50
At seven the next morning, Conall’s message burns across my screen.
The CPS has authorised charges against Elias. First appearance expected before noon. Do nothing until I call.
We scatter as planned after my statement, everyone playing their part.
And now, the final move is left on the board.
I’m almost tempted to go straight home and fold my sister into my arms, but some joys deserve to be saved for last, when there’s nothing left to dull them.
Frida’s ring weighs in my pocket. I can’t wear it while Elias is locked away. And it feels wrong to put it on my finger myself.
Chasing my courage along the pavement, I glance up at the offensively blue sky – almost the colour of Elias’ eyes.
I forgot how well the grand facade of Cromwell black marble swallows every footprint before anyone can leave evidence of having passed through.
Chrome handles and chairs catch the light as Brute and I cross the lobby. My hands shake as he takes in the stiff-backed employees, the grim faces and the security posted near the lifts. His ears are low and he keeps very close to me.
Fear has a smell, I’ve learnt. Even here, beneath the lemon-scented polish and imported coffee.
One of the security guards steps into my path, eyes dropping to Brute. ‘You can’t bring the dog in here, love.’
I look down at the harness strapped across the dog’s chest, the words SUPPORT DOG sitting in crisp white letters – courtesy of Sindre.
I smile as sweetly as my temper allows. ‘Mr Cromwell is expecting me,’ I say, tapping the white lettering on Brute’s harness. ‘And the dog comes with me unless you’d like the newspapers to write about poor witness handling.’
The guard’s brow furrows at the harness. His disapproving blue eyes move from the dog to me, then back to the dog, weighing the size of Brute’s teeth against the likelihood of paperwork.
‘Name?’ he asks at last. I give it. He touches two fingers to the earpiece tucked into his ear and murmurs something I can’t grasp.
After several beats, Brute lowers his bum beside my heel with theatrical patience while I consider whether corporate security is allowed to shoot people on sight.
Finally, the guard steps aside, gesturing for a female colleague to pat me down. I hold my breath, hoping they won’t go near the dog, especially after he stops breathing and fixes his eyes on her the moment she approaches.
‘Top floor. Mr Cromwell will see you now,’ the blue-eyed guard says.
The lift doors swallow us.
My pulse fills the empty space.
I breathe in, breathe out, and fail to convince my lungs that we are not actively marching into hell.
The doors throw my reflection back at me as the memories break through: Elias chasing me in the woods, snow tearing at my legs, chains straining over his body, tears still wet when I touched his face.
I close my fingers around Frida’s ring in my pocket and exhale. ‘Excellent idea, Leah. Top-tier survival instinct.’
But this morning carries a purpose, and I have to stop thinking about this slow descent into madness.
My thoughts reel backwards to when Elias was still a dangerous stranger and wanting him had not yet complicated every rule of life. And psychiatry.
The lift doors slide open.
The floor tilts beneath me when I step into the open office. Glass runs from wall to wall. Every black chair, lamp and bookcase is positioned with grave seriousness, and the thick charcoal rug kills our footsteps before they can reach the man at the far end.
Beyond the stretch of polished floor long enough to make the last rites seem sensible, a man sits behind a desk. His silhouette is cut against the darkened windows, bald head catching what little light the glass allows inside.
I walk towards him quietly, Brute’s paws padding over the soft rug.
Cromwell doesn’t rise. He watches me approach as if he has plenty of time to decide which piece of me to pull apart first.
‘Ms Nottingham.’ He folds his hands on the desk. ‘Fancy meeting you again. What can I do for you?’
The dog and I stop a few feet from his desk because walking too close to devils like him feels too close to volunteering for taxidermy.
‘I need protection,’ I say.
Cromwell’s smile does not move, but his eyes narrow slightly with false amusement. ‘From whom?’
I let my fingers tighten around the strap of Brute’s harness. Just enough for it to look like nerves.
‘Elias Crane.’
The name echoes in the cavernous space.
He studies me intently, then leans back as if I have delivered myself into his claws, gift-wrapped.
‘I was under the impression Mr Crane was the reason you disappeared in the first place.’
My heart stutters behind my ears, and I start weighing whether my statement from yesterday has already reached him, or if he’s fishing.
‘He was.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
I let a humourless breath escape.
His brow lifts faintly.
Careful, Leah.
Lowering my gaze for half a second, I make my heart fall into a calm rhythm, but I try my best to make it look like I’m softening the words.
