Page 288 of These Tears

Suddenly, I am back at another airport, another plane, another version of myself being carried towards a life I had not chosen. The camera strap creaks beneath my grip without me realising my fist has tensed around it.

Elias had sat beside me then, stillness and threat in one, making the world narrow around his hand and his will.

This time, his seat is empty, but the fear still bears his name. Only now it has changed into something far more dire.

As the plane ascends, I glance to my right at Inga, who meets my eyes and gives a tired exhale. No words pass between us.

She will need time to come to terms with everything. So will I.

So I settle my nape against the seat and squeeze the camera strap once more as Norway begins to fall away, carrying all our rage towards England.

49

Conall looks like a man who has not slept since the devil invented lawyers.

His shirt is creased at the elbows, his tie dragged loose. The conference room smells of coffee, hot toner and anxiety that people in his profession usually try to bury beneath paperwork.

Outside the glass wall, London moves as if nothing bad is going on. Cars. Rain. Pavements. Ordinary lives carrying on with rude indifference while Elias’ sits cracked wide open.

‘Elias gave a partial statement,’ Conall says.

Inga shifts beside me, arms folded so tightly I can hear the leather of her handbag strain between her elbow and the chair.

Sindre leans back with one ankle over the other, but the casual pose would be more convincing if the rest of him looked remotely relaxed. Both he and Inga understand Conall immediately – one from the lawful side, the other from years of breaking that law. Presumably.

Behind us, Olle and Henrik stand by the door like two very large impersonations of reasons not to try anything stupid. Brute sits beside them, his long lead looped beneath my chair, looking like a hellhound taught to wait politely until the blood starts running. A blade of light catches his eyes when he turns, briefly setting them alight.

I clear my throat as I gather myself. ‘What does that mean?’ I ask.

Conall’s bloodshot eyes move to me.

‘Enough to make him interesting, not enough to make him safe.’

I flex my fingers to feel any kind of sensation other than unease.

‘Where is Elias?’

‘He is unharmed.’

‘That is not an answer,’ Inga cuts in.

‘It is the only one I am giving in a room full of people who have been in the country less than five hours and already look prepared to commit a diplomatic incident.’

Sindre gives a soft chuckle, which doesn’t really argue our case.

Conall ignores him as his eyes flit from Inga to me. ‘Cromwell knew Elias was returning before he ever set foot in the country.’ Inga’s handbag stops creaking under her grip. Sindre’s foot stills above the carpet. ‘Witness statements implicating him were already waiting. Records began surfacing almost instantly.’

The air leaves my chest in a thin, exasperated puff.

‘Is he enrolled in a Witness Protection type of thing?’ Inga asks.

Elias’ letter burns bright in my head. Let Conall tell you the truth.

The Irishman’s gaze skips from one face to another, until his expression sobers when the dog tilts his head towards him in punctuation.

‘In the UK we call it the UK Protected Persons Service.’ He does not affirm the suggestion, though. ‘There are… measures in place.’

Inga says something in Norwegian under her breath that sounds momentarily liberating but does nothing to ease the moment.