presumably the boss, and the other young and gym muscled. The older bouncer nodded at Ted and the younger lifted up a braided gold rope that marked the entrance to the club.

‘Evening,’ said Ted.

‘Nice to see you again, Mr Wright. Pity about the result today. The boys are already inside letting off steam.’

Ted stuck out his hand and Erasmus saw that a note was being passed.

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

The rope was clicked back into place by the younger bouncer blocking the progress of two young girls wearing short, gossamer thin dresses and whose goosebumps were visible through their fake tans like seeds on a loaf.

Erasmus followed Ted through the entrance hall, which was lined with floor to ceiling purple velvet drapes. If they had been going for an ambience of expensive decadence crossed with brothel chic then they were bang on the money , thought Erasmus. Ted seemed to know exactly where he was going. He pulled aside one of the drapes revealing an aluminium door, cheap and incongruous. He opened it and stepped through. Erasmus followed him and walked into a wall of pulsing beats, strobe lights and the smell of money and sex. They were standing at the top of a wide metal staircase that overlooked a dance floor that filled with swaying, sweating bodies. The effect from up here was of one many-limbed organism moving in time. The bass that filled Erasmus’s chest was provided by a DJ whose booth was at their eye level, hung from the ceiling by steel wires, suspended over the flock.

Ted leaned in and shouted into Erasmus’s ears.

‘I hate it here, I’m going to introduce you to Wayne and then I’m going. I have to get my helicopter back to London.’

Erasmus nodded. It was useless him trying to speak. Ted would never hear him.

Ted descended the staircase. He seemed oblivious to the revellers who he bumped and barged past, but they also seemed unaware of him, their saucer eyes fixed on the DJ as they danced as one.

Ted carved his way straight across the dance floor, like a shark through an ocean of krill, until he reached the opposite side. Here there was a door with another bouncer stood outside except this one was professional. His dark eyes registered Erasmus and then immediately flickered back to the heaving mass of flesh on the dance floor, scanning for threats. Erasmus could tell from the guy’s bearing that he was ex-military.

‘This is Dave, the player’s general bodyguard.’

Dave tipped his head ever so slightly in Erasmus’s direction.