The line went dead.
Noah twisted, the air he expelled from his mouth turning into a hazy cloud in the cold.
“Well, thatwasa lot.” Zeke attempted a smile.
Three knocks on the back of the van door had them both jumping apart. Noah locked the cage before opening the door to let Frankie in.
Even Frankie, their eternal ray of sunshine, looked beat. “How are you, Zeke?”
He shrugged. “The same.”
“Lowenna has decided that K are all going to Birmingham. They know people there.”
Noah nodded, like he’d expected it. “I’m coming back up. Need to update everyone. How’s Sav?”
She grimaced.
The wristband vibrated in Noah’s hand. Noah glanced at it before saying, “Zeke, Leo’s sent that stuff he mentioned through. There’s scans of handwritten letters.”
Zeke shuffled over to the grate to peer over Noah’s shoulder. At the bottom of the documents, Leo had written:
I noticed an envelope addressed to Z.B. when I was at the admin office. I saw it was from the prison, so I thought it might be from Harding. I opened it to scan it for him in case he wanted it straight away. The gist of it is that Albert Harding apparently hung himself in his cell with instructions to forward some letters to him. I haven’t had time to look at them properly. Take care.
Doctor Harding was dead. Doctor Harding was dead, and Zeke should be feeling something,anything, but all he felt was numb and hungry.
“What’s all that scribbled nonsense?” Frankie moved her face closer to the tiny screen, and Noah zoomed in so they could attempt to read it. Harding’s handwriting always was questionable, but the scrawling mess across five separate pieces of paper was barely legible. He’d scribbled many of the chaotic notes out, the pen ripping the paper in the process.
“I think it’s research notes.” Zeke brought his hand up to rub his deltoid muscle through his coat, remembering how hard he’d fought against fainting each time Harding ‘took his blood’.
“This bit looks like an address.” Noah tapped the screen, reading out the complicated names in a flawless accent.
5 Vørðuvegur, Hósvík 420, Faroe Islands
“Is that Dutch?” Zeke marvelled.
Noah’s eyes lit up. “Nope. Danish. I’ve heard of the Faroes. Group of about twenty volcanic islands. Home to thousands of seabirds. Lots of rare ones too, like Storm Petrels, Great Skuas, Black Guille—”
Zeke silenced him with a raised eyebrow. Trust Noah to get distracted by birds at a time like this.
“Scroll down. There’s more under the address,” said Frankie.
Noah obeyed, reading out the final sentence. “Find Gurli Kristoffersen.” He zoomed into a series of numbers scribbled after the name. Was it a phone number?
Zeke sank down to the floor. “Well, that was enlightening.”
“We need to ring that number,now,” said Noah, with an obvious excitement that Zeke didn’t share. After what he’d just been through, he couldn’t bring himself to dare to hope for good news. But Noah was already typing the digits into the band. After three rings, a female voice answered in a language Zeke presumed was Danish.
“Hello? Is this Gurli Kristoffersen? Do you speak English? Or Dutch?” Noah shouted down the phone, as if the lady could be deaf.
The wristband crackled.
“I am her. Who’s asking?” the voice said, in a thick accent.
“You’re speaking with Noah Forrest. I’m here with Zeke Bates, who was working with Doctor Harding, who told us to find you.”
“Come to me? Why?”
“Zeke Bates was one of Harding’s… unknowing participants in his study. A study I presume you were also involved with?”
