Despite this, on the top floor they were greeted by a cordon of Benny B’s security men, who patted them down as was customary at board meetings – not just for weapons, but for recording devices too.

Once this was done, and all minders and bodyguards had been directed into the lounge-bar for a beer and a cold lunch, the underbosses were passed through into the boardroom itself, where a ‘no alcohol’ rule was in force until business had been concluded.

In total, there were fourteen seats around a long table of polished teak. Excluding those reserved for the Chairman of the Board and for his Secretary and number two, Lennie Trueman, a West Indian guy by origin and one of only two non-whites on the board, but someone who, having delivered almost the entirety of the Liverpool docks on first being recruited, not to mention a considerable portion of the black muscle in both Liverpool and Manchester, had unquestionably earned his lofty position.

Aside from McCracken and Merryweather, the rest of the seats would be occupied by: Larry Harris, who controlled all the firm’s loan-sharking businesses; Tom DeSouza, whose remit was cyber-crime and credit card fraud; Adam Gilcrist, who provided firearms to the rest of the underworld; Luke Haynes, who ran all numbers and gambling rackets; Al Reed, whose role was the protection of legit businesses (as opposed to criminal enterprises); Jon Killarny, counterfeiting; Terry Underwood, contraband; Lou Weaver, fencing; and last, but very far from least, East African-born former pirate and smuggler, Toni Zambala, who controlled all the syndicate’s narcotic-related interests (if Frank McCracken was seen as an honest achiever among Crew lieutenants, Toni Zambala was the star player; his weekly contributions to company funds often overshadowed all the rest of them put together). One final seat was reserved for Benny B, who, aside from the Chairman and his Secretary, was the only Crew member not expected to produce profits, his role being Head of Security.

As they gathered one by one, they chatted idly, sipping mineral water, but all with at least half an eye on the frosted glass wall partitioning the boardroom from the Chairman’s private office, where it looked as if several figures were moving around, their conversation carrying through in low mumbles.

At one o’clock sharp, the office door opened, and Pentecost and Trueman came through alone, closing the door behind them. The Chairman, the eternal grey man, wore his usual grey suit, which of course matched his eyes and his lips and his hair and the steel rims of his square-framed glasses. Trueman, a little on the old side now and heavy-set, his thick, crinkly hair also running to grey, went for similarly sharply tailored suits, though in his case he preferred the flamboyant greens, blues and reds of his youth.

They took their usual places at the head of the table, and a frosty silence reigned. Finally, after sipping some water, Pentecost stood up.