Hershey’s tame police officer rang him back twenty-four hours later. Hershey was in a phone box miles away from the Bank in a location he’d never ordinarily be seen dead in (although murder was a distinct possibility around here). He looked nervously through the scratched plastic panes at the pedestrians outside. They weren’t too bad, just sullen guys, blacks and whites alike, most of them with hoods over their faces walking aimlessly. It was the groups standing around that he didn’t like, on corners, outside shops, on bikes, in beaten-up cars. They eyed everyone in the vicinity, as if they were a pack of hyenas weighing up potential victims. He hoped like fuck that the taxi driver wouldn’t get spooked and clear off because then he’d really be in the shit.
“I’ve gone to some serious lengths to get this for you, Valentine,” the officer said. “I hope you appreciate that.”
“And you’re being well paid for it. That’s all the appreciation you need as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not well enough. This’ll be the last time I help you out. There’s a big clampdown on corruption going on around here.”
“Fucking cut it out,” Hershey said, his tone cold and heavy. “You leave the arrangement when I say so.”
“No, fuck you, Valentine. I have as much on you as you have on me.”
“But I’m wealthier.”
“And I’m the law.”
“Yes but for how long after they find out about your extracurricular activities? E-mail the details to me.”
There was a sigh and a long pause. Eventually the officer said, “Thirty seconds and you’ll have it.”
“Good.”
“Never call me again,” the officer said and disconnected the call. Hershey didn’t believe him; he’d be back on the phone looking for work once money got tight.
He waited impatiently for the allotted time. A quick in-and-out was all he wanted, no more. Just to create a trail of breadcrumbs for the law to follow. Speaking of breadcrumbs, a dirty pigeon flew down onto the pavement outside the phone box and fixed him with a beady eye. There were those that said feeding the pigeons gave them an enormous sense of well-being. Bollocks, Hershey thought, and banged on the door to chase the lice-ridden rat with wings away.
True to the officer’s word the e-mail arrived, actually slightly ahead of schedule. Hershey smiled to himself. It was all coming together. The taxi driver tooted his horn and waved at him to get a move on. Hershey held up his fingers to signal two minutes then placed another call, this time to Clive, his pet IT geek.
“It’s me,” Hershey said. “I need to you to do something for me fast.”
“Who’s this?”
“For fuck’s sake, let’s not go through this again. I haven’t the time.”
“I need your codeword. You could be anyone.”
Hershey sighed. “Tinkerbell. Satisfied?”
“Go ahead, I’m ready.”
“I need you to transfer £20 million pounds between two accounts. Got a pen?”
“Speak.”
Hershey rolled his eyes then told Clive the bank account numbers and sort codes.
“And I need you to make the transfer very fucking obvious, so obvious the biggest moron could trip over it. And I need it done quickly.”
“Which costs more money.”
“Fucking hell, I’m already paying you well.”
“I’ll say goodbye then...”
The taxi driver honked his horn again, one long beep that lasted several seconds. Hershey felt he wouldn’t be waiting for much longer.
“Oh all right,” he agreed in a rush. “I’ll pay you 25% more than last time.”
“50% or nothing.”
The horn blew again, a couple of toots. The locals were looking interested too; a couple of hoodies on BMXs rode towards the phone box then began to trace lazy circles.
“50% extra it is! I’ll contact you again to move the money into another account but that transaction needs to be very discrete. No one should be able to trace where the money goes. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So move the money in now, big and obvious. Then move the money back out again all clandestine when I tell you, get it?”
“I said okay.”
“Good, just don’t fuck it up!” he snarled. He slammed the phone down then ran to get the taxi, which was just beginning to pull away from kerb. “Stop, you bastard!”
The taxi jerked to a halt. He pulled open the door and jumped in. The BMX riders cruised up alongside the car and leered into the window.
“And I’ll be charging you extra for callin’ me a bastard,” the driver told him as he pulled away with a jerk.
Clive disconnected the call. His heart was thrashing around in his ribcage. He wasn’t anywhere near as cool as he’d made out on the phone. His management book had told him to strike hard bargains. The writer had said it would be challenging. He’d lied — it was worse. But he’d stuck it out and earned half as much again as last time, which had already been pretty amazing pay for someone like him.
