Cora pointed to George. “He did it,” she said breathlessly. “You can’t blame me. He did it. He shot Crispin.”
Emily smiled. “We know all about that,” she said. “He told us.” She looked Cora up and down. “No one can harm us without paying. You were in it as deep as Sydney. You must go too.” She glanced at Poncho. “Arrange it, and he quick. An accident with an electric iron… if there is one here.”
Poncho came back after a few minutes with a portable ironing board, an electric iron and some underwear he had found in Cora’s bedroom.
“Everything,” he said, with a triumphal grin.
He worked quickly and methodically, setting up the ironing board and plugging in the iron. Then he produced a penknife and began working on the flex.
Emily noticed George’s blank gaze.
“He’s clever,” she said, smiling “Ill a moment that iron won’t be safe to touch.” She leaned forward. “They’ll find her some time, and they’ll think she died because of a faulty flex. The joke is, it will be because of a faulty flex.”
Cora crossed the room slowly and stood before George. Her eyes were dark with terror.
“You’re not going to let them do this to me, are you?” she said. “You can’t do it.” Then her voice suddenly rose to a scream. “George! You can’t let them. Don’t you understand what they’re doing? They’re going to kill me. Save me! I’ll do anything! I swear I’ll do anything if you’ll only stop them! You can do it! You’re big enough! Save me, George!” And she rushed forward, putting her arms round his neck, her face against his. “I’ll never leave you, George,” she went on wildly. “Forgive me! Don’t let them touch me.”
The feel of her slight body against his, the smell of her perfume, her hair against his face suddenly weakened him. He felt sick and faint.