‘He took me from England without my consent. Kept my phone and documents and held me isolated for months. Then he left me to come back and play a martyr.’ I look up again. ‘You were right. He is dangerous.’
Cromwell’s gaze moves over my face in a slow, clinical sweep.
‘Ms Nottingham, do I look like the charitable type?’ he asks.
I don’t answer.
‘You have spent months trying to set him free. Now you arrive offering things to keep him imprisoned. Why should I believe the change of heart?’
I lift my chin and put on my best offended grimace.
‘Because he destroyed my life and my account could keep him in custody.’
He blinks once, dark eyes adopting a damning sheen as his fingers start tapping against the desk.
We stare each other down until he gestures towards the chair opposite him.
‘I’ll stand,’ I say.
His eyes zero in on Brute and track the lettering across his harness.
I watch him deciding what kind of a man leaves a woman needing an animal trained to keep her upright; what kind of fear sends her to the enemy’s door because it feels safer than going home.
For once, I need the fear out in the open.
‘What exactly do you expect to happen here, Ms Nottingham?’
The silence drags on long enough to make it look as if the words don’t come easily to me.
‘If I give a statement against Elias, I believe you can prevent him from reaching me.’
I hold my breath. Squeeze the harness.
Cromwell studies me. ‘You’re playing a serious game—’
‘—I’ve had a serious few months.’
He pauses. ‘You would testify against Elias Crane in exchange for… what did you call it? Protection?’
I take in a long breath first. ‘And insurance.’
He frowns theatrically, swiping nothing off the pristine desk. ‘Insurance?’
‘Are we pretending the men who followed me from Brimsbury Lane Post Office and rammed my car off the wet road last September were merely enthusiastic fans of my photography?’
His face gives me less than nothing. This man has the emotional range of frosted glass.
He shifts in his seat. ‘Frightened people often misinterpret ordinary events.’
‘Ordinary men don’t tail a woman and ram her car.’
He chuckles. Low and long. It echoes until the marble swallows the last ripple.
My pulse kicks once. ‘Elias told me they were yours.’
‘Elias Crane is a madman.’
‘He said you would use me to get to him.’
A softer smile this time. Almost pitying.
Brute makes a low sound. It’s not a growl, but he doesn’t like the tension any more than I do.
Cromwell looks at him briefly, then back at me. ‘Your support animal is sensitive.’
‘He has good instincts.’
‘So do I. Particularly around people who walk into my office carrying a story too carefully rehearsed to be spontaneous.’
‘I’m tired of men feeding me lies. Of using me.’
Cromwell’s finger taps once.
I step closer to the desk, dropping my voice. ‘Arthur is dead. Isak is dead. Melody is dead. Elias is giving statements. That leaves you with a lot of ghosts and not much time.’
His eyes cool. I feel it in my marrow. ‘Careful, Ms Nottingham.’
‘Why? Will you send another car?’
As he rises at last, the temperature in the room shifts.
Everything around me loses warmth. The air tightens as if granting the room the honour of his full height.
He is not as large as Elias – not even close.
But he carries a different kind of breadth.
One of money. Reach. Access to men who answer phones at night to quiet problems.
He rounds the grand desk and turns towards the city spread beneath the windows, as though the world outside has arranged itself beneath him.
Brute shifts forward and I set one hand lightly on his head. ‘Stay.’
‘Discipline is a good quality,’ Cromwell notes as he glares at the dog glaring right back at him. ‘Though sometimes it makes people confuse defiance with safety.’
I open my mouth, but he speaks before a word can come out.
‘What do you really want, Leandra?’
‘I told you.’
‘No. That’s something you thought would get you inside this office and gain my attention.’ His gaze drops to Brute, then returns. ‘You want to know where he is.’
Every nerve in me goes still.
He knows where Elias is. Conall wouldn’t tell me, worried the word would reach Cromwell.
But he already knows.
I keep my face blank. ‘Who better to ask than the man who keeps tabs on him?’
A mistake, if he chooses to call it one. An invitation, if his ego is larger than his caution.
The bald man turns towards the window, giving me his profile. Crooked nose. No wedding ring. Black suit.
Outside, London looks small beneath him. I imagine he chose the office at this height because he can’t manufacture depth.
‘Elias is a creature of pattern, like the rest of his ilk. Hurt boys and angry men.’
My heart beats once, but I keep breathing in mock-measured intervals.
‘So you do know where he is. Can you reach out to him?’
‘Police custody. For now. And if I could reach out, the news would be reporting a fugitive found dead in the gutter.’