Page 109 of The Dead Come to Stay
Next came the trousers. The muddy ones were a size too small... becausetheybelonged to Burnhope and not Foley. A side-by-side comparison on film proved it: he returned to the stage in trousers that bagged off his more slender frame. Not counting on the mud, he’d ruined his and needed to take from the dead man. Then there was the raincoat. They hadn’t found “Foley’s” because it wasn’t Foley’s at all. It was Burnhope’s, because Stanley, not Ronan, “rented” a room in Jo’s cottage. Once that domino was set to fall, the others followed:
Why had Burnhope called the Abington Arms? To see if Foley was expected.
Why had he wanted to know if the hotel was busy? A busy hotel might not notice an impersonator, especially if he laid on the Irish accent a bit thick. He was in for a surprise, however; staff had never heard of Ronan Foley; he’d been there under an alias. Then Arianna, mistaking his question as a need for peace and quiet, suggested a cottage rental.
Why the ice? Because Foley died at four thirty in the afternoon and had to keep it from smelling for the rest of the night—which also kept him fresh enough to have died much later. He packed him into his car, then used Foley’s phone and credit card to book Netherleigh Cottage. He might have stopped there, but he didn’t—not Stanley Burnhope. Too clever for his own good, he determined to collect a duffel of Foley’s clothes. Arandom assortment, a hand-grab of toiletries. First stop: dump the body where Foley’s connection in the butty van was sure to find him. Then he drove to Jo’s cottage, intent on leaving the duffel as further proof that he was still alive while Stanley was at the charity ball. He’d planned to be back well before the closing remarks—and if things had gone to plan, they’d never be the wiser. But Burnhope hadn’t counted on torrential rains and muddy ditches—and he hadn’t counted on Jo Jones.
“Warrant granted!” Green shouted from across the room. “Uniform are ready to back us up.”
“Good.” MacAdams threw on his jacket and checked his watch. “Burnhope should be home by now; we’ll approach from the side street.” The Burnhope residence was twelve minutes away—and they had a search warrant, too. All the soap and towels in the world wouldn’t stand up to a forensic investigation.
“You realize this means he kept a dead body in his car forhours,” Green said as they sped down the A167. “Damn cool headed.”
“That’s why he needed to scrub it out,” MacAdams said, thinking of Jo’s comment days earlier. “He’s married. He might even share the car with Ava.”
MacAdams had to admit, Burnhope made one hell of a villain. Yet he’d lost his composure when they told him about the York building. Why? Because he thought he didn’t know about it. MacAdams didn’t have all the pieces yet: he was sure now that Burnhope and Foley were in the trafficking. But Foley must have been double-crossing, doing a side business. It made sense of the two types of operation: professional and international, sloppy and local. No doubt Burnhope thought ending Foley fixed everything—but the York business? One more of Foley’s messes he’d have to clean up, and it threatened everything else, too. Burnhope was a man unused to paying for mistakes. How far would he go to cover his tracks?
The radio brayed to life: “We’re getting close—do you want to make first approach?”
MacAdams very much did. He switched to fog lights and coasted to a halt on the corner. They would walk up.
Once again, they found themselves on the well-trimmed drive. The lights were on downstairs. MacAdams rang the bell and waited. No answer.
“Think he has the wind up?” Green asked as he rang again—but this time, they heard the slide of a lock. It was Ava.
“Oh. It’s you.” Her whalebone cheeks had color for the first time; they had been pinked with wine. She waved a half-empty glass at them. “He’s not here. Not even a phone call.”
She took in the intensity of MacAdams’s and Green’s expressions, and fear flickered across her features. She could see something was wrong, even through the cloud of Pinot Grigio, and backed away from the door. MacAdams walked right inside behind her.
“Could you give us your husband’s license plate number, please,” he asked.
“No need. Car’s in the garage.”
“Both vehicles are here?” Green asked.
Ava’s hair had been hastily pulled up, but a strand kept falling against sharp cheekbones. She tucked it clumsily behind her ear before going on.
“We just have the one. His solicitor—or barrister, whatever you call the criminal defense—took him to the station and never brought him back. And—” she took a long drink “—andhe hasn’t called. I think I said.”
MacAdams exchanged a glance with Green. Ava was more than a little tipsy, and if they didn’t get her to a sofa soon she might well be on the floor.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
She laughed. “How kind. You’d think you lived here. You’veprobably been here enough.” She made a gesture toward the adjacent sitting room, then a reasonable attempt at leading him there. Green provided a little support, and at last she was resituated on the white leather camelback. A laptop was open on the coffee table. She’d been looking up “family law”—divorce lawyers.
“Ms. Burnhope—” he began.
“No.”
“Ava,” MacAdams corrected. “We have a warrant to search the house and vehicle for evidence. We also have a warrant for Stanley’s arrest. If you have any idea—”
“I’ve lots of ideas. But I already tried the club. And his mother. And my father. And all of our friends.”
“His solicitor?”
“Oh, Idefinitelycalled her.”
“What about a confidant—someone from work?” Green asked.
