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this got to do with me and Pete? Other than Pete’s obsession with a football club.’
    Pete shook his head and smiled ruefully.
    ‘You’ll never understand this place, Raz.’
    Ted licked whisky from his lips.
    ‘Pete was right. It’s Wayne Jennings. Something is wrong.’
    Erasmus considered for a second and then decided that, yes, on balance, he had heard him right.
    ‘OK, I have no idea how a small, two-man firm of lawyers can help one of your poorly performing footballers. Care to enlighten me?’
    There was a glint of rage in Ted’s eyes and Erasmus guessed he was used to being given what he considered due respect when holding forth.
    ‘Wayne Jennings is the greatest thing that ever happened to this club. I believe your colleague Pete can give you his history.’
    Pete smiled.
    ‘Youngest ever goalscorer in the Premier league, youngest and quickest player to reach thirty goals in a season, England cap at seventeen, England hat-trick at eighteen. Voted Europe’s best young player at eighteen. A local boy, a Scouser and the future and hope of this club.’
    ‘And what is he playing like this season?’ asked Ted.
    ‘Like a drunken paraplegic.’
    Erasmus shot Pete a glance.
    ‘Nice.’
    Pete looked at his feet.
    ‘Well he is, Roy needs to drop him.’
    ‘Roy?’ asked Erasmus.
    ‘Our sorry excuse for, and soon to be, between you me and the whisky, unemployed manager.’
    Ted drained his glass.
    ‘This club is worth what, say £80 million. We had a bid last summer from Real Madrid for Wayne. They offered £65 million. Wayne is this club; he is the most valuable asset we have. It’s no secret that the club has borrowed against him and now he is playing like he’s never seen a ball before.’
    ‘Is he injured?’ asked Erasmus.
    ‘Our doctors say he has never been fitter.’
    ‘I don’t know what to suggest. Sports psychologist? A trainer? Again, how can we help?’
    Ted filled up his tumbler with more whisky. This time he didn’t offer any to Erasmus or Pete. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He looked at it.
    ‘Lawyer client confidentiality. I need to know that applies here.’
    ‘It does,’ said Erasmus, ‘unless you tell me you’re about to commit a crime.’ He smiled.
    ‘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 [email protected]. 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