Pentecost tossed his newspaper on the desk before turning to his laptop, hitting the keyboard and bringing his screen to life. He hit another key to access the security feeds. There were nine in total, each one a live image delivered by a different camera somewhere inside the Astarte. The one on the top left showed the interior of the express elevator from the private car park. It depicted several men. Four of Benny B’s heavies were ranged across the back. Their hands were out of sight, but they were clearly training firearms on the two men in front of them: Frank McCracken and Mick Shallicker. Briefly, the twosome looked ridiculous, the enormous minder standing side-on to his infinitely shorter, leaner employer, who appeared unusually dishevelled. McCracken’s left arm was still in a sling, and his jacket was draped over his shoulders; he wore no tie and his collar was open.

In front of those two, almost the same height as McCracken, but the same breadth as McCracken and Shallicker put together, was Benny B, grim-faced and silent as they rode.

Pentecost turned to Spicer. ‘You know what to do.’

Spicer nodded and disappeared.

Pentecost got up from his chair and walked slowly into the boardroom, where he stopped and waited – with his own tie loose, his hands in his trouser pockets. It was not his normal look, either. But then these were not normal times.

Outside in the penthouse lobby, Spicer and two assistants stood by the lift doors. All non-security staff – barmen, waitresses, chambermaids and the like – had been given a half-day, so the threesome were alone. They waited loose-limbed and with pistols drawn, watching the red light above the doors, as the car ascended from floor to floor. In truth, they weren’t expecting that Benny B would need any additional muscle, as he seemed to have things well in hand. But just in case, here they were.

With a ping, the lift arrived.

The double doors slid open – and Benny B was in their faces, features white, glasses askew, head crooked to one side by the Walther P22 jammed into his right ear.

‘Drop ’em!’ McCracken ordered, coming out behind him, pushing Benny’s bulk forward as a human shield. ‘Do it now or Benny gets it. You know I’m not kidding.’

Spicer and his oppos were stumped. Especially when they saw that Shallicker was carrying an Uzi submachine gun and levelling it at them over the security chief’s shoulder. One burst and he’d take them all down. Of the four men left behind in the lift, it seemed that only two, the two in the middle, were Benny B’s. The two on the outside, who now that they weren’t being viewed through a grainy TV monitor, were clearly McCracken’s, clutched pistols against their guts.