The Astarte was a bland structure, looking like a typical midweek stopover for travelling businessmen, which was exactly the impression that its owners, Ent-Tech Ltd, aka the Crew, liked to give. The top floor, which was nominally the penthouse suite, comprised bedrooms, an office, a boardroom and a lounge bar, none of it accessible by public stairway or lift, only by a private express elevator, which ascended straight to it from a subterranean car park to which normal customers were also denied entry.

In fact, the Astarte was the hub of Crew operations, though few people who passed it would have the first clue that this presentable but on the whole innocuous building housed a crime syndicate whose baleful influence was so far-reaching that even the police had to tread warily around them.

Mick Shallicker was as much a part of this as the immense granite building blocks from which the Astarte was constructed. His prime role was as personal minder and chief enforcer to Frank McCracken, the Crew underboss in charge of shaking down all those non-affiliated criminal groups in the Northwest who didn’t voluntarily pay ‘tax’. By its nature, this department had constantly to be ready to threaten or employ violence to get its way, and Mick Shallicker was right at the heart of that. It helped that he was six-foot-nine, with a build to match. He was broad and strong as an ox, an all-round giant whose rugged, brutal face bespoke no mercy for those falling into his grasp.

At present, he was in the lounge bar, next door to the boardroom, sipping a cold beer and snacking on an excellent buffet. Others like him, at least in terms of rank, were dotted around the spacious, comfortable room, some on couches, some in armchairs, some, like Shallicker, standing at the bar. There was some chit-chat, but nothing especially warm or friendly, though there was no tension in the air. None of these men trusted each other, though they didn’t dislike each other, and even if there was some animosity, theirs wasn’t a paygrade that permitted outward displays of it. Watched closely by several dark-suited members of Benny B’s security team, who had already disarmed everyone on arrival, they spoke civilly to each other if it was necessary to speak – there were even a few quips, a few chuckles – but for the most part they simply nodded, smiled their enigmatic half-smiles and kept quiet.