‘Don’t bet on it,’ I snap.

‘I’ll bet my last tax dollar on it,’ he says. He takes my chin in his hand. It’s a hard man’s hand, the fingers long and square. He pulls my face up and gazes down at me, his eyes deliberately veiled. I stare up at him resentfully.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow night,’ he says with a frown.

‘I have another appointment,’ I lie.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. ‘Cancel it,’ he says brutally.

I open my mouth to argue, but he catches the hair at the back of my neck in his fist and covers my mouth with his palm. I stare up at him with wide, half-fearful, half-excited eyes.

‘I haven’t even scratched the surface of what I fucking want to do to you,’ he growls.

Then he’s gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.

My chest heaves as if I’ve just run a marathon.

‘It’s just a physical thing. Just sex,’ I whisper to the empty air.

I stand on the street and stare up at her bedroom window. For a long time I don’t see anything. Then … her shadow passes … fleetingly. I behold the momentary vision eagerly. She is wearing something diaphanous and white, and her hair swims down her back and catches the light in such a way that each silky lock seems to be individually illuminated. It gives her a wild look, as if her very soul is untamed and free. She moves away.

I wait another hour, but she never again appears at the window. I stare up at the window even after the light goes out. What a thrill it used to be to watch her while she was unaware. I spent hours imagining her in bed, her beautiful hair spread across her pillow, wondering which duvet set she was using that day. But today there is no joy at all even in the mind fuck of imagining her masturbating, climaxing, and falling asleep with her thighs wide open, her pussy wet and ready for me.

Hatred bursts into my gut like burning lava. Even though he had stayed for a short time I know he fucked her. He had the air of man who had shot his load. Proud, satisfied, disheveled.

I never thought she would betray me in this way. I feel like rushing up to her apartment. What a fucking shock she’d get. My feet start to move and then I catch myself.

Patience. Patience.

She will be mine…

SEVEN

I knock on Rob’s door.

‘Come in,’ he calls.

I enter. ‘You wanted to see me?’

He beckons me over to his desk with his finger. ‘Have you made another appointment with the wanker’s accountant?’

I know exactly to whom he’s referring, but I feign ignorance. ‘Which wanker?’

He looks at me with unconcealed irritation. ‘How many wankers are we dealing with? That Eden wanker, obviously.’

‘Er … not yet. I didn’t know when you would be coming back to work. How are you today?’

‘Fine,’ he dismisses curtly. ‘Check my diary and make another appointment as soon as possible.’

I shift my weight from one foot to the other with the realization that apparently Dominic Eden is personal for both Rob and me. Me because I crossed the line last night and probably will again tonight, and Rob because Dom snubbed him by refusing to shake his hand, so he’s decided to show him who the real ‘boss’ in this scenario is. Before yesterday he was just doing his job. Today he’s out for blood.

Unfortunately this puts an end to my plans to exit gracefully. A) In this frame of mind, Rob wouldn’t ‘get’ my reason. And B) I can’t walk away and allow Rob to misuse his power and destroy Dom. I’ve seen him in this mode before, when people rub him up the wrong way, and I know just how vindictive he can be. Once he gets like this, he always demands the maximum penalties. Prison, if possible.

I close the door and walk into his room. ‘Sir, do you ever wonder if what we’re doing is right?’

His eyes fly up to meet mine. ‘No.’ He pauses and leans back in his chair. ‘What’s up with you, Savage?’

My face flames. God! If he knew what I did yesterday.

‘Nothing,’ I reply, keeping my tone light and easy. ‘I was just wondering how it is that we always go after the middle and upper middle classes. We never seem to target the truly big corporations and the truly rich one percent who should be paying billions in taxes but don’t.’

He looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘Because that’s not our job. Our mandate is to go after the middle and upper middle classes. Going after the big boys is somebody else’s job.’

‘Whose job is it?’

‘How would I know?’ he says with a shake of his head.

‘From what I can see, nobody’s going after them.’

‘Are you surprised?’

‘What do you mean?’

He sighs. ‘The best description of taxation I’ve ever heard was from one of our ex-Prime Ministers, Denis Healey. He, very sensibly, compared it to plucking a live goose: the aim is to extract the maximum number of feathers with the minimum amount of hissing. Plucking the corporations would create the kind of hissing we’re unprepared to handle. They have the best lawyers and the most talented accountants who’d run rings around us. We’re never going to get anything out of them. It would just be a pointless exercise.’

‘So we go after the small and medium-sized fish because we can’t catch the big white sharks and the killer whales?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘But that’s so wrong.’

‘No, it’s not. Every year we recover billions from these slimy bastards.’

‘And do what with that money?’

He looks at me with a sneer. ‘Our shakedown pays for schools, hospitals, roads, people to collect your rubbish, police, fire services. Need I go on?’

‘But it’s still unfair,’ I say softly.

He leans forward and steeples his fingers. ‘Life is unfair, Savage. Is it fair that one child is born the great-grandson of the Queen of England with a golden spoon in his mouth, and another child, through no fault of its own, is born to starve in Africa?’ He pauses to look at me with an expectant expression. When I say nothing, he adds, ‘Now, go make that appointment with the wanker’s accountant, will you? That’s one goose I want to see plucked and cooked until crisp.’

I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know about his account, Rob. The computer flagged the tax return because there was one incorrect figure, but you and I know it’s probably just a simple accounting error. If that one figure is adjusted as his accountant proposes there’s no reason at all to suspect there’s any tax fraud going on.’

His eyes narrow. A mean look comes into them. ‘What’s the matter with you today, Savage? Have you gone soft in the head?’

I take an involuntary step back. There’s something cruel about Rob. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of his fury.

He goes on coldly. ‘It’s as obvious as the nose on my face that this restaurant is not paying the correct amount of tax. They never are. Dig hard enough and there’s always something to be found. At the very least I expect to extract a massive penalty and interest for our time and effort.’

‘Right. I’ll go and make that appointment now,’ I say, and quickly exit his office before he deduces more than he already has about my stance on the matter.

I go back to my desk and lean my forehead against my palm. What a bloody mess. Nigel Broadstreet has already called twice to speak to me and left his mobile number. I dial it and he answers the call.

‘Mr. Broadstreet? Ella Savage, HMRC, here.’

‘Good morning, Miss Savage.’

‘Yes, I’m calling to reschedule our appointment.’

‘Yes, of course. When would be convenient for you?’

I look at the computer screen showing both Rob’s diary and mine. ‘How about Monday, ten a.m.?’

‘Excellent. Same place?’

‘That will be fine.’