He was on time. Exactly eight o’clock. Not a minute before, not a minute after, which told me something, because men who are genuinely rattled either arrive early or they are late. Adrian Blackwood arrived at precisely the time he said he would, which meant he had been sitting somewhere nearby, waiting for the clock to say it was acceptable to knock.
I opened the door.
He was alone. No Daniel. No assistant with a briefcase, no lawyer hovering at the edge of things. Just Adrian, in a dark jacket, without the armour that usually came with him. He looked tired. Not the tired of a long day. The tired of a long time.
“Ava,” he said.
“Come in,” I said.
He came in. I had tidied the suite in the way you tidy a space when you want to appear as though you did not tidy it. No wine on the table,
