Page 21 of The Dead Come to Stay
Gwilym took a quick look around. “Maybe she already ordered?”
“But she’s nothere,” Jo insisted. She stood on her tiptoes to better see the proprietor. “Excuse me, did you see a woman in a yellow rain slicker?”
“Nar.”
“Did you seeanyone?” Gwilym asked.
“Nar, I seed. Ye gan order something or nowt?”
“Oh! Yes, um. Bacon butty, please,” Gwilym said, hunting his clothes for cash.
“Aye. In a min’t.”
Gwilym dutifully awaited his sandwich. It seemed to be taking a very long time, so Jo climbed a little rise next the road and peered out over the moors. No one. Not anywhere. It shouldn’t bother her. But like other unexplained errors in the general skein of things... it did. A lot.
***
An hour and four minutes on the 694—surprisingly breezy driving for a Sunday. MacAdams stopped first in Whickham to put eyes on Foley’sformeraddress, a brick terraced house with sizable garage and impressive garden.
“Nice village. Good parks,” Green said. “Geet place, as the Geordies say.”
“Means big, yes?”
“You could keep a lot of kit in there, is what I mean. Leaves all this behind for a by-month rental?”
“Afurnishedone, at that,” MacAdams added, pulling away from the curb again.
“Right. So, where’s his stuff?”
It was an excellent question. Newcastle Uniform did a preliminary sweep the day before; everything, right down to the ice trays, came with the flat.
“We’ve probably looking for storage, a unit. Something,” he said. An officer met them at the door, and proffered paper booties for their shoes. It wasn’t a crime scene. At least, MacAdams didn’t think so. But then again... He tugged them over his oxfords.
The inside had the appeal of a cheap chain hotel. Furnishings were perfectly serviceable—everything a shade of familiar beige.
“Where do you want to start?” Green asked.
“Divide and conquer,” MacAdams said, pointing her to thekitchen and heading down the short, narrow hall to the only bedroom. Here, at least, the linens were personalized: pale green sateen and a comforter with blue stripes. It had clearly been slept in recently; they waited on forensics, but chances were good it had been Foley. MacAdams peered into the closet. Button-downs, pressed trousers, all reasonable quality. Jo had described him as disheveled on the night of, but his sartorial choices were smart business casual. Only one suit. It might have been a good match for his silk shirt, but hadn’t been worn. The tags were still on it.
“Kitchen’s barely worth notice. Not much a cook, apparently.” She paused, looking down at him from the doorway. “Why are you on the floor?”
“Shoes,” MacAdams explained, his head partway into closet corner. “What did Struthers say? The shirt needed a different ensemble. Found a suit. And—” He backed out of the closet, pulling a pair of white-and-buff brogues. “Hello there.Veryexpensive shoes.”
“These are fancy?”
“Oh yes. Foster & Son. Bespoke.” He ran a thumb down the hand detailing. “That’s a two-thousand-pound shoe. Starting.”
“No shit.” She pushed aside a few hangers. “The other clothes are all off-the-rack, though. I mean, nice brands. But not tailored.”
MacAdams put the shoes on the bureau to get a better look.
“Basic apartment. But one very top-shelf pair of shoes—an unworn suit and a flashy red silk shirt to be murdered in.”
“I’ll bite. What’s that tell us?”
“I don’t know,” MacAdams admitted. “Except something doesn’t fit.”
“What’s this?” Green reached into the left shoe and tugged out the purple silk fabric with a gloved hand. It was a woman’s scarf.
