Benjamin had started out as straight as a die. Young, ambitious, keen, he had been a hard worker – still was. A few years into his partnership with Jazmine, he had dealt with an account where the taxman had made a mistake with one of his clients. It was nothing major, so he’d got the client to fill in a form enabling him to act on their behalf, and asked HMRC for a consolatory payment of £45 in recognition of the mistake, not in recompense – it took a hell of a lot more than a bit of provable inconvenience to make the taxman cough up compensation. A cheque for the amount was quickly sent, made payable to Thomas & Bauer’s account, and Benjamin immediately transferred it into the client’s account.

As he did so, he had a thought: HMRC never bothered checking such low payments. They were paid automatically if the amount was under £50, because it wasn’t worth the man-hours.

Wow, it would be so easy for someone dodgy to take advantage of that.

The idea had amused him. One day, a bit bored, and with the devil in him, he decided to test the theory. Exactly like before, he filed a complaint on behalf of a client – only this time he did it without the client’s knowledge, and without any mistake being made on HMRC’s part to justify the claim.

Within weeks, £48.50 was paid by cheque to the company account, and Benjamin transferred it immediately into his own.

He waited a few days, keyed up for someone to notice and raise a query. No one did.

Unbelievable – he’d got away with it. It made him feel all tingly inside, sort of excited. It might only have been forty-odd quid, but it was the best money Benjamin had ever got his hands on because it was illicit. It showed how cunning he was. It was free money, not earned and not really stolen – after all, it didn’t belong to a client or his own business, and in comparison to the billions of pounds the taxman dealt with every year, it wasn’t even a drop in the ocean.

Still, there would be no repeat performance, because he wasn’t a thief.

After a few months, though, Benjamin got bored again, and thought: why not? He would do it one more time, to check whether the first time had been a fluke, or if he was as clever as he suspected he was.

This time he tried for £20. It wasn’t like he needed the money, it was purely for the thrill.

It worked.

After that, whenever Benjamin got bored and needed a buzz, he did the scam. At first he was cautious. Not because he thought he was doing anything particularly wrong – it was only a little tax fiddle, everyone did it to some extent – but because he didn’t like the thought of being sloppy enough for people to realise what he was doing. He was better than that, cleverer than that.

It was only every few months. Not enough for people to cotton on. The gaps grew smaller though.

He made sure he hit different tax offices, spreading the spurious claims around the whole HMRC network to lessen the likelihood of anyone catching on. Four a month was only £180, so it was nothing to write home about, but there was something extra sweet about buying a treat with that money.

After a year or so he was growing tired of the game, and considering quitting. Why push his luck?

Although…

If it were that easy to get away with ripping off HMRC, then maybe he should make it a bit more worthwhile.

Not only was it easy money, it was a victimless crime. He was robbing the greedy, grasping government and giving to the – well, not poor, he definitely wasn’t poor, but he was certainly worthier than most of the scroungers on benefits who got money chucked at them for sitting on their backsides all day, doing nothing. At least he had spent years paying his taxes. In fact, technically this was his money he was taking back anyway; he’d a right to it.

That was how Benjamin justified fiddling his own expenses and the company’s when he came to doing the business accounts that year. He reduced taxable profit by a significant amount, and so the company paid a lot less tax than they were supposed to. As he was the one who had managed that, he figured it was only fair he gave himself a hefty bonus to compensate himself for the time and trouble – a bonus he did not share with Jazmine, but instead hid with yet more crafty and imaginative accounting.

He did feel a tad guilty about not telling his partner. But he figured the less she knew, the less could hurt her if his chickens did ever come home to roost.

Bolstered by his continuing success, the following year Benjamin did the same… plus, another cheeky little swerve he’d thought of.

He supressed Thomas & Bauer’s turnover figures by not including all of their invoices. Fewer invoices declared made it look like they were making less money… which meant their tax bill was significantly lower yet again.

