9

The day that Sam is meeting the Chinese businessmen, Philip is treating James Feeney and his daughter, Mary Pat, to lunch at the Merrion Hotel. Along with his two brothers, Feeney, as a nineteen-year-old, had left Mohill for London in the late nineteen fifties. By dint of hard work and, at times, a brutal treatment of workers – most of them Irish – the three brothers, raw-boned men, made millions clearing up the fallout of Hitler’s visit. Then, with an army of Irishmen, they set about giving London a face-lift.

The last time Philip had met Feeney was at the funeral of the former Taoiseach, Charles J. Haughey. ‘The end of an era’ was his comment when they chatted just before the Requiem Mass began at Donnycarney Church. ‘And the Irish people − all of us − owe The Boss a lot. God rest him,’ he said, looking fondly at the coffin covered in a white pall and flanked by four tall candles in front of the altar. Keeping vigil are a couple of frail nuns bent over rosary beads. ‘An old rogue, but he never let down the trade. Look,’ he grinned, sweeping his hand over the front of the church where stooped men with weather-beaten faces were greeting one another. ‘If the roof caved in, there wouldn’t be a developer left in the country.’

Although well established as a builder in Dublin and the sur-rounding satellite towns, Feeney now wants a further piece of the action down in the Dublin Docklands. Philip checks with others in the department and makes a report to Sharkey.

‘You could put your shirt on Feeney, Philip. No problem there.’

‘But the rumours about unsold houses, empty office sites. Not good.’

‘Philip, if Nat Am doesn’t give him the loan, others will – only too delighted to. Now can we afford to suffer a drop in the market because we haven’t got the balls? You were never like that. You always had balls of brass.’

‘It’s just what one hears, and then that Trinity economist …’

‘Fuck the Trinity economist! Doesn’t know Jack shit about banking or the housing market. These arseholes have their heads stuck in books. They should get out a bit more often. But if that would ease your mind, I’ll set up a meeting along with Kimberly and our legal team.’

‘Don’t you think we should put it to the credit committee, like we used do each Friday morning?’ Egan argues. Philip had asked him to sit in on the meeting.

‘No need, Kevin. Feeney has been a reliable client: he has ticked all the boxes – cash flow, security and we have recourse to his personal assets, so what more do we need? But if it will ease your minds, I’ll inform the Regulator.’ He winks. ‘Meeting him Saturday at the Glen. You know by now, guys, business is done at the nineteenth.’ He looks towards the display of pictures on the far wall. Among them is one of himself and other golfers, including a member of the Regulator’s force taken in front of his villa at Cap Ferrat.

‘This time last year …’ Egan begins to explain.

‘Kevin, this-time-last-year, I’m sick of hearing the naysayers about the number of houses that were sold.’ He is in a tidying mood, dropping pens into an earthenware holder, taking up a sheaf of pages and aligning the edges against the desk. ‘Lookit, we’re on a roll. Let’s give a wide berth to the shitehawks. I never had much time for hurlers on the ditch. And these gobshites who like the sound of their own voices on the television.’

He swivels in his chair and takes in the wide view provided by the glass panels at his back and to his left. Looking away in the direction of Dun Laoghaire, he says: ‘You know, if Desmond and his likes hadn’t taken this country by the balls, we’d be in Queer Street. And if I – and I say this in all humility – hadn’t gone after the big fish, we’d still be loaning peanuts to couples out in some fucking backwater – like the credit union does – and you guys, let me remind you, might still be listening to the fucking nightingale in Berkeley Square.’ The famous Sharkey guffaw causes heads to rise, out in the open-plan office.

Sharkey takes pride in recalling how he door-stepped the debtors. No longer were they receiving polite letters dictated by St John Dunleavy on vanilla paper with the bank’s crest. ‘The gloves are off, guys.’

He wheels around again. ‘Pay no attention to these economists. Eunuchs in a whorehouse: can’t do it, only look on.’ He laughs again and straightens his canary tie. ‘When I urged Dunleavy to open branches in country towns, and proposed that we float on the market, these self-proclaimed gurus called us upstarts. But Nat Am shares rocketed in six months: everyone wanted to buy. We were the new kids on the block, but by heck we were wiping the eye of the top guns. This is only a seasonal blip.’ He stands. ‘Business as usual.’

Along with Mary Pat, his solicitor, and his accountant, Feeney arrives for a meeting in Philip’s office on the Friday. With him also are his quantity surveyor and one of the directors. The terms had been already ironed out and agreed upon by both lawyers: all they need to do is to sign the contract. A lap of honour.

