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"I couldn't care less that they were American," Frank continued, crossing his arms defiantly. His cuffs clinked, a subtle reminder of his constrained state. "There are just as many people who have lived here all their lives who would gladly demolish our castles and stately homes and replace them with fast food restaurants. Money isn't everything."
"Is heritage?" Finn asked, though the question hung in the air, rhetorical and laden with implications.
Amelia decided to steer the conversation elsewhere, shifting her focus to another angle. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cold surface. "Have you ever heard of a man named Max Vilne?"
Frank's forehead crinkled as if the name brought an unpleasant taste to his mouth. "Know the name from the news," he grumbled. "Some killer on the loose from America." He shook his head and gave a dismissive gesture. "But I don't know him and wouldn't want anything to do with him. He's sick"
"Wouldn't you?" Finn pressed, his tone sharp as a scalpel. But he was beginning to feel frustration set in like a frost first thing in the morning.
"Look here—" Frank started, but Amelia cut through his indignation with a wave of her hand.
"Mr. Butter, a man like Vilne... he's not the type to seek permission before he uses someone," she said evenly. "Whether you wanted anything to do with him or not could be irrelevant."
Finn's mind raced, piecing together motives and opportunities, the intricate puzzle of human malice and deceit. He was acutely aware of the camera in the corner, the silent witness to their verbal dance. Every word spoken, every nuance, had to count. He was always wary of suspects performing for the cameras in case they were used against them at a later date.
"Frank," he said, his voice a low drawl, "a man with your... passion for history, savvy to the end. You'd recognize a predator when you see one, wouldn't you?"
"Predator?" Frank scoffed, but there was a new wariness in his eyes.
"Someone who uses your cause for his own ends,” Finn clarified, his gaze piercing. “Someone who might hide behind the mask of the righteous to carry out his own twisted form of justice."
Frank's lips parted, then closed. He looked from Finn to Amelia, the former agent's implication clear as day. Frank Butter, for all his bluster, was no fool.
"Nobody rules me. Max Vilne is not my concern," he finally muttered, looking away.
"Maybe he should be," Amelia whispered, almost to herself, but loud enough for both men to hear.
The tension in the room coiled tighter, a spring waiting to snap. And in the charged silence that followed, the three of them—cop, agent, and suspect—were connected by the invisible threads of a dark tapestry yet to be fully unveiled.
Finn narrowed his eyes, studying the man cuffed to the metal table. He needed to use the man's own history against him. "Frank, with your history of assaulting a landowner—"
"History?" Frank's voice cut through, sharp and unyielding as flint. "What you call history, I call being stitched up by those with deeper pockets. Enough of this! Last night, when your so-called murder happened, I was at an arm-wrestling contest. After that, a lock-in at The Black Swan."
"Lock-in?" Finn echoed, skepticism threading his tone.
"Yeap, lock-in," Frank said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And before you ask, no, they weren't all card-carrying members of my 'Save Our Heritage' group."
"Arm wrestling and ale," Finn mused aloud, though his thoughts were racing. Could a behemoth like Frank really have been content with mere pub games while a storm brewed outside? He glanced at Amelia, her pen paused above her notepad. He could see she was considering something.
The knock on the door was abrupt, a staccato rhythm that jarred the room's tense atmosphere. Rob Collins now appeared, poked his head through the gap, his usual composure edged with urgency. "Finn, Amelia, can you step outside for a moment?"
"Excuse us, Frank," Amelia said, her voice cool as she stopped the tape and rose from her chair.
Outside, the corridor felt too narrow, the air too stale. Finn sensed Amelia's shift in posture, the steel in her spine as she faced Rob.
“Chief, could you have someone look into the suspect's alibi?” Amelia said. “He says he was at an arm wrestling competition at The Black Swan and there are plenty of witnesses.”
"Sure... But... Amelia, there’s been an incident." Rob’s words were clipped, his gaze fixed on her. "I'm so sorry, but... Your flat... There's been a fire. Burned down, apparently."
The blood drained from Amelia's face, her skin suddenly ashen. For a moment, Finn saw vulnerability flicker in her eyes before she masked it with the stoicism he'd come to admire. "Burned down?" Her voice was almost disbelieving, a crack in her professional veneer.
"Arson, we suspect," Rob continued. "I'm sorry, Amelia."
"Any... any leads on who did it?" There was a tremor in her query, a personal affront mingling with the detective's need for answers.
"Too early to say," Rob replied. "But with the break-in at the cottage before and the dolls that looked like you, me, and Demi, I think we can conclude it might have been Max Vilne.”
Finn watched as Amelia absorbed the blow, her fists clenching momentarily at her sides. He knew her life, those fragments of normalcy away from the job, had just turned to ash. It was a vulnerability he understood all too well—a reminder that the chaos they sought to tame could reach out and engulf their own worlds in flames.
