Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

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.’