Giving off the scent of allure and Estée Lauder, Kimberley from the legal team takes a sheaf of documents from her attaché case. Within ten minutes a loan of forty million Euro is granted to Feeney Holdings for a larger investment in Dublin’s Dock-lands. The mood is celebratory while they sign the documents, and when the deal is done, they relax. It is now time for Nat Am to show hospitality to a valued client and his entourage in the executive floor dining room. The following September the bank would indulge Feeney’s love for Gaelic football by having Philip take him to Croke Park on All-Ireland day. First Nat Am would host a lunch at The Shelbourne, and then they would provide executive limousines for the journey across to the bank’s corporate box in the stadium.

Sharkey joins them as they are about to travel up in the lift. The conversation is pure pleasure: Fairyhouse, Gowran Park and how Seánie hates to lose at golf. ‘Seen him in a right state one evening at Mount Juliet,’ says Sharkey. ‘He wasn’t making the cut, so what does the bastard do except put an extra bet on each hole.’ Sharkey’s bulky shoulders shake while gloating over Seánie’s misfortune.

They have an aperitif in the lounge across from the dining room where the green walls, hung with Paul Henrys and le Brocquys, set off the dark mahogany chairs and table, and where sparkling crystal stands tall on a linen tablecloth. One of the Polish waiters brings in a bottle of champagne; he is followed by another with a tray of glasses. Philip pops the champagne and proposes the toast: may Feeney Holdings continue to flourish and always remain a valued client of Nat Am.

The team of waiters in black ties is fussing around to make sure everything is in order. Philip and his guests begin with smoked salmon and a delicate chardonnay and then attack the strip loin of tender beef, all the while putting away two bottles of Gevrey-Chambertin 1988.

Sharkey purrs. Nat Am is still bringing in the big fish. He becomes voluble, calling to mind his time in Harvard and, for Feeney’s benefit, their first meeting at the pokey premises in Andrew Street. ‘Ah sure, I remember it well. Mr Dunleavy had one of his gout attacks.’

At one point, during the dinner, when the others are making expert predictions on the England v. Sri Lanka cricket test match, Feeney loses interest; he leans over to Philip and thanks him for a good day’s work. They do small talk for a while until Philip notices Feeney fidgeting with a teaspoon.

‘So,’ he asks him, ‘how is your development in north County Dublin going?’

Like a hypnotist’s subject coming out of a trance, Feeney springs back to life. ‘Sure, I’ll have it done in jigtime.’ He places a huge fist on the tablecloth. ‘Do you know one of the best lessons I’ve learnt in life?’

‘What’s that, James?’

‘Every man has his price.’

He had run into snags in the north County building project, and the work was held up for a couple of weeks. Even though he had the councillors on his side, the school principal up there, a young man who had trained the winning team in the Cumann na mBunscoil for the previous two years, had got the parents to lodge a protest. He believed that apartment blocks close to the sports pitch would bring a lot of traffic around the place, and be a risk to children’s safety.

‘Rubbish,’ says Feeney. ‘Indoor basketball and changin rooms and a few thousand to the parish priest for the restoration of his church organ. Sure I had the board of management eatin out of my hand!’ He suppresses his laughter, and says, out of the side of his mouth. ‘And now the holy man has the best organ in Dublin.’

The meal over, they accompany him to his gleaming black Kompressor parked at the front, and exchange a few words before they part: glad to do business again; best bank in town; old friends are best. And Sharkey has every confidence in the market. They will talk soon.

Philip turns to Sharkey on their way up in the elevator. ‘That’s well and truly put to bed now. And we can bank on your man; he’s got the connections.’

‘Correct. No shortage of TDs with him at Croker last year.’

While they are waiting for the doors to open, Sharkey says above a whisper: ‘Although he still hasn’t quite learned how to use a nail brush.’

‘Hah, we’ll take his money, all the same.’

‘Incidentally, Dunleavy is talking about lunch at Fitzwilliam on Friday. You should be getting an email today. Just a few of us. To close out a good week at the office you might say.’

‘Fine. Never refuse a lunch with Breffni.’

The standing joke at Nat Am is: ‘When Dunleavy invites you to his tennis club, open another loan account for investment.’

It being a Thursday evening, they can afford to relax, so they take another coffee in the lounge. Sharkey is jubilant, but because Philip has challenged his viewpoint on banking issues in the past couple of years, they are never fully at ease with each other; so Sharkey calls Brennan and Wheeler to join in the celebrations.

