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Mr. Knife watched her, leaning back in his chair beside the kitchen table. He was playing with the knife, turning it over and over in his hands.
“Why ask me to make the tiramisu?” she asked, suddenly unable to go on without knowing.
“I’m not asking you,” he said. “I’m telling you.”
She lifted her shoulders in agreement. “Ordering me.”
He pointed his finger at her in delighted acknowledgement. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer, but she thought she knew.
The anticipation of killing was better than the actual killing. He wanted to sit there and imagine what it would be like for a while before he did it, and it was all over.
And she had to drag it out as much as possible, in case James managed to work out where she was and could swoop in to the rescue.
But that wasn’t likely.
So she would have to find a way to rescue herself.
He lifted an eyebrow when she didn’t pour the espresso she’d just made into the bowl like she had before, but brought the cup to her lips for a sip.
“I want a cup.”
She gave a nod, turned back to the machine, and made him one, setting the cup down on the table and pushing it across to him.
He sipped it. Gave a nod. “Better than the granulated stuff.”
She went to the fridge and looked inside, then stepped back. “There are no eggs.”
He frowned at her, got up and walked over to the cookbook shelf, took down the Romeo Salta book again and flicked through it. Paused. “Four eggs.” He looked up. “I finished them this morning.”
She had long ago decided that making the tiramisu would give her time to work out an escape, but if she couldn’t make it because she didn’t have the ingredients . . .
Her heart felt like it was being squeezed in her chest.
“I’m having this tiramisu. I have to know how it tastes.” He stood up, tapping the tip of the knife to the table. “Get in the pantry.”
She turned to the door he was pointing to and walked over to it, opening it cautiously.
It was a small, dark space, with no window, and it smelled of dried thyme and something spicy, like curry powder.
She stepped inside, and the door slammed behind her, and after a moment, a key turned in the lock. He’d obviously known about the pantry and had the key handy, and the way he so quickly ordered her in told her he had planned to keep her in here if he needed her locked away.
She fumbled around, and finally found a light switch.
She knew there had to be one, there was no way anyone could find anything in here without it.
She flicked it down and a bulb came to life overhead. It was slow and weak, but it was a lot better than nothing.
She began to go through the shelves, looking for anything that could help her escape.
* * *
It was lunch by the time James got back to New Scotland Yard.
He walked straight to Detective Superintendent Halberd’s office, sure that Whetford would not be in the building. He’d be out schmoozing with someone.