He nudged the mouse and the computer screen immediately came to life. Out of curiosity he looked up the destination account (he already knew the source). A couple of keystrokes later and his hands froze over the keyboard. The computer screen had four words on it.
Account Holder: Josh Dedman.
“Oh shit,” Clive whispered.
Hershey sat back in the taxi and closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring the less than smooth driving of his still angry charge. He hadn’t really needed the money. He was already wealthy, not having children did that for you, and being a banker helped, of course. His industry generated a pot of gold at the end of every statement. Even better, as a foreign national he managed to avoid most if not all of the tax that the average fool paid to the British government. No, appropriating the money had never been about financial reward, always about emotional recompense. His mind drifted back to when it had all begun...
“Would you like a drink, Hershey,” Culpepper had said, holding up a crystal decanter. An excellent malt whisky (not Scotch) would be contained within its transparent walls, Hershey knew.
“Sure, thanks,” he said. He hated whisky, but politics demanded he suppress his palette in favour of his boss’s.
Culpepper added a small amount of mineral water (not ice) to ‘reveal the flavours in all their glory,’ as the Chairman, a high priest of whisky religion, always intoned, then handed the glass over. Hershey took an apparently appreciative sip, held back the reflexive gag, and lied. “Fantastic stuff.”
Culpepper frowned at his malt being called ‘stuff’ and Hershey panicked for a moment until the cloud passed from the Chairman’s face when he took a sip of his own drink. They were sitting on huge leather sofas that comprised the lounge end of Culpepper’s voluminous office on the top floor, all of it, of the Bank. It was an astonishing spread of real estate, with private dining room, associated kitchens and top chef, wine ‘cellar’, golf driving range and even a bedroom where Culpepper could stay when working late (in the metaphorical sense, Hershey suspected). It was an empire, a reflection of Culpepper’s influence that few were privileged to see, even Hershey. He wondered what the fuck was going on.
“I assume you’re wondering what the fuck is going on, Hershey,” Culpepper said, displaying scarily accurate intuition.
“No,” he lied, attempting to look nonchalant, and took another sip of the amber piss.
“It’s a bit delicate, I’m afraid,” Culpepper said, surprising Hershey as the Chairman wasn’t one to prevaricate. He liked his confrontations to be a sharp stab in the chest so he could watch the pain on the other person’s face. “You know you’re my numero uno? My guy?” Hershey winced at the very English Culpepper attempting an Americanism. It was like watching a snake trying to swallow a hedgehog. Next it would be a slap on the back or a punch on the arm.
“Sure I do, sir.”
“Great. And you still will be after the changes.”
“Changes?” Hershey didn’t like the sound of this.
“Yes, I’m getting old, slowing down; I can’t do as much as I used to be able to.” Culpepper smiled disarmingly.
“I don’t believe it, sir!”
“Nice of you to say, Hershey, but I am. So my youngest son, Jacob, will be joining the business soon as my left-hand man.”
Hershey froze, stunned. Culpepper’s children had previously shown absolutely no interest in pursuing the family trade.
“Meaning?” Hershey asked, knowing already what the answer was.
“Jacob will one day fill my shoes, but you’ll still be the numero uno.”
Yes, thought Hershey, Second fiddle to a snot-nosed kid rather than an incompetent old bum. He’d always believed — no, been told — he would inherit the earth once Culpepper left it.
“Why, Ian? Why not me?” he couldn’t help but ask.
Culpepper sighed, drained his glass and refilled it, a frown revealing the many wrinkles across his face. He sighed again.
“You realise,” he said heavily, “that the decision wasn’t mine. The Board insisted.”
“Insisted on what?”
“That the Bank maintains an English image. So an Englishman should run the business.”
“For fuck’s sake Ian, what century are we living in?” Hershey asked, seeing straight away he’d made a big mistake. Culpepper’s face flushed.
“It’s not the future that’s important, Valentine, it’s the past! Too often in this fucking country we bury our heritage for the sake of some incomer, some illegal immigrant. Well not here. Here we draw the line.”
