Page 20 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Or any mention of a baby mysteriously turning up in Abington,” Gwilym agreed. “I mean, assuming the baby lived, you would think an orphan would getsomekind of attention around here.”
He kicked a dirt clod from the path. That had been his hobbyhorse: orphan hunting. Jo had focused on William and Gwen, but no child of any sort ever darkened their door—there weren’t even nieces or nephews to hand. And not a mention of Evelyn herself, either, alive or dead.
“Maybe Aiden meant Evelyn’s home here in Abington, you know? Ardemore House? Assuming you gained home status by being buried somewhere.”
“Ugh. That is not a nice thought.” Jo frowned. “Maybe Aiden meant his own home. Either York or... somewhere else. I’m not giving up.”
“Of course you aren’t!Wearen’t. But you have to admit, murders in ditches during town celebrations are very distracting.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
“There it is, I think,” she said. Just beyond them was a rise in the landscape; the North Pennines surrounded Abington on three sides, and the Pennine Way could be picked up from Upper Lane. She’d learned all that from Tula and Ben, and been forced to walk it more than once with Roberta. Up ahead, police tape flapped in the wind, and Gwilym gave his hoodie strings an enthusiastic tug.
“Oh gosh. That’s banging! C’mon!” He skipped down the trail till he reached its nadir. Jo leaned over with care.Ditchwasn’t quite the right word—culvert? Steep sides and a mucky middle that police boot prints had turned into a slovenly pond.
“That can’t have been easy,” Jo said, trying to imagine getting a body out of it. Gwilym was imagining it, too, but with greater appreciation.
“Like excavating a bog body or something. On the other hand, plenty easy to put himin.There’s a good incline—you’d just have to roll him out and let gravity do the work.”
Unpleasant. But he had a point.
“Why here, though? Just the solitude?”
“Sure! No one would find him right away. Oh. Well. I mean, in theory.” Gwilym turned in place. “It beats odds, doesn’t it? Roberta walking right up on him.”
Jo scanned the horizon. Maybe—or maybe not. It was close to a pull-off; people parked there sometimes. In fact, someone appeared to be parked there now. Up ahead on the road, something stood out against the brown and green. Two somethings, as it happened. A hiker, maybe, and something bigger...
“Look up there. Is that a car?” Gwilym squinted but couldn’t differentiate at a distance.
“I see a yellow blur and a white blur?”
“Windbreaker and the backside of something—an SUV maybe.” It was a lonely place, but not deserted after all. Of course, if you weren’t familiar with the area, you might notknowthat.
“I see her now.” Gwilym raised his arms and cheerfully hallooed.
“Please don’t do that.” Jo grimaced. She was not in new-people mode. This did not stop Gwilym, who was always in new-people mode.
He started jogging to catch up. Now Jo had to scamper after him. When they had covered about twenty yards, he gave another shouted greeting, and this time the hiker turned around. Jo caught a distant glimpse of her face, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down.
“Headed for the van, I guess?” Gwilym asked, slowing to awalk. “Thatisa van, isn’t it?” Jo’s vision was better, but they were still half a football pitch away.
“Seems to be,” she said. “It has letters on one side:B-U-T-T-Y.” The word lived nowhere in Jo’s extensive mental catalog, however. “Butt-tee? Boot-ee?”
Gwilym erupted in laughter.
“Laird, have you never eaten a bacon butty?” he asked. “I love a bacon butty, me—and a chip butty. Gorgeous. Like acwtchfor your insides.”
“Is this a Welsh thing?” Jo asked.
“It is asandwich, Jo. A right guilty one. Butter and back bacon on thick white bread—didn’t expect a butty van out here, but I’ll take it! Let’s get one, shall we? You’ll love it.”
Jo had experienced the British equivalent of bacon and wasn’t surelovewas the right word. Maybe they also did chips. Essentially a food truck, a window opened to one side, and a tiny counter jutted out with condiments of various kinds. Gwilym tapped on the window and the thick jowls of a mostly bald man appeared.
“What can I do for ye?” he asked.
The accent was thick; Jo tried to place it—glottal stops, she thought. The audible release of air after complete closure of the glottis. Cockney? No. Something else. Gwilym asked about her order, but her brain couldn’t get past theotherblur they had just seen.
“Where’s the hiker?” she asked.
