‘Benny B’, or Benny Bartholomew to use his real name, another lieutenant in the Crew, was their official Head of Security. Even as they discussed him, he stood only five yards away, his paper plate heaped with sandwiches, slabs of cold meat, chicken drumsticks, spare ribs and wedges of quiche, all of which he was now in the process of shovelling into his mouth, at the same time as guzzling from a plastic pint-pot that was at least as full of froth as it was lager. He was a huge, square-shaped man with ham-shank arms and a tree-trunk neck, the width of him alone putting massive pressure on his straining suit, though he wasn’t as imposing a figure as Shallicker because much of his youthful muscle had now run to fat. His face was plump and flabby, while his eyes, already oddly tiny, looked tinier still behind the lenses of small, circular-framed glasses.

The ‘solution’ that McCracken referred to was a general reward that Benny B had announced some five days ago – fifty grand, no less – for information leading to the robbers who’d killed Flash Andy. Almost inevitably, with so much money on the table, this had led to a rash of accusations and counter-accusations, and plenty of vigilante activity, not just aimed at the cash-stealing community, but at anyone the accusers happened to have a grudge against; when the Crew were looking for answers, it was always a good opportunity to settle some scores.

‘In less than a week, it’s turned into a bloodbath,’ McCracken said. ‘Lots of fingers getting broken, lot of heads kicked in.’

‘You have a problem with that?’ Pentecost sounded amused, though as always, it was an icy kind of mirth. ‘You of all people, Frank?’

‘What I have a problem with, Bill, is the lack of info it’s generating. Half these idiots are chancers. Fifty K’s a lot of dough. They’ll do anything to get their mitts on it. Chuck baseless rumours around, name names that have got nothing to do with it … they’d try to beat a confession out of Mickey Mouse if they thought they’d get paid. The one thing they’re not doing is getting to the truth. If anything, they’re muddying the waters till we can’t see a fucking thing.’

If Pentecost took McCracken’s criticism of Benny B’s scheme as indirect criticism of himself – after all, he had okayed it – he didn’t show any irritation. Instead, he replied: ‘Perhaps you now realise why I think your team should be more involved.’

McCracken nodded. ‘I’ll ask around a bit more.’

‘Do so, Frank. Put the pressure on. And the sooner the better. I’d hate to have to call a board meeting over this.’

‘Doubt there’ll be any need for that, Bill.’