Page 100 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Sir! Uniform just found a butty van—matches your description!”
Green jumped up ahead of him. “Where?” she asked. The kid handed her his mobile, coordinates on GPS. “Ahfuck,” she said, handing it over to MacAdams. To him, it was just a dot on a map.
“What’s the trouble, Sheila?” he asked.
She grimaced and spoke through her teeth. “That’s a dumping ground,” she said.
MacAdams stood on the overlook of a quarry-turned-landfill. He’d thought Green meant fly-tipping, the rather notorious practice of trashdumping on an out-of-the-way property. He hadn’t realized it was an actual garbage dump, nor one that provided for a steep dropoff if you were bold enough. The butty van driver got full marks for that.
“Locals reported the smoke,” Green explained. “Had mostly burned out by the time anyone got here.”
They picked their way down to the vehicle itself, awash in the smell of petrol and smoking rubber. The lettering had crisped and peeled, the delivery window smashed in on impact. MacAdams half expected Struthers to climb out of the wreckage, but instead it was a short woman in her late fifties.
“You want the bad news first?” she asked, peeling away a glove. “I’d say they took a blow torch to surfaces evenbeforedousing, lighting and giving the heave-ho. Black as sin in there. I’m Lori Peterson, by the way.”
“James MacAdams,” he said by way of obligatory greeting. “Is there any good news?”
“No bodies,” she said with a shrug. “I did find somethingpotentially interesting. It’s a shoe. I think I found the other, as well, but it’s melted to the frame.” She motioned to a baggie off to one side.
MacAdams knelt beside the evidence wrapped in blue plastic. Not much to look at; possibly canvas—a sort of walking shoe.
“Can you tell what size that is?”
“Wouldn’t fit me,” Peterson said. “Little feet, whoever they were. Why?”
“I need to know if we have a match,” MacAdams said. Because he was thinking of the fancy heels back at the Abington Arms. They had been a 37 Euro size—about a 4 in UK.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Peterson agreed.
Green came abreast of MacAdams. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
MacAdams pursed his lips into a tight line. He wasthinkingabout Jo Jones... or rather, about her way of sensing incongruity. Little details mattered.
“The hiker, the one Jo said vanished. We assumed she was another artifact courier for Foley.”
“You don’t think so?” Green asked.
MacAdams shook his head. Jo told him—he just hadn’t reallyheardher.
“The woman, according to Jo, wasn’t carrying a rucksack the way a hill walker would. Jo sees her walk toward the van; the Geordie claims he hasn’t seen anyone. Now we find lady’s shoes inside? Too much of a coincidence.”
“Shite. We’re talking about Foley’s girlfriend, aren’t we?”
MacAdams started back toward the car, his brain leaping forward onto the new trail.Girlfriendwasn’t quite the word.
“We’re talking about a refugee that Foley managed to shuttle around in a food truck,” he said. One he’d apparently gotten pregnant and made promises to—one he wassupposedto meet in Abington the night he died. “She’s in danger.”
Green’s brows furrowed, a sign of the gears turning within. “Okay, let’s think. She went to the hotel; she could still be in Abington.”
“The van ishere,” MacAdams said, opening the driver’s door and leaning on it. “Which means the Geordie is here, and the girl, too. I suspect we’re looking for a big black SUV now—like the one in York.”
“Right. But without make and model, we can’t even send out a search.” Green climbed into the passenger seat. “What do they want her for? If she witnessed the murder, surely she’d already be dead.”
MacAdams agreed. There was something else afoot. Was she a threat? A bargaining chip? Something else?
“It would help if we knew who she was—even where she was from,” he said.
Green buckled in. “I think I know,” she said. “I at least know who to ask. Ava Burnhope. I’ve been chewing over something she said.”
