50 #2
My throat quivers as I open my mouth. ‘You’d kill him?’
His eyes land on mine. ‘Of course. What’s one more Crane brood to add to the list?’
He studies me. Tries to intimidate me.
It’s working.
I let the anger out – just a little.
‘I will give a statement today, during the hearing. Tell them exactly what he did to me. You will give me assurance that you will not attempt to harm me in any way.’
‘You will also stop emailing journalists regarding the Crane business.’
My gut twists.
‘You knew I’d spoken with Mr MacLeish back then.’
‘You don’t make it difficult to watch where you strut about.’
I lift my head slightly. ‘You’ll be taking over the management of the company, too?’
He chuckles. ‘Why, are you interested?’
Something vicious and urgent sparks in me. ‘I might be. Depending on what it is you’re using it for.’
‘Desperate, are we?’
‘I’ve been held captive in a different country for months. I am low on income and have a house to pay off.’
He regards me for a short while, then begins a slow walk back towards the desk. Straightening his cuffs, he eases down into the seat.
‘I don’t see how you might be useful to me in the company.’
I keep my voice steady. ‘I can do my best. Elias said Isak kept a journal. Melody knew the names. Arthur knew the routes. You knew how to make all three disappear, which means you have all of the above in your possession.’
The sour smile remains, but his answer takes a beat too long. ‘Seems like Elias knows a lot.’
‘Enough to bring you down.’
‘And you don’t want that.’ It’s not a statement. It’s a taunt.
‘He is mad. If he walks, I am in danger.’
A tremor in my hand betrays my nerves, but it lands at exactly the right moment.
He sighs once, then reclines against the seat. ‘Routes, journals, pieces of information. Those are not power. Control is. Who signs. Who looks away. Who stamps a shipment without opening it. Who receives cash and calls it debt repayment.’
‘So Arthur Crane knew the routes,’ I say.
‘Arthur knew nothing.’
I let the correction hang. ‘But Melody Crane did.’
His finger stills against the desk. ‘The woman wanted a slice of the pie. Shame she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.’
The dog gives a quiet whine.
My skin prickles beneath my clothes.
‘You came here to bargain for your freedom,’ he then murmurs.
‘I know you can remove me as easily as you have the rest of the Cranes.’
‘Quite right.’
The answer comes too quickly. His lips press together, as though he hears it only after it has escaped.
‘Complete your statement,’ Cromwell says. ‘Describe Crane accurately: violent, unstable, obsessive. The right officers will understand which parts deserve emphasis, and the right newspapers will understand which version of you deserves sympathy.’
‘You can arrange that?’
‘Among other things. You can go back to your life. Keep your lips tight. And Elias Crane can go where he belongs.’
‘In chains?’
He smiles. ‘In hell, Ms Nottingham.’
I go numb all over. He promises death without so much as a twitch of hesitation.
I swallow whatever has wedged itself behind my tongue.
He watches me for one suspended second too long before his attention catches on Brute again, and then his gaze travels to the door.
Before my face gives me away, I turn towards the lift, the dog moving with me like a wall of fur and teeth and claws between my spine and Cromwell’s desk.
‘Ms Nottingham,’ he calls.
I pause at the lift. Look back over my shoulder.
‘Drive safely.’
I don’t remember pressing the button when the lift doors open. My feet take me inside before my knees remember they’re not supposed to shake yet.
Every second of the descent to the ground floor lodges somewhere between my chest and throat.
I don’t know what my visit changed, but I’m certain that I’ve bought some time.
We had been warned that, if Elias was charged, his first appearance could be listed almost immediately. The pressure is already building and I’m not entirely sure it won’t take us all down once it breaks.
As the building spits us back into the world, I get the feeling back into my legs. They still shake while Brute steers close enough for his shoulder to knock my thigh with every step.
My phone vibrates. One message from Conall waits on the screen, along with an address.
Police charged Elias at 10:12. First appearance listed for eleven at the magistrates’ court. Do NOT be late.
This explains the urgency beneath Cromwell’s composure. By noon, Elias could be moving out of police custody and into the remand system – somewhere harder for us to reach and easier for Cromwell to touch.
I hurry on, wishing I could skip straight to the part where Elias and I are back home in Norway.
That slows my gait until I halt with the dog glancing up at me.
Home.
Where he is.
With a sigh, I look around to anchor myself to the present.
London moves around me as if nothing has happened. As if Cromwell isn’t watching from the sky and deciding which bodies become paperwork.
I keep walking. One foot. Another.
He knew about Dougal back then. He knows about me. He knows exactly where Elias is. There’s no one around him whom he can influence, though. For the moment, at least.
Arthur may not have known what his company had become, but those he allowed under his roof had. Cromwell had control over everything, working from the shadows.
Everything in me twists as I turn sharply at the corner, fingers buried in Brute’s harness until the stitching bites my palm.
I went in to draw blood.
I think I may have also shown the bastard where to cut me.
This might have been the last stupid decision I ever got to make.
The café is too warm when I step inside, too alive with the clang of cups and cutlery, and people who have no idea I may have just shaken hands over Elias’ grave. Possibly my own, too.
Sindre is only just sitting down beside Inga as I reach the table. She sits at the back with her brothers at her flanks, pale eyes narrowing the second she zeros in on me.
‘Took a long time to wash your hair,’ she observes. The silence that follows might suggest she never believed it in the first place.
I lower myself into the chair opposite her, Brute pressing under the table against my knees, all but melting when Sindre scratches behind his ear. But the lie is already curling over the table. ‘I needed a minute to myself.’
My eyes find Sindre’s, and the dark brown in his somehow looks more vivid in this light. He hides the reassuring smirk and pats the dog several more times, cooing in Norwegian, then says: ‘I think we’re due a walk, you and I.’
When the conversation kicks off about Conall’s recent instructions, I pull my phone from my pocket, holding it under the table – away from curious eyes. I type up a long text about Elias’ state and what has happened up until now. Then I attach the file burning through my cloud storage and hit send.
Conall would have an aneurysm right now.
My gaze snaps to a doughnut with cherry filling bleeding out. I follow the crimson stain spreading across the plate and count backwards from ten.
The next time I look at the screen, I see three dots moving in small waves while the other side is typing.
And then I get a smiling-face emoji in return.
My finger taps quickly to delete the messages just as Olle reaches over and touches my shoulder.
‘What are you having?’ he asks.
The warmth spreads briefly where his large hand touched me. But the cold, ugly truth still sits between my ribs. Cromwell is watching. Elias is running out of time. And I have just made myself impossible to miss.