“Incomer? Immigrant?” Hershey repeated.
“Oh, you know what I fucking mean!” Culpepper barked, draining his glass and refilling it for a third time. He sighed, visibly calming himself and lowering his voice. “Look Hershey, it’s nothing to do with you personally, it’s the brand. Most of our major investors are traditionalists. They wouldn’t be pleased with your appointment.”
“So I stay as vice-captain?”
“In reality you’ll be captain, following your analogy, in all but name. Jacob is a nice lad but he’s fucking clueless when it comes to the business of investment.”
Which just makes the decision all the worse, Hershey thought. It simply wasn’t good enough for him to be running things behind the scenes. He wanted to be out there. Everyone needed to know he was The Man. None of this bollocks that he often heard, that it’s the job that you do that’s important, not the title that you have. That was total horseshit spouted by unambitious failures. But he knew he would never change Culpepper’s mind. The Board had nothing to do with it, they did what he told them.
“Okay, sir, your call,” Hershey capitulated.
Culpepper grinned, sounding surprised. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
“Sure I’m sure!” Hershey grinned in reply.
“Good man!”
As Hershey left Culpepper’s suite something hardened inside him. He thought of the phrase that goes, ‘The more money you earn, the less shit you eat.’ Well, he was paid plenty of money, but he was still forced to eat plenty of shit, and now he was being fed even more by Culpepper.
He wasn’t going to take this lying down. He was going to shovel some shit of his own. Something had to be done. Something that would hit at the very heart of the Bank.
Hershey came back to the present as the taxi pulled up outside the Bank. Suddenly he was in a good mood and he didn’t mind at all that the driver stayed true to his word and piled on an extra and exorbitant charge. He tapped his foot impatiently as the lift transported him up to his office. He blanked Elodie and, once inside his space, began printing off sheets of paper and adding them to a file he kept locked in his drawer. He ignored Elodie again as he breezed out. He didn’t bother to wait for the lift but ran up the single flight of stairs and entered Culpepper’s lair without knocking. He placed the file on the Chairman’s desk.
“What the fuck’s this?” Culpepper demanded.
“Evidence,” Hershey said in a solemn undertaker’s tone.
“Of what?”
“Embezzlement by one of our key employees.”
“I don’t understand, Hershey.”
“It’s all in there, Ian. I’m really sorry to bring you this, but I had to.”
Culpepper just stared blankly at him, a look of utter confusion stitched on his features.
“Take a look if you don’t believe me. It’s all in there.”
“Oh, I believe you think there’s something in there, but the auditors didn’t find a thing. All the accounts stack up, so whatever you have, it’s meaningless bullshit.”
“But Ian!” Hershey protested.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not sure what game you’re trying to play here but I’m fucking wise to it and I don’t like it. Get the hell out of my office! I’ll decide what to do with you later.”
When the door closed on Hershey’s back the Chairman picked up the phone. “Get up here now,” he said, then turned his attention to the file.
By the time Mr Lamb arrived Culpepper had the gist of the contents. He handed it over and said, “What do you think of that.”
Mr Lamb read it through. “It’s very convenient,” he said.
“Precisely my thought.”
Mr Lamb waited for Culpepper, who was a thinker, preferring to crunch data before making a decision. “Suggestions?” he eventually asked.
“I think you’ve got to cut Dedman loose, make it look like you’re taking action. That you’ve caught the culprit and sorted it out.”
Culpepper nodded. “You’re right. Burn him.”
The Chairman plucked the phone out of its cradle and called Human Resources. “Get rid of Josh Dedman,” he ordered. He listened for a moment. “I don’t give a shit about how, or what the implications are. We’ve got deep pockets. Just get rid of the little bastard. Immediately.”
He put the phone down and let out a deep breath. “You know, we could even get more clients out of this if we do it right.”
Mr Lamb, not one for emotional responses, felt a shiver down his spine.
“Now all we’ve got to do is decide what to do with Valentine,” Culpepper said.
“At least we know who stole the money.”
“Yes, but you’d better get going if you’re going to close all this out personally.”