Chapter 4: Penthouse

"Don't go up there," Lev said.

"Watch me."

I still had my apron on. There was flour on it, and a smear of custard on the bib.

I didn't take it off.

"He wants you in that building," Lev said. "He's wanted you in that building since last night."

"Then he can have me for ten minutes."

Mum was white at the counter, the notice in her hand.

Lev looked at her, then at me, and gave up.

"Thirty-eighth floor," he said. "He'll make you wait. Don't sit down."

I took the DLR to Canary Wharf with the notice to quit folded in my apron pocket.

In daylight, Sokolov House was just glass. Thirty-eight floors of it, catching the sun.

There was a different guard on the desk this time.

He took one look at my apron and reached for his phone.

"Hollie Haddow," I said. "For Mr Sokolov. He'll see me."

He did.

The lift went up so fast my ears popped.

The top floor was all pale wood and white orchids, and a reception desk with nobody's name on it.

A young man in a grey suit asked me to take a seat.

I didn't sit down.

I stood in the middle of the floor with flour on my shoes for forty minutes while people in suits walked past and looked at me.

Then a door opened.

"Miss Haddow."

Arkady Sokolov was taller than Lev, and thinner, and older in a way that looked expensive.

Silver hair combed straight back. Pale blue eyes. A gold signet ring heavy on his little finger.

He held the door for me like a gentleman.

His office had glass on three sides. The whole of London lay under it, flat and grey.

I could see the river. I could see Deptford.

I could very nearly see our roof.

There were four people already at his long table, with laptops open and coffee cups.

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