Again, he figured he was due a bonus equivalent to the amount he had saved the company. Fair’s fair.

After that, he decided it would be wise to run two sets of books. The official ones were for HMRC and Jazmine – who totally trusted him, and was happy with the arrangement that he look after their accounts, while she undertook personnel matters. The real books were for his eyes only, so that he could efficiently keep track of exactly what he was doing.

The money had become a nice little earner. They meant he could afford a bigger house, a better car, to send his children to private school, to have the best suits. Hell, to pay for his wife to have a blow-dry every single week. He had to keep up appearances because clients had expectations, so really he had to spend a fortune on all those things. In which case, it was totally justified that it all be funded by the business. Besides, he had never borrowed more than he could pay back immediately if caught.

Not at first anyway.

But as the years had gone on and no one had twigged, he had found himself taking more and more. Needing more and more.

Life was sweet. Until it turned sour.

---

The nightmare had started with a letter, eighteen months earlier. Benjamin had felt blasé as he opened it, despite the bold black print on the envelope, announcing it was from Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs.

Benjamin’s eyes had flown over the catalogue of various legislation they were using as an excuse to put him under the microscope. There was a huge list of paperwork they demanded from him, too. And a date by which he must provide it, along with a warning that if he failed to comply the issue would be sent straight to tribunal.

It was signed, ‘sincerely’, by a Mr Bernard Bairden.

For a moment, Benjamin felt as if all the world were suddenly glaring at him. Sirens going off, the searchlights trained on him. He perceived the whispered judgements of others that might come.

But he hadn’t panicked. He was proud of himself for that. He had forced himself to sit down and unclench every muscle in his body until his mind relaxed enough for him to be able to think. He was clever. He could delay until he was in a position to breeze into the tax office and brandish all the correct – or at least correctly forged, if needs be – paperwork, laughing, and demanding to know what all the fuss was about.

The first task was to buy some time. He focused all his attention on the letter, refusing to let his mind wander into blind panic at what would happen to him if he were investigated, if the truth were uncovered, if his family found out, if his friends and colleagues knew.

He grabbed a notepad and pen, and started jotting down ideas as they came to him, ignited by the information in Mr Bernard Bairden’s letter. Inspiration flew like sparks, took flight like embers drifting on the breeze.

As his notes grew, so did Benjamin’s confidence. He was going to be okay. He could fix everything, come out unscathed, and with no one any the wiser. Of course he could. He was Benjamin fucking Thomas, accountant supremo: faster, cleverer, and more cunning than anyone else.

Benjamin tap-danced faster than Billy Flynn; only he was trying to save his own neck not some murderous broad from Chicago.

After a spot of double-checking on Google and reference books, he was satisfied with his draft letter. He even typed it up himself, as he didn’t want his secretary getting wind of this – or even worse, his business partner.

His plan was simple. If HMRC wanted paperwork, he’d give them paperwork. He’d bury the bastards in it.

Benjamin’s reply went on to cover three sides of A4 paper.

He cited numerous pieces of legislation, not so much answering the points raised by HMRC, but answering his own questions instead, much like a cornered politician. Distraction techniques reigned supreme over actual facts. It was expertly done.

Even though he was trying to make Bernard Bairden join up dots that weren’t even on the same page, HMRC were duty bound to reply to each and every one of the points that he made. Mr Bairden had to scotch every single issue he mentioned, no matter how irrelevant. Meanwhile he could reply with whatever he wanted, ignoring Mr Bairden’s own valid points while raising yet more utterly irrelevant ones that suited him.

The letters flew backwards and forwards.

Benjamin really enjoyed himself. He loved the idea of making that cocky, missive-obsessed tax inspector squirm; making him scratch his head in consternation as he had to plough through all kinds of information in order to reply properly to him. If he didn’t reply correctly, then Benjamin could launch a complaint against him, a serious thing indeed, as the body that would investigate was the same as the one that inspected the police. Fun.