Across the corridor the Polish caterers are setting the table for the next show of hospitality to the Golden Circle. Down below on the street, people are hurrying by: a woman is pushing a buggy; an oil lorry has pulled in to the Maxol garage up the road and the driver is inserting a hose into an opening in the ground. Three schoolgirls in rust-coloured uniforms go by; two of them are on their mobiles.

‘You see all of them, guys,’ says Sharkey, turning round towards the glass panels, and pointing down to the street. ‘They are the little people. And guess what? They will always be the little people. They will always be down there. We,’ he spreads wide his arms like a priest inviting the congregation to join him in the prayers of the Mass. ‘We belong up here. And once you’re up here – make no mistake about it – you’re untouchable. And you know something else – if we blow it, they will pay for our mistakes. And the pipsqueaks in the media can go and fuck themselves. That’s the way of the world, guys. Has been since old God’s time.’

Sharkey’s guffaw causes the Polish caterers to steal a glance across the hallway.

Usually, when St John Dunleavy hosts lunches at Fitzwilliam, he makes much of greeting fellow members on the way in, and introducing his staff in the manner of a proud patron. In the wood-panelled foyer, he gives Sharkey, Philip and Kyran Wheeler a potted history of Ireland’s premier club. Silver trophies in glass cabinets bathe in amber light.

The bankers happen on one of the club committee who is excited about the forthcoming Irish Open Tennis tournament. ‘Some first-rate chaps from across the pond,’ he announces. ‘Needless to say, they have to be rewarded.’ He rubs his thumb against his fingers. ‘The days of playing for the love of the game are dead and buried.’

‘Ah,’ says Dunleavy, ‘how one wishes for les amateurs.’

The committee man turns to Wheeler. ‘Of course, Kyran is one of our esteemed members here, and he carried off the laurels on a couple of occasions if memory serves me right.’

‘We too are very proud of Mr Wheeler’s successes. By the by,’ says St John Dunleavy, ‘many thanks for the Wimbledon tickets: you always come up trumps. Good show. See you soon.’

As they climb the stairs, St John Dunleavy does a running commentary on the black and white photos that line the wall: Wimbledon champions who had played at the Irish Open and were part of the club’s glorious past. Nearly everyone at Nat Am knows about his selection on the Leinster Schools Team, when wooden rackets in presses were still in use, and about the day when he was a line judge at the Open and he had put manners on Bob Hewitt, the South African, who had come straight from Wimbledon that year.

Twice Hewitt disputed St John Dunleavy’s calls. ‘But I held my ground, gentlemen.’ Sharkey and Philip have been through the routine before, but they nod as if hearing it all for the first time. ‘Had a drink afterwards with him. Capital fellow.’

‘Laver,’ Dunleavy beams, and points to one of the greats, ‘look at him with J.D.’

In the dining room, Wheeler’s phone goes off: he is profusely apologetic. He stands, excuses himself again, almost bowing to Dunleavy, and talks into his phone as he is walking towards the door. Sharkey leans over to St John Dunleavy: ‘Kyran, he’s really getting his teeth into his work now.’

‘Seems well clued-in alright,’ says Dunleavy.

‘The two contracts he secured,’ Sharkey is excited in the telling, ‘they were clients he made in, of all places, the gym. Can you believe it? At the gym in Blackrock. Six o’clock in the morning!’

‘My word!’

‘And guess what? One of them he poached from Ulster, the other from Anglo. He reminds me of Philip when I rescued him from London,’ Sharkey laughs. ‘Same enthusiasm.’

‘Imagine buttonholing a guy… my goodness, at six in the morning.’ St John Dunleavy shakes his head. ‘Hell’s bells, probably in the shower.’ He throws back his large head and mane of white hair, and laughs.

‘Balls we call it, Breffni,’ says Sharkey, leaning in so that he won’t be heard by those at the surrounding tables.

‘Hah, quite so, quite so.’ St John Dunleavy chuckles. ‘Yes, we have to concede: the future belongs to Mr Wheeler’s generation.’

Wheeler returns with many apologies. A developer up in Newry, a client of one of the other banks, is being given the run-around and he wants to talk with Nat Am about equity support for a shopping mall.

‘All in the line of duty, Mr Wheeler.’ Dunleavy bestows one of his patrician smiles, and returns to his topic – how, from now on, they have to be lean and mean at Nat Am. ‘Our competitors are chasing us now, gentlemen. Can’t leave any stone unturned.’

