Page 22 of The Dead Come to Stay
“That’s surely not Foley’s,” MacAdams said.
“No judgment if it is, but there’s perfume on it.” Green held it under his nose: sweet, vanilla, floral.
MacAdams headed for the apartment’s shower room and opened the medicine cabinet. A pair of nail clippers fell out, and can of shaving cream nearly did; he caught it with one hand. He didn’t find perfume. But that didn’t make it uninteresting.
“Green, have a look at this,” he said, holding the cabinet door open.
“Messy,” she said. Then she sniffed at the whipped white goop smearing the internal shelf. “Shaving cream?”
“Yes. I suspect it fell over in there.” MacAdams showed her the canister, where additional foam had crusted from the dispensing head. “Tell me what’s missing.”
“Razor and toothbrush, which we found in the bag.” Green frowned. “But—then why leave the toothpaste and cream?”
“And cologne,” MacAdams added, picking up the bottle with gloved fingers. It had fallen on its side.
“Packed in a hurry?” Green tapped her chin with an index finger. “Or maybe in a panic? Starts tossing things into a bag?”
MacAdams nodded,tossingbeing the operative word. Almost as if he’d swept a hand along the shelf and kept whatever fell out.
“He packs one nice shirt but not the suit, brings less than half of his toiletries.” He replaced the shaving cream. “This isn’t just hurry. These are the actions of someone on therun. Bag this up along with the shoes, and let’s see if we can get DNA from the scarf.”
“Right. Together with the earring, I’m guessing a lady friend.” Green collected evidence bags from the Newcastle officer and wrapped the Foster & Sons in plastic. She handed them to MacAdams with a smirk.
“You know, I didn’t have you down as a shoe man,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said. But Annie was. She bought him a pair for their first anniversary. He’d still never worn them. “We’re here, let’s look up Burnhope.”
In truth, MacAdams still planned—even preferred—to meet Burnhope at his offices for Hammersmith. Everything suggestedthe meeting there had galvanized Foley’s runner to Abington (even if it didn’t explain the gap between a five-forty booking and turning up at 10:00 p.m. for a commute that should’ve been under two hours). All the same, he wanted to get eyes on Burnhope’s housing situation. Had he, like Foley, recently sold up? It was easy enough to find out with a drive across town.
***
Twenty minutes later, MacAdams determined the answer, apparently, wasno.
They pulled up to a four-story detached manor-style house awash in gardens and situated on almost an acre in Jesmond. The last alone would have fetched over a million before a brick had been laid.
“My God, there’s a pool,” Green said, noting the enclosed solarium to the southwest. “Who the fuck has a pool in Newcastle?”
“In all of Northumberland,” MacAdams agreed as he rang the bell.
A moment later, a young woman answered the door. She had deep olive skin, black hair parted in the center and an accent MacAdams couldn’t place. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector MacAdams, and I’m looking for Stanley Burnhope,” MacAdams said.
“Not here,” she said abruptly—but a velvety voice rang from somewhere farther inside.
“Mary, who is that?” The words were followed by a willowy woman dressed in white from head to house-slipper, coupled with platinum hair and near-translucent skin. It didn’t seem possible that she owned the heady voice which now greeted them.
“Mary, who have we here?”
“It’s police, ma’am,” the woman said unsteadily. Mrs. Burnhope, or so MacAdams presumed, put a hand upon her shoulder.
“That’s all right Maryam; please look to the children,” she said, then turned her gaze upon them. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“It would be better if we could come in, Mrs. Burnhope,” MacAdams said, but she was already fading backward to allow it.
“Of course.”
The entryway glistened in polished marble, but despite the manorly look from outside, the inner sanctum had been re-created in sleek modern elegance. Deep mahogany wood offset by a grand white marble fireplace that somehow spoke of old money without any semblance of old style. And there was alotof glass, some of it architectural, some of it clearly artwork... and some which might be both of either. But they hadn’t seen anything yet. Mrs. Burnhope led them through to a bright room with a grand piano and stands of music, overseen by what appeared to be a trio of molten-glass figures, at least four feet tall. Their sweeping arms caught the light, translucent, pearlescent.
