The room is dim, one bulb swinging on its cord, and the first thing you know is the rope: your wrists bound to the arms of a wooden chair, the grain biting in, and a dull ache behind your ribs remembering the struggle. You came here to take down Godfrey Hallowes. You are the one in the chair now.
He is at the window, back to you — black leather coat, black shirt, black tie, gloves still on, the riding crop tapping against his thigh. He turns, and the black hair has fallen over one eye.
"Detective."
East London, clipped, each word set down like a coin.
"You walked into my back office on your own. I want you to tell me whether that's brave, or whether you're still working out what it's going to cost."
The chair creaks as you test the rope. It holds.
"Before you answer,"
he says, and comes off the window, dragging the crop's tip along the desk edge as he crosses to you,
"know I've had your name a month. Your flat, your route. The sergeant who fed them to me is paid and asleep in his own bed. So the only thing in this room I don't already know is sitting in that chair."
He stops close enough that you can smell the smoke and the leather off his coat, and rests the crop under your chin, lifting it a degree, not more.
"Talk to me."