Philip watches him: white gold ring, and matching cufflinks when he raises the wine glass to his lips. This is a warm-up; the bastard is on a pruning operation with Sharkey to get rid of those staff whom they regard as a drain on the purse, and replace them with lackeys such as Brennan and Wheeler who will tout for business in gyms and golf clubs, and work their arses off for much less than they have to pay someone in a senior position.

Philip himself has to tread warily or be shown the front door. Can’t risk that – not with a mountain of a mortgage, and much more from a Nat Am loan to reinvest in bank shares.

‘How long are you with us now?’ St John Dunleavy asks Philip.

‘Twenty-four in August, Breffni!’

‘My goodness,’ Dunleavy signs the bill and drops it on the silver tray, placed discreetly at his side by a waiter. ‘Ah well, gentlemen, sooner or later we all have to face the passage of time. Gather ye rosebuds.’ He bows his head, and intones: ‘For all that we have received, may we be truly grateful. Amen.’ They mutter ‘Amen’. He stands – giving the cue to the others to do likewise. ‘C’est la vie, gentlemen. C’est la vie.’

On the way down the stairs, past Rod Laver whose left-hand racket wrist was two inches larger than his right, and Goolagong’s curves, Dunleavy talks of his plans to do the Hebrides again in September if the winds are fair. The crew is mostly Downside. ‘A pact we made on our last night in the dear old Alma Mater, and we’ve honoured our pledge every year without fail. Renovabitur ut aquilae iuventus tua. The old school motto. Although, truth to tell, at this stage, little chance now of renewing ourselves like the eagle, gentlemen.’ He gives a broad salute to fellow members as he leads his guests through the automatic doors.

Out in the car park, the amber tail lights of his Jaguar xj wink when he presses his remote control.

‘As a matter of interest,’ he says, cocking the keys. ‘Forget the claptrap about the limitations and the market in jeopardy. The market was never in better shape.’

‘No risk?’ Philip says. ‘And those empty apartments we’re hearing about. And what about the Regulator, what does he – ?’

‘The Regulator can take a running jump,’ Sharkey cuts in and, enjoying his own quip, looks at his boss for approval. St John Dunleavy is sinking into tan upholstery; he lowers the window and laughs. ‘Hah, quite so, Aengus. Well you know, chaps, as the finance minister has put it – light-touch regulation is the way ahead for our banks.’ The Jag purrs and begins to cruise. He calls through the open window: ‘We’ll have to do this more often. Yes, very soon.’

Wheeler had to get rackets restrung so Sharkey travels back with Philip. Waiting for the lights to change at Morehampton Road, Sharkey says: ‘It’s all bigger than any of us – share prices, bond-holders, we’re fucking slaves to them.’ He glances at Philip, who is about to make a comment when Sharkey’s BlackBerry goes off. Conrad Brennan is making a progress report on a client. ‘Wow,’ says Sharkey, ‘you jammy bastard. Philip and I are returning to the grindstone. ’

‘Oh, hi, Philip.’ Brennan fails to hide the surprise in his voice.

‘Hi, Conrad.’

‘Well then, we’ll talk later.’

Sharkey chuckles when he hangs up: ‘Isn’t he something else? Landed another big one. Remember the hotel guy. We took him to lunch in Roly’s last May.’

‘Hotel guy?’

‘Don’t you remember? Had been a teacher and got in on the act. Saw his pupils – chippies and bricklayers passing him out. Decided he’d get a bit of the action. Anyway, he wants to increase his property portfolio in his own town: shopping mall, hotel and apartment block – that sort of investment. His bank won’t bite.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘I like the guy; he’s got balls,’ says Sharkey.

After a while, Philip says: ‘If memory serves me right, aren’t there two shopping centres there already? And the population can’t be more than ten to fifteen thousand. What about the planners?’

‘Come on, Philip,’ Sharkey laughs deep in his throat. ‘You’ve been around long enough to see how they operate. Dosh, Philip: the only show in town. Jaysus, must I draw pictures?’

Before getting out of the car, Sharkey asks about the American Evening.

‘Yes, no worries on that score. All we need now is spot of luck with the weather.’

Philip is so absorbed in working out Sharkey’s sly ways, he nearly reverses into a new Passat in the next bay. St John Dunleavy’s hatchet man will make life impossible for those he wants to cull; he’s seen him do it many times. Some he will call to his office to tell them they have to clean out their desks. With others, he will play a cruel game of cat and mouse, such as being excluded from meetings, or no longer being considered for promotion. Then he will play the hurt card: ‘You’re letting me down. I always thought I could rely on you.’

