Curtain Call at the Lantern

Blackwood slid a cheque across the table. You didn't look at the number; you looked at the way it came, without a word, folded once. It was a very old sort of gesture.

"Inspector Rook has a suspect," he said. "A boy from Slack Lane. A tragedy for all concerned, but a tidy one. I'd hate for a private investigator to muddy such a clean outcome. Consider it a retainer for your time."

It wasn't a threat. Threats were crude. This was subtler: an agenda, quietly closed. No decision would ever be made because no one would ever be allowed to think there was one to make. Power, at its most refined, is the ability to make everyone believe nothing needs to change.

Jonah watched your hand. He did not say a word. Neither did the boardroom.