When I worked at Jacobs Spices in Liverpool, the boss, Mr Gubas, kept piles of cash on his desk ' money paid in by unregistered customers skirting full tax. Some days there were eight or nine neat bundles laid out. One afternoon around four, everyone went downstairs for Kim Rowlands' birthday. Cake, laughter, noise. Gubas' office door was left ajar. I glanced once, slipped inside, lifted four bundles, and walked straight out the side exit. I hid the money deep inside a stack of broken bricks outside, then came back in through the front. 'Happy Birthday, Kim,' I shouted, and took cake and a Pepsi. They blamed Jonesy, the caretaker. They couldn't prove it, but he left a few days later anyway.