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
‘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
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