Page 12 of The Dead Come to Stay
“In the middle of the night?” Andrews asked. “Surely you would wait for morning.”
“Unless you were lured back out,” MacAdams said. “But it doesn’t make sense. If someone calls him out, or even if he chooses to go back on his own, why wearing your only dry pants? And why take soap and towel?” There were holes a-plenty, but the team wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
“You said he left the cottage keys, right? Maybe he wasn’t going back for the car,” Green suggested. “Maybe he was leaving. Bugging out. You said yourself there wasn’t much in the overnight bag, and most of the essentials he took with him.”
MacAdams frowned. That much about the empty duffel was true, and it bothered him a bit. What had he really been traveling here for?
“We have his wallet, but no phone. We know his work email, but nothing personal about him. He’s a blank. We’ve had the local constabulary search his flat, and nothing of import so far.”
“There’s the earring,” Green said. “Struthers still has it, but maybe that will lead somewhere.”
MacAdams nodded. It was the outlier, and incongruous as the red silk shirt. There would be more, little bits and pieces for a fuller picture.
“We’ll go to his flat ourselves. That’s where we’ll go tomorrow, then.” He thumbed at his jaw. “About the missing car—if ever it was stuck on the lane, it isn’t there now.”
“We could check CCTV, maybe?” Andrews asked.
Gridley was two steps ahead and merely turned her computer screen to face them.
“Once you get past the Mill, there isn’t much going. I have pulled files for a petrol station and the Mill’s security camera. Anyone headed that way late at night in a thunderstorm might be of interest.”
“Give that to Andrews,” MacAdams suggested. Youngest of the team, Tommy had a good eye for details, but wasn’t as experienced on the tech side of things. “Gridley, you chase up Ronan’s details and whatever you can get on his company, Hammersmith. Green, we’ll go hunting up the flat, and let’s look into his boss Burnhope, too.”
“Got it. I take it we don’t have much hope, then, for helpful evidence from the cottage?”
MacAdams felt his earlier annoyance suddenly returning. “No. And yes.Whystay at Jo’s cottage, of all places? Whythere?”
“The Red Lion was booked,” Andrews reminded him.
MacAdams shot him a glance. “There’s a whole hotel on the south side called Abington Arms. Were they booked, too? I know the opening was well attended, but most everyone was still a local.” MacAdams rolled his shirtsleeves up. “Ronan’s movements don’t make sense. Middle-of-the-night business trip is strange enough. But why pick the worst possible place to stay?”
Green had just made a slight noise in the back of her throat. It did not bode well, but it was Gridley who spoke.
“I don’t know, boss. I’ve seen Jo’s cottage. Charming—Teresa wants to host a tea event there. And it’s on the doorstep of the gardens. It’s a nice last-minute option.”
“For day trippers, maybe. Up a muddy lane, well outside of town. Alone.” He checked himself. “It’s out of the way, is my point.”
“You’re reaching,” Green cautioned. Behind her, Andrews put the phone receiver against his chest before speaking.
“The Abington Arms wasn’t booked up,” he said. “Rooms available, and a few low-end ones are cheaper than Jo priced the cottage, according to Airbnb.” MacAdams gave Green a validated look.
“All right,” she agreed. “But it couldstillhave come down to incidentals—like ease and last-minute timing. We know he had a business meeting. We don’t know that it wentwell.”
“As in, he’s been fired or such, and is now in a hurry to... do what?” MacAdams took a breath. His stomach was growling. He found himself looking around half-consciously for stray biscuits, half wishing he’d taken Jo’s leftover Jammie Dodgers. “Something’s been coming, and I think he knew it. Sells a house, lives in a furnished rental, takes flight in a hurry with a badly packed bag—ends up dead.”
He had more to add, but his phone was ringing. A quick look told him all he needed to know. Struthers was ready for them.
Chapter 6
Struthers’s forensic lab occupied space below the Abington clinic, walking distance from the station, technically connected if you took the right hallways. MacAdams thought he could probably navigate by smell: antiseptic and the not-quite-something-else he’d learned to associate with morgues in general.
“Come in, come in—just scrubbing up,” Struthers said. He looked fresher than he had that morning, though his fair hair now stuck up at odd angles.
“Record time, Eric,” MacAdams said.
“Well, it’s just the autopsy so far. I have more work to do on the clothing you sent, but come see our chap up close and personal.”
Struthers led him to the metal slab and a now-nude cadaver, covered to the waist in a blue sheet.