Some would hold out for as long as possible: those especially who might still have the youngest child in college, or have a loan on a holiday home. Eventually the strain would tell, the victim would crumble or else begin to drink too much.

When he returns to his desk, Philip opens his computer to find an email from Ellen. ‘Coffee tomorrow at Katie’s. Elevenish?’ He stares at the screen: her first note since they had called it a day.

The rain is showing no sign of a let-up when Philip drives down Serpentine Avenue and turns right for Katie’s.

He waits at a table near the open door, and sits staring out at the downpour bouncing off the metal chairs; the fringe of the awning is being tossed and turned in the wind. Katie has the lights on in the café; along with her staff, she is busy making sandwiches for the people who stand at the counter; others are sheltering their coffee and rolls before making a dash to their cars.

While she shakes pearls from her umbrella, Ellen stands beneath the awning and smiles through the glass door: the red lipstick she had freshly applied sets off her black coat, glazed with rain. The sight of her reminds Philip of the stock comment from men around Nat Am: ‘Single! What a bloody waste.’

‘Sorry for not getting in touch before now,’ he says, as she sits opposite him.

‘No apologies. Remember what we agreed? No strings attached. Anyway, this is business.’ High above the counter, on the flat screen, Adam Boulton of Sky News is reporting in front of the House of Commons; the ticker tape, rolling at the bottom of the screen, announces More headaches for financial institutions.

She loses no time in telling him that Sharkey wants to sideline a few of the senior managers. ‘He’s grooming Brennan for Kevin’s job. Not a word or I’m …’ She does a throat-slitting gesture. ‘And Karen is history also.’

Over afternoon tea in the Orangerie of the Radisson the previous Saturday, Karen had given her the low-down. ‘By the way,’ Ellen laughs, ‘Sharkey thought that Conrad was one of the Brennans when he interviewed him. Can you believe it?’

‘That was kept well under wraps.’ Philip laughs with her.

‘Conrad put out the word that he was one of them. And during the course of the interview, Sharkey says: “Of course finance is in the genes”. Brennan kept shtum. Anyway, when Sharkey discovered the truth afterwards, surprisingly, he took it in good part. Apparently he sees some version of himself in that arse-licker.’

Ellen went on to tell Philip how the whispering campaign against Egan has already started; how his wife Gillian was out on the floor at the golf club dance the previous Saturday night with some chap, and the two of them sewn into each other while Egan sat at a table drinking himself into a stupor.

‘They’re making out he’s her slave,’ Ellen says.

‘Tell me about it. Wasn’t I there when he first clapped eyes on her in London? She was his perfect woman; I could see trouble from the word go. Tried to get him to wait before becoming engaged. No. Wouldn’t hear of it.’

Ellen cites Sharkey: ‘“Egan is past his sell by. Made a dog’s dinner of a file recently; only for Conrad stepping in, we’d have lost millions.” And Dunleavy, with his silverware manners, is only too willing for Sharkey to do his dirty work, of course.’

The rain has eased off when they step out of Katie’s: ragged clouds are breaking up, revealing patches of blue over the rds.

They walk slowly back to where Ellen has parked: green leaves from overhanging branches had been blown on to the roof of her Citroën. ‘This isn’t altogether about Egan slowing up,’ says Philip after a while. ‘This is about Egan refusing to lick. He wouldn’t support Sharkey in his bid for the captaincy of Druid’s Glen, and, instead backed a guy who was with us in ’Rock.’

She shakes her head. ‘So Sharkey had it in for him. Jesus! You boys, when will you ever – ?

‘That’s alpha male, Ellen. Remember the two captains of industry down at the K Club a couple of years ago.’

‘What about them?’

‘They locked horns over the same thing: each wanted to be captain as if their lives depended on it. Sharkey was sore that Egan had let him down. Then the Senior Lending job came up and Egan was passed over.’

Philip’s glance falls on the curve of her neck and the dark hairs that had charmed him when they were meeting secretly, but he returns to business. ‘They were great buddies at the beginning. Poker nearly every Tuesday night.’

She presses the button on her car key. ‘He harps on about the bank being the fittest, the sharpest and the meanest, and how it’s such a dogfight in the financial world. No mention of his fat salary and a bonus – 1.4 mill last Christmas.’

‘That I know too well.’

