Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 7

Calloway

"You have the documents?"

I shift uneasily in my seat. It had been bad enough when the investigators came into the office. Now they're coming to my house. If anyone from work, or Mosley himself, or any of his men are watching me, they will know I'm cooperating.

It's an interesting dilemma. Would I rather spend twenty years in prison, or have my throat slit while I sleep?

"You do realise what will happen to me if I cooperate?" I ask Officer Pembrooke.

He's cold, unsmiling. "You realise what we'll do if you don't?"

I scowl, thinking for a moment. If I'd known a career in banking would lead me here, I'd have become a schoolteacher instead.

But now, this has become a matter of survival. My years in a male-dominated field have sufficiently toughened me up for this challenge. I've had to adopt a different mentality, become harder and inflexible to survive.

It would be a shame to waste it. Have it all be for nothing. And now, I don't know if I could switch it off even if I tried.

I think there might be a way to play this game and come out on top. Even if it will mean dancing with fire. I have no choice.

For now, I cooperate.

I hand across the Manila folder. "The Swiss accounts."

Pembrooke raises an eyebrow as he flips through the reports. "This is all you have?"

"That's all I have," I agree. "And I had to spend three hours arguing on the phone to get it. I've told you, Officer. I've never met Oswald Mosley in my life. He was never my client."

Pembrooke nods slowly for a moment. "Even better," he says. "People will have no reason to believe you're cooperating with us then. Hmm?" He stands to his feet and tucks the folder into his coat. "Get me the accounts from the other institutions."

My jaw drops. "You saw our paperwork — he has accounts with almost every institution in England."

"Then I suggest you get busy."

"And I suggest you pay me a wage if you intend to hire me." I stand to my feet and cross the room to the front door. "Failing that, do your job yourself."

He nods slowly, smirking as he leaves. "We'll be seeing each other again soon, Miss Calloway."

I'm emotionless as I respond. "I can hardly wait."

***

I stifle a groan as I reach the office the next morning, heavy sunglasses on my face to block out the light. Polishing off half a bottle of red wine after the investigator left probably wasn't the best idea. I'm paying for it now.

"George, do we have any aspirin?" I ask the friendly teller as I march through the lobby, rearranging the handbag on my arm, the binders in my hands.

"I shall fetch some for you at once, Miss Calloway. And your client is here to see you."

I raise my eyebrows at him, then turn to where he gestured in the reception area.

Michael Gray. He smiles and gives a friendly wave from across the room.

"Who let him in?" I ask, exasperated. "It's eight-thirty in the morning."

"He said he had an appointment," George continues. "Should I ask him to leave?"

"No," I sigh through clenched teeth. In spite of myself, I cannot help but respect Michael — enough to give him my ear for ten minutes, at least. Anyone persistent enough to show up again before the bank's even opened deserves that, at least.

"Mr Gray," I greet him, walking across to where he sits. "Let's go to the meeting room."

He's perfectly polite. No smoking a cigarette this time. Stands when he sees me approach. Offers his hand to shake.

But I am as calculating as I am forgiving. This way, there are witnesses. The meeting rooms are visible from the lobby — or at least they are with the doors ajar, and I leave them wide open. This is perfect. I can plausibly say I met with Mr Gray, refused to do business, and never saw him again.

The problem will never become a problem.

"How was your morning?" Michael asks as he takes a seat at the table.

I drop my bag to the floor and binders on the desk. "Fine," I say, choosing to omit the hour spent puking into the toilet bowl. "Yours?"

"Fine." By the guarded expression on his face, I get the sense he's omitting part of his own morning.

I find myself suddenly curious. Did he wake up alone, as I did, or beside a woman? A wife or girlfriend — even a one night stand. Surely he must engage in the debauchery befitting of a Peaky Blinder. We've all heard the stories.

It seems he's well on his way to becoming powerful, just as he said he wanted to be, all those years ago.

"I told you yesterday we cannot help you," I remind him. "And yet here you are this morning. Why?"

"Because I feel like we got off on the wrong foot." He taps a pen against the table. "And because I don't like taking no for an answer," he admits.

"I suggest you learn to adapt."

"I've checked the law," he says, "And you're not allowed to discriminate based on a client's source of income or financial activities."

I fold my arms across my chest. Lean back in the chair. "I am when said client is not acting within legal boundaries."

He arches an eyebrow. "Have you got any proof?"

"I don't need proof. I can ask any man or woman in Birmingham."

"Hearsay," he dismisses. "Miss Calloway, have you got any bloody proof?" I consider him for a moment, but do not respond. He's got me and he knows it. "I've told you. Shelby Company Limited is a legitimate business."

"Fine," I concede. I turn my head as George enters the room with a glass of water and aspirin. I take both from him gladly, ignoring Michael's curious glance. "George, bring us a set of the intake forms, please."

He nods and leaves.

"The onboarding process takes some time," I tell Michael. "We will need several documents to verify your identity. And you'll need to hand over all the books for our analysis."

"Of course."

That's how I'll get him. There'll be errors on the books, discrepancies he won't be able to explain. As soon as I have that proof, I can decline him as a client — and the Peaky Blinders. This will be nothing but a frustrating blip in the scheme of things.

And the timing couldn't be more perfect. I'll send him a letter declining on Sunday, right before I head to London for the week for the conference. He'll have a whole week to lash out at someone else here at Vanguard if he so chooses, and by the time I return, he'll have moved on, and the whole thing will be forgotten.