The businessman stalled so successfully that he convinced himself everything was going to be fine. That no one would ever discover his shame.

He bought enough time to embezzle more money from the company, and this time he visited a casino. A winner like Benjamin would have no trouble at least doubling the stake; he’d always done well at these places, and when playing poker with mates. With his winnings, he would be able to cover his tracks and pay back the stolen money.

In one horrifying night, he lost £60,000.

That hadn’t stopped him trying it again, because one should only ever quit while ahead. He still had time, he told himself.

Then he was asked in for a meeting.

---

During the interview that felt more like an interrogation with the HMRC inspector, Benjamin had been furious. Who the hell did this Bernard Bairden bloke think he was dealing with? He wasn’t some idiot off the street. He knew the inspector thought he was an arrogant wanker, but he didn’t care. If he showed fear now, he was done for, and the best form of defence was attack.

Mr Bairden leaned forward. Put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers together. Benjamin wanted to punch him right in his clever, baggy eyes.

‘Mr Thomas, you know what a Business Economics Exercise is, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, I’m not an idiot. I’m an accountant, for goodness’ sake.’

‘Good, of course. So, you’ll understand that when we ran the Business Economics Exercise we created a model of the way your business must be working, by looking at your bank accounts, outgoings, withdrawals, your house, the car you drive… You know the kind of thing.’

Something cold was snaking its way down Benjamin’s back. Sweat. But he continued to glare, refusing to acknowledge the fear. He waved his hand, regal in his dismissal.

‘Yes, yes, basic stuff. Everything stacks up; I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘That’s good. You’ll know, then, that even when financial records are unreliable, HMRC can estimate business based on what we’ve found, and calculate your actual turnover. Our numbers are so accurate that they are accepted by HMRC Tribunals – effectively tax courts. A judge will then order the business to pay up what is owed.’

‘Look, if all you’ve done is drag me down here to teach me how to suck eggs, I really do have better things to do with my time.’ Benjamin started to stand.

‘I really would appreciate it if you could stay here a little longer,’ the tax inspector said, his voice remaining calm and level. ‘You see, Mr Thomas, we ran a Business Economics Exercise with you and the figures it threw up were… unexpected.’

‘This is absolute nonsense. You’re going to feel very silly when you’re forced to apologise to me.’

‘A similar exercise can be run on personal finances, Mr Thomas. We start with what people are known to have spent, and work backwards to calculate income. You will know, then, that if someone’s expenditure is a certain amount then their income must therefore be at least level with it. It’s basic economics, yes? In the case of a millionaire, for example, we can work out down to the nearest £5,000 or so how much he or she is earning, purely by looking at his or her outgoings.’

‘Well, this is, it’s, you’ve got no right.’

‘I do, Mr Thomas. I have compared what I know your expenditure to be over the past year, with the details you provided me with during our correspondence. Your expenditure exceeds your declared income. Can you explain this discrepancy?’

‘Right, I’ve had enough of this. I’m not talking to you a moment longer. I want to see your boss. Right now. I’m a managing director, I’m not talking to some lackey who is clearly incapable of adding two and two together.’

‘I can assure—’

‘And I can assure you, pal, that I want someone a bit higher up the food chain than you. Comprendez?’

The two stared at each other across the table, and for a frightening second Benjamin was sure he could see a glint of steel within Bernard Bairden. But then his opponent gave a slow nod, stood and offered to get his boss. Who had turned out to be not only equally as stupid as Bernard, but had also insisted on backing up his inferior because ‘he doesn’t seem to have done anything wrong’.

By the end of the interview Benjamin felt very hot and very flustered, and more than a little worried.

Rightly so.

The money HMRC was demanding was huge. Unreasonably gargantuan. Accumulated over years of robbing Peter to pay Paul, aka robbing Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs to pay for a lifestyle Benjamin felt entitled to, it had built up to a sum that didn’t simply make his eyes water, it made him want to fall to his knees and weep.