Stolen. Paul Finch

extra wealth on themselves from time to time. It kept them happy, and encouraged them to work their people ever harder, because the larger each department’s official income, the larger its skim.

      Little wonder it was now regarded as a sacrosanct perk.

      But of course, what a man could make, he could also unmake.

      ‘Alas, we may have to pick up some of this slack ourselves,’ Pentecost said, walking around the room with that slow, heavy tread of his. ‘So … as a temporary measure, I propose that we cut the skim from twenty-five per cent to fifteen.’

      There were audible murmurs of discontent. Chair legs scraped, narrowed eyes exchanged surly glances.

      ‘It’s a proposal at present,’ Pentecost added, no tension in his voice. ‘But I want you to consider it very seriously, gentlemen. These are difficult times, as we’ve already discussed. Even now, it may not seem necessary that we prepare a war-chest, but wars often happen when you’re least expecting them.’

      ‘Yo, Bill,’ Merryweather protested, ‘if you’re talking about cancelling the skim …’

      ‘I’m not talking about cancelling it, I’m talking about trimming it.’

      ‘A ten per cent cut is some trim,’ Toni Zambala pointed out.

      ‘Slashing it then. Never fear, there’ll be something left.’

      More mutters of irritation.

      ‘Gentlemen, you surprise me.’ Pentecost strolled back to his own end of the table. ‘Are we not the ruling elite? Do you seriously expect the burden of these losses to fall elsewhere when we ourselves –’ he tossed the paperwork down the table ‘– are directly responsible for them?’

      ‘If there are losses across the board, Bill,’ Al Reed ventured, ‘couldn’t it just be the effect of austerity?’

      ‘Austerity is something that impacts on the ordinary,’ Pentecost replied. ‘On those who lack the means and the will to resist it. We are immune to austerity, because we are the extraordinary.’

      ‘Don’t we get to vote on this?’ Trueman wondered.

      Pentecost met him eye-to-eye. This was the potential crisis point. Trueman’s body-language suggested they had not okayed this beforehand. That would be typical Wild Bill these days. Increasingly, he reacted to developments in kneejerk fashion. Previously, he would never have made a potentially controversial move without discussing it with his number two first. It would have been difficult for any of them to tackle Wild Bill on his own, but to tackle him and Lennie Trueman together would be suicide.

      Billy Boy is riding his luck, McCracken thought.

      But perhaps, on further consideration, Trueman, a cooler head who saw the bigger picture quickly, had decided that the very least they could do in these trying circumstances was put business before pleasure. So, though he remained taut, he awaited his Chairman’s response politely.

      ‘Of course,’ Pentecost said, walking again. ‘We’re all equals in here.’ He paused at the other end of the table. ‘Any objectors raise their right hands.’

      He swept them with his gaze as they each struggled with the matter.

      One by one, with many a truculent stare directed downward, they folded their hands on the table in front of them, until it was unanimous.

      ‘I think the motion is carried,’ Pentecost said. ‘Which concludes our business for today.’

      The meeting didn’t break up as amicably as usual.

      The Chairman saw them out in his usual fashion, accompanying them into the penthouse lobby, where Benny B and his men restored their guns to them.

      Pentecost spoke fake fond words as they departed. But when he went back into the boardroom, he found that they hadn’t all left. Frank McCracken stood by the main window, taking in its panoramic view of the city.

      ‘Still here, Frank?’ Pentecost approached. ‘I thought after that pep talk, we’d all consider we had rather a lot of business to attend to.’

      ‘Just wondering if I could have a little private chat?’ McCracken replied. ‘For old times’ sake, if nothing else.’

      Pentecost mulled it over. ‘Suppose I can spare a minute for one of my oldest muckers.’

      ‘If a minute’s all I’ve got, I’ll get straight to it,’ McCracken said. ‘I wonder if you’d consider reversing that decision about slashing the skim?’

      Pentecost looked sad. ‘How disappointingly predictable of you.’

      ‘Bill, come on …’ McCracken allowed a conspiratorial note to creep into his voice. ‘Look, these guys are on your side. Since you put the Crew together, they’ve never made as much dosh. Okay, they have to pay three quarters of it into central funds, but they’re well rewarded for that, plus they recognise it’s working. That’s why they’re happy to go along with it.’

      ‘Go along with it, Frank? You make it sound like they have a choice.’

      ‘Bill, you put this outfit together on the understanding everyone would have a certain degree of autonomy. We all sit at the same boardroom table, we all have the same ambition, but it’s always been the case that each one of these guys is a gaffer in his own right, too.’

      Pentecost affected a puzzled expression. ‘Are you lecturing me about something I invented?’

      ‘What I’m trying to say is they’re loyal. But that we can’t take that loyalty for granted.’

      Pentecost headed for the door in the frosted glass wall partitioning the boardroom from his own office. He went through, leaving the door open for McCracken to follow.

      The Chairman’s office, or the Head Office as it was usually referred to, wasn’t used a great deal, hence it existed in a permanent near-pristine state, its blocks of shelving lined with books, mostly legal and business tomes (which, from time to time, Pentecost actually read), but everything else hinting more at luxury: it had a plush carpet, expensive artwork on its wood-panelled walls, a seventy-inch hi-def television, a row of carved Italian chairs and, in the very centre, dominating everything, a huge, leather-topped desk with a neat stack of phoney paperwork at one end and a desktop computer at the other.

      Pentecost strode to the drinks cabinet in the corner, where he filled two large tumblers with ice cubes and poured malt whisky from a crystal decanter.

      ‘You know what I’m talking about, Bill,’ McCracken said from the doorway. ‘Lennie could close the entire Port of Liverpool to us. So how would Terry Underwood bring in his knock-off Italian dresses and shoes? You think the Camorra would be happy to put business on hold for as long as it takes us to buy another port? What about the Triads when it comes to knock-off tech from China? Aside from that, we get a cut of everything that comes through the docks. The merchants are happy to pay, the shipping lines are happy to pay – anything for a smooth operation. And when we don’t get it, we steal it. What happens if all that dries up? And how would it impact on the narcotraffic? Toni would need to find a completely new way to import his product. Most likely, he’d go off and do his own thing. That’d be half our most lucrative operations down the toilet at the same time. Plus, if Lennie and Toni walk, it’ll cost us the streets … we’ll lose our eyes, our ears, our noses. Meanwhile, Nicky and his vice girls are worth ten million to us each year alone. What if that cashflow dries up too?’

      ‘And when will all this happen, do you think?’ The Chairman offered McCracken his drink.

      ‘I’m not saying it will.’ McCracken took the glass. ‘I’ve not heard a sniff of rebel talk. But it could happen. That’s just common sense, isn’t it? And look, Bill … I wouldn’t be saying all this if me and you didn’t go right back. You’ve got my firm promise, my solemn guarantee that whatever happens, I’ll stand with you. You know you can always rely on me. But if it was two of