Page 304 of These Tears

Sometimes, though, the law needs a boost.

52

Two black lengths of steel divide my view of the custody yard. Beyond them lies a stretch of sun-bleached concrete boxed in by high fencing, security lights and windowless brick.

Heat shimmers above the service road while cameras angle down from every corner like modern gargoyles looking for something to pounce on.

The thought of seeing Elias after this ordeal makes a hollow pressure settle beneath my breastbone. I have rehearsed this moment through every hour he remained behind those walls, but none of those imagined versions could carry the weight of what he wrote in the letter.

My fingers crumple it inside my pocket.

And now…

He is about to walk through that gate alive, and I have no idea whether to strike him, forgive him or hold on until the world ends.

The hot metal of my Ford bites into my palms where I’ve braced them against the bonnet. Behind me, red paint gathers sunlight and every speck of dust collected between London and this place. Anna nearly lost it when she saw me – especially because I had to leave immediately after retrieving the car.

I eye my camera that lies on the passenger seat.

For once, I don’t need it in my hands.

I have taken enough photographs of cages. Enough pictures of things contained by force. When Elias walks through that gate, I do not want glass or metal between us.

Beside my heel, Brute shifts against the tarmac with a low scrape of claws as he looks towards the gate.

‘He’ll be here soon,’ I tell him. He settles at that.

Conall’s call still resounds in my ears: the Crown Prosecution Service has discontinued the proceedings against Elias.

After yesterday’s hearing ended, Elias was remanded in custody overnight while everything around Cromwell began coming apart.

I turn my phone once between my hands, the silicone case already warm from how often I’ve checked it. I shove it into my jeans pocket with a weak smile.

Sindre and Skeever had worked together to preserve records Cromwell believed were buried, giving investigators enough to find the originals. Once they did, altered timestamps surfaced, witness statements failed to match recorded interviews, and one witness denied ever signing the amended version.

Cromwell’s people had built a trail around Elias’ history and trusted everyone to follow it without looking too closely.

But they finally did.

By morning, the prosecution no longer had a case it was willing to place before the judge, the majority of Cromwell’s associates were brought in, and the man himself had been charged before the sun had properly stretched over the sky.

A car passes beyond the outer wall, tyres whispering over the hot surface before the sound dissolves into the afternoon. I check the time on my phone again. My reflection stares back, the crease between my brows deep enough to cast its own shadow.

The Irishman had warned me release procedures could take hours, but I couldn’t wait.

Brute repositions deeper into the Ford’s shadow beside a half-empty bowl of water, while I continue cooking in the British summer afternoon. I chuck the phone through the window and watch it land on the seat at the same time as the inner gate releases with a metallic scream.

I straighten as my thoughts explode and rebound.

A uniformed officer steps into the yard carrying a clipboard as he speaks to someone still hidden behind him.

He moves aside.

And Elias walks out.

My gaze falls to his bare wrists. No cuffs. No strip of steel connects him to fear and misery any more.

The absence of chains feels like a weight lifting straight off my own shoulders.