She hesitates before sitting in; an awkward moment passes between them. ‘You know I haven’t forgotten you.’ She tilts her head. ‘No. Better leave it at that. Thanks for the coffee, Philip.’

‘Another time.’

‘Sure. Another time.’

When he is getting into the lift, others are returning from an early lunch in the plaza. The buzz of weekend excitement rises from their conversation: ‘Yes,’ says one of them, ‘the thing about Seánie is he’s got a conceptual framework. Seánie won’t be caught.’

‘Jammy bastard.’

For the following Friday evening’s wrap-up on the executive floor lounge, Sharkey forgets to invite Egan and other lending managers whom he has earmarked for the scrapyard. Unlike the credit committee meetings on a Thursday morning at Icarus Hall, where each lending manager is expected to give a full account of the week’s business, this is an opportunity to ‘warm down’, as Sharkey puts it: a show of goodwill and loyalty to Nat Am. The meeting is followed by finger food and drinks from the bar. When it happens two weeks in a row, Egan covers his hurt with a carefree throwaway: ‘Couldn’t be bothered. Only waffle, anyway, at these meetings.’

It all comes to a head, however, when Egan has just returned after two days’ leave: he had been attending his brother’s appointment to a chair at Cambridge University. Again, torrential rain is dancing off the concrete forecourt of Nat Am, causing women with umbrellas, whipped by the wind, to hurry around the bronze statue. Drops of rainwater are sliding down the ribs of the umbrellas and forming little pools on the floor of the crowded lift as Egan travels up.

Another dreadful summer.

Worst ever.

Must be.

He steps onto the expansive office floor: low partitions divide one cell from the next in the vast honeycomb. Computers are casting a sickly pallor on the faces of those at their desks; others are exchanging a few words at a water cooler.

Away in the distance, behind the venetian blinds of Sharkey’s office, Brennan, Wheeler and Sharkey are laughing: Wheeler’s arm is raised for a high-five. In the background Karen, Sharkey’s personal assistant, is gathering up papers from the desk. The laughing meets a sudden death when they see Kevin Egan, yet they keep on talking, but now throw sly looks in his direction. Sharkey beckons him into the office. ‘Kevin,’ he calls, ‘the very man. Come in for a minute – need your advice on something. And welcome back.’

They do small talk: golf, the weather, and how did Cambridge go? ‘Of course, loads of brains in the family,’ Wheeler says. He holds a bulky file in his hands.

‘Weather atrocious. Must be this global warming thingummy.’ Brennan is shifty.

Sharkey slips into business mode. ‘We just want to update you. The guys here have been doing a spot of time-and-motion, and we’ve come up with a few suggestions. Nothing substantive. Just that Conrad here will lend a hand with some of your workload.’ His stretching routine gives his voice a yawning tone. ‘We’re not getting any younger. The writing is on the wall for all of us. These young tigers here are now snapping at our heels: we have to bow to the inevitable.’

Reeling from the haymaker, Egan rushes in with ‘A few years left in the old dog yet, Aengus.’

Sharkey ignores the comment. ‘I’ve promised myself another five.’ He holds up one hand, fingers splayed. ‘Then it’s wall to wall golf at the Glen, and to the open seas with Gatsby.’ He throws a fond look at a silver-framed picture of his forty-foot yacht on his desk.

Egan is scared: he knows from experience how merciless Sharkey is. The thought of empty days on end are causing goose pimples to rise on the back of his neck. ‘As simple as this, guys,’ Sharkey had boasted one night during a poker game. ‘To make an omelette, you gotta crack some eggs. If a guy crunches the numbers, he’ll be rewarded; if not, I shoot him.’ He had done a pistol-firing imitation with his hand.

The guff he is trotting out now about retiring is a smokescreen, but Wheeler and Brennan are making sounds of agreement. ‘Unfortunately,’ Sharkey jabs his thumb towards the ceiling, ‘you know yourself, Kevin, the Braces.’

‘They take no prisoners,’ Brennan echoes.

‘Ruthless,’ Wheeler shakes his head.

‘Goddamn shareholders looking for a return on equity.’

‘They call the shots.’

‘But not going to happen today or tomorrow. Just marking your card, Kevin. See you later. Perhaps we’ll have a fourball soon.’ Sharkey stands again.

When Egan returns to his desk, he finds an email from Sharkey, sent the previous evening: ‘Kevin. Forgot to tell you, management team have been doing a spot of benchmarking; your office will be shifted next week. Just a logistics thing.’