“I would, you know,” Will said. “I’ve killed a lot of men. Mostly with knives, a couple with bare hands, one with a rock. Door’s a new one on me but I’ll give it a try. You’re thinking I won’t, but that’s because you weren’t at the Front. You were sat on your arse in a nice leather chair, propping up a desk between meals, while I was up to my knees in mud and blood. You did your killing from a distance, didn’t you? The spoiled food, the boots that let the water in and set our feet rotting: that was paperwork to you and a nice bit of profit, but it was life and death to men out there. Mostly death. A lot of death. I spent years wading through bodies while you were at home lining your pockets at our expense, and you know what, Lord Chingford, I don’t want you to talk. I want to slam this door as hard as I can, again and again till the crunch sounds wet, because you’re a fucking traitor.” He had to take a second to breathe there. The silence in the room was absolute. “But Kim wants to ask you questions, and that’s all that’s keeping you alive right now. Only, if one word comes out of your mouth that isn’t an answer, one single bit of denial, I’m going to smash your skull like a soft-boiled egg.”

That, he felt, covered everything. He glanced around the room. Chingford was awkwardly doubled over, head trapped between door and frame, not struggling any more. Flitby stood, white-faced. Kim had his arse propped on the back of a low chair and the gun in his hand. It was pointing at a downward angle, but unquestionably in the direction of his father.

“Will,” he said, in a tone of studied calm. “Are we under control?”

That meant You aren’t going to murder him, are you? “Fine,” Will said. “But if he mucks me about, it won’t stay fine.”

“I quite understand. I trust you do too, Chingford.”

“You can’t—” Flitby began.

“You’ll find we can,” Kim said. “Start with the War Department, Chingford. What were you doing?”

“My job. Supplies.”

“I have already told you this,” Flitby said.

“I want it from him.”

Will put a tad more weight on the door. “You heard him, sunshine.”

“I had an arrangement.” Chingford sounded congested. “Several companies—gentleman’s agreements to cut down on red tape—naturally an honorarium—”

“Spit it out,” Kim said. “You took bribes to award supply contracts.”

“Honorarium,” Chingford insisted. “Some companies made arrangements with the Department, that’s all. Better offers. Everyone did it.”

“I don’t think they did, you know,” Kim said. “And you received the blackmail threat when?”

“Two years ago.”

“How much for?”

“Three hundred a month.”