Page 27 of The Dead Come to Stay
“I’ll bet. Tula—when you have a minute?” MacAdams said as he approached Tula, who had three pints in her hand and was pouring another.
“Next week on Tuesday, love,” she replied and winked.
“We still have a full house,” Ben added. He’d come in through the kitchen with two baskets of fries. “Your usual, Sergeant Green?”
“I wish—my wife can smell curry a mile away.”
“You ate curry chips yesterday, didn’t you?” MacAdams asked.
Green gave him a pointed look. “And Rachel will have a fit if I do again today. Not healthy, and all that—Oh, look who’s here.” She bucked her head toward the door, and MacAdams followed her gaze over a dozen heads.
A flash of red—and a mustache straight out ofThe Three Musketeers. Gwilym. He looked wind-blown and muddy. MacAdams gave him a nod, but Tula had finally returned.
“I know you’re busy,” he started.
“Well spotted,” Tula said, sidling up to the bar where Green and MacAdams waited. “Talk quick.”
“As promised, the photograph of Ronan Foley, to confirm whether you recognize his face from the last couple weeks—or not,” he said, pulling it from his pocket. He’d barely handed it over when the Welshman tucked in at his elbow.
“The garden ladies had alotof questions, you know,” he said. “I feared they might eat me when I didn’t know my Cambridgeshire from Canary Bird.”
MacAdams didn’t have a chance to ask what the hell he wason about; the Man City crowd shouted,“Goal!”Someone in a corner booth nearly overturned their chips—and behind the bar, a glass shattered.
“Shite,”Tula barked. She rushed toward the glass fragments and beer, the remains of a half-filled Imperial pint. “Ben, bring the dustbin, would you? And the mop.”
“You all right?” Green asked.
Tula ducked behind the bar for a moment; when she came up again, she had the photograph. It had been dropped in the momentary chaos. Tula pushed a mop of curls out of her pink and sweat-steamed face.
“Aye, sorry ’bout that,” She handed the photo back to MacAdams.
“You don’t recognize him?” he asked.
Tula shook her head. “Never met your Foley,” she said.
“It was a long shot,” MacAdams agreed.
Chapter 11
Jo walked along the quay along the banks of the River Tyne. The river flowed beneath the Gateshead Monument Bridge; her side of the river boasted restaurants and nightlight hot spots. She’d known that Newcastle had once been an enormous commercial port for shipbuilding, glassmaking and—thanks to Lord Armstrong—munitions. She didn’t know it boasted an art scene. A center for the arts massed along one side of the quay, and despite MacAdams designating Newcastle as the “cheap” city by comparison to York, the lofts rising over the Tyne suggested ready money. Hadrian Hall looked positively luxurious.
The main entry resembled a hotel lobby, so much so that Jo almost went out again to check the address. She wished she was wearing something a bit more flashy; her classic Doc Martens, black jeans and a scoop-neck tee felt a bit like inappropriate in the present environment.Fargesia, ficus, freesia,she thought to herself—the recent dive into botany having provided a good supply of new words to chew on.Artemesia, asphodel—
“Can I help?” the clerk asked. Jo made her best attempt at a breezy, carefree smile and made her approach.
“I’m Jo Jones. I’m here to see Arthur Alston in Loft 8? He’s expecting me.”
“One moment.” She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed in a code. “Mr. Alston? A Ms. Jones to see you.”
Jo’s palms had begun to sweat. She felt like she was being buzzed in for an interview. Did everyone here get the same treatment? Or was Mr. Alston special?Breathe, she told herself. Which was terrible advice, as she promptly forgot how to do it properly.
The woman hung up the phone and pointed. “Choose the fourth floor. Loft eight will be to your right.”
Jo repositioned her backpack and hurried past the porter. There were six floors total; she made a reasonable guess that meant two lofts per level. If so, the apartments inside were utterly huge. In New York calculation, a place like this—on the water, no less—would be well into the millions. It did nothing to assuage her galloping heart.
The elevator dinged whimsically and opened into a long hall with windows at either end. She approached the right door, but it opened before she could ring the bell, accompanied by a lot of excited barking.
The man in the doorway looked to be in his fifties, dark hair streaked with iron gray and swept back from the temples like a silver screen icon. Lean, graceful limbs draped in a silk kimono dressing gown over slacks, dress shirt, neck scarf. If he wasn’t an avant-garde painter, he was missing his calling. In a moment, he swooped down to capture a Pomeranian attempting escape, then made a gesture of welcome.
