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.
Sindre stares at Conall. ‘Explain.’
‘What measures? Is he under UKPPS then – yes or no?’ I rush in with narrowed eyes.
The man leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face before he drops it again.
‘The timber business itself is legitimate, but Cromwell used its freight network as cover. Narcotics and untaxed alcohol travelled inside declared timber shipments. False invoices inflated transport costs, shell companies collected the difference and the proceeds returned as payments…’ He pauses and his face goes a shade paler as if it physically hurts him to say it aloud, ‘against invented company debts.’
He taps a file beneath his nose. ‘We’re dealing with a double-murder investigation. Fraud, money laundering…’
The room tilts around that.
‘Fancy words, bad people, worse situation,’ Sindre cuts in. ‘What does that have to do with Jak—Elias? He was behind bars first, out of the country later.’
‘Arthur dragged him and his brother along on every business matter since they were small. Besides being the company’s only surviving heir, Elias is one of the few living people who can connect records to actual names, properties and transactions,’ Conall starts.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but that crease on his forehead is getting deeper the longer we sit here.
‘Cromwell needs him discredited – or charged with murder – before anyone treats his testimony as credible.’
Sindre slants a glance towards me, and I know he has reached the same conclusion I have: if Elias is remanded to prison, Cromwell gets another chance to reach him. Even do worse.
‘The news reports,’ I murmur, remembering the night before my departure when everyone’s mugshots found their way to my television screen. ‘Isak and Melody?’
I meet Conall’s flat stare that barely hides his exasperation.
‘The news and the papers are the visible part. Tip of the iceberg,’ Conall replies. ‘Cromwell has spent months building the rest. Years. That’s what we should concern ourselves with.’
Henrik unfurls from his place at the door and approaches Inga’s chair. He leans over it, bracing against the backrest. ‘He’s already been here a couple of days.’
‘Yes,’ Conall replies. ‘Besides the obvious, threats have already been made, and someone has already tried to get access to him—’ His hand snaps up in a calming gesture as Inga and I jolt in our seats. He lets it breathe for two frantic seconds as I fight to keep my heart where it is.
His face hardens. ‘He is a valuable witness, but that makes him dangerous to them. Luckily the incident allowed me to harden security around him.’
My knuckles crack loud enough for heads to turn towards me when Conall continues.
‘Cromwell does not need to control an entire investigation – just one officer on his payroll to delay the requests. One witness to remember something differently. One contact to insist that every contradiction requires further examination.’
‘Fucking procedure,’ Sindre mutters.
‘Weaponised procedure,’ Conall corrects.
‘What about me? I was attacked by Cromwell’s men, too,’ I say quickly before I start screaming. ‘I saw their faces.’
Conall exhales as he meets my eyes. He lets the proclamation settle for several heartbeats because it’s the first time I’ve said it aloud.
‘Police have two suspects,’ he says, without probing further into the episode. ‘It would be good if they got a full statement from you about what happened and what you remember of that day. After that, they can arrange a formal identification procedure.’
My stomach flips so fast I nearly reach for the table.
The grey car. Rain. Hands. Panic. Conall’s voice on the phone.
The sound of the envelope falling through the postbox.
‘It might link Cromwell’s operation to an attempt to intimidate or abduct a civilian witness,’ Inga says, but her focus remains on the tips of her trainers.
I incline my head briefly as Sindre and I exchange charged glances.
‘It might be useful to say that Elias believed Cromwell was coming after me and that’s why we left,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’
Some of the tension leaves Conall’s shoulders. ‘Good. I’ll arrange for your statement to be taken immediately.’
He reaches for his phone.
‘You still haven’t answered me,’ I say a little louder.
His hand stops above the receiver.
‘Where is Elias?’ I ask again.
Conall lowers his hand until the knuckles make a dull sound against the wooden desk. ‘Leah—’
‘No.’ I press my palms against the table and rise. ‘You have spent the last half-hour telling me what Cromwell has done, what Elias knows and what I need to do. And I will. But I want to see him now.’
Inga straightens beside me.
Sindre’s ankle drops from his knee, his Converse striking the floor.
Conall looks down at the file instead of answering, and something cold slinks down my back.
‘He is not in with the Protected Services, is he?’ I say firmly.
The Irishman closes his eyes for one exhausted second. ‘No.’
For once, even Sindre has nothing to say.
‘Elias knew what was waiting for him here.’
‘Conall,’ I warn.
‘He came back to attend the interview voluntarily, but he never got that far,’ he says quietly. ‘He was arrested at the airport on suspicion of murdering Isak and Melody.’
No one moves.
No one breathes.
The blood drains from my fingertips where they press against the table.
‘He’s still in custody?’ I barely manage the sound.
‘A superintendent extended the initial twenty-four hours to thirty-six. Before that expires, the police have applied to the magistrates’ court for a warrant of further detention. I made sure the threat is on his custody record, and the investigating team knows exactly what he is at risk from.’
‘The evidence is planted by Cromwell,’ Inga growls beside me.
Conall shifts in his chair. ‘We can’t prove it yet.’
‘Take me to him now,’ I say very quietly, not trusting my own tongue any more.
‘The custody officer has refused visits.’
‘You are his solicitor! You can make it happen!’
‘I can see him because he has a right to legal advice. You cannot. Not while the police are examining whether you helped him leave the country, and not while your own statement has yet to be secured.’
My pulse slams into my throat.
Helped him?
Conall rubs at his face, then stands slowly. ‘I need you calm. You will give a truthful statement. I will oppose the continued detention. The police will release him, charge him or ask for more time. They cannot keep adding hours indefinitely.’
‘While they decide, the bad guy gains more hours.’ Sindre’s voice settles like frost over us.
Hours to alter records. Frighten witnesses.
My eyes slide towards him. Slowly – not enough to draw anyone’s attention, just enough for the tattooed man with a questionable background to feel my question when my gaze catches his.
‘The law is flawed,’ I say aloud.
And as my sister’s boyfriend launches into explanations of why it’s not flawed, just complicated, I hold Sindre’s eyes.
His expression remains carefully blank, but then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
The answer to a question I never really asked.
He lowers his attention to the floor and reclines in the chair again, every trace of the smile disappearing.
And hope ignites in my chest.