Fegan slipped the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the toilet cubicle wall. That cop had Marie and Ellen. He was the girl’s father. Maybe he could protect them. But he couldn’t know the kind of men who wanted to hurt them. Fegan knew because he was that kind of man.
He picked up his bag and let himself out of the stall. No one had looked twice at his passport on either side of the Atlantic. He had tried to sleep during the flight, but the fear of the dreams of burning kept him awake, his legs and arms aching in the cramped seat.
As soon as he’d landed and cleared immigration, he found the nearest private spot to retrieve the voicemail. He dialed the number Marie had left. The call had led to nothing but more worry. He had to find Marie and Ellen, make them safe. The only place he could think to start was at her flat on Eglantine Avenue. He went to the bureau de change and traded the last of his dollars for pounds.
The morning sky was gray and heavy when he went outside to wait for the bus into the city. Marie and Ellen were somewhere under that same sky. So were the men who wanted to harm them. Fegan would find them first. Anything else was unthinkable.