If I could have clapped my hands and cheered, I would have done. Go Maria!
‘But…what do you…we’re friends.’
‘Your position on the council was convenient for me,’ said Maria. ‘I know you dealt with it when questions were asked about the licensing arrangements at the Valmont, and I know you’ve called the police off a couple of my clients. You were useful, for a time. But I’ve had a long talk with our friend Mr Crowley, and I’ve come to realise that that time is drawing to an end.’
‘Crowley? You…’
‘Actually, he’s here,’ said Maria. ‘Come on in, Tom. We’re just talking about you.’
A sound like a bull imploding followed, presumably from the direction of Keane.
‘No! Get him out!’ he cried once he was coherent. ‘Get out of my house!’
‘Not without Ella.’ Tom’s voice. A gush of huge love poured from every pore, and I began to kick and try to shout to him, for what good it did me. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her? If you’ve so much as touched her…’
There was another bovine bellow, and the sound of crashing and thumping.
Oh, God, Keane was attacking Tom, I was sure of it. Glass smashed and somebody – a woman – screamed.
Then there was a gunshot. It must have been a gunshot. It galvanised me almost to my fettered feet. I fell back down with a thud, moaning into my silken gag.
‘Ramani! Put that down!’
The voice was Keane’s.
‘I don’t put it down,’ she said, her voice low and shaky. ‘I don’t want to work for you no more. I want to go home.’
‘Put the gun down, dear.’ Maria’s voice was soothing. ‘Of course you can go home.’
‘When he gives me my passport,’ she said. ‘He takes it from me.’
‘Well, how interesting,’ said Tom, panting. ‘Another interesting story from the colourful life of Judd Keane. Shall I call her embassy now, or will you take me to Ella?’
Then footsteps hurrying into the room, then his shocked face, then his voice again. ‘Oh, my God, Ella, what has he done to you?’
Before I was even fully freed, I clung to him, hiding in him, letting myself be held and squeezed, safe in his arms at last.
Chapter Twelve
‘Shit, I’m sorry I’m late.’
Tom found me in our favourite booth at the Valmont and put his bag down with a clatter of laptop and cables.
‘I got you a martini,’ I said, nodding at the glass. ‘A dirty one.’
‘My favourite kind.’
He sat down, his eyes gleaming with wickedness.
‘So what kept you?’
‘I was at City Hall, covering the announcement about the election for the new leader.’ He sighed with satisfaction. ‘Literally, the best day of my life. And that’s just so far.’ He winked. ‘I think it might be about to get even better.’
I didn’t rise to the bait. There was time enough for that.
‘So you’ve got your job back?’
‘Yeah, didn’t even have to ask. I think Carol Fletcher’s going to be a vintage editor.’