Page 64 of The Dead Come to Stay
“The kind of people who stay at Abington Arms, I would guess,” he said.
“Or the kind who join gold clubs in Newcastle?” Green offered. She had as much respect for Burnhope ashedid for old Clapham. Rich men whose money made bad things go away. Burnhope seemed to be using those riches in the right way, but neither of them were quite ready to let him off. Did that make them biased against the fantastically wealthy? Or just wise flatfoots who’d seen a lot of crooked morals among the great and good?Wisdom, he decided, knocking back the rest of his pint.
“Time to rattle Burnhope again, then, too,” he said,And Ava,he added silently. He waved at Tula for the bill, but she didn’t bring it. Instead, she slapped the day’s edition of Newcastle news on the counter.
“You just saved me a trip,” she said, pointing to the front page. Stanley Burnhope peered up front and center, shaking hands with the mayor: “Local business targeted by black market dealers: Stanley Burnhope seeks counsel of mayor after discovery of building break-in.”
“Wow,” Green said. “That’s a hell of an interpretation.”
MacAdams had predicted it, but even he was impressed with how Burnhope spun the story to appear as the victim. Tula, however, wasn’t concerned with this particular bit of news. She’d underlined a name farther down the article lead: Ronan Foley.
“That’s your dead guy,” she said.
“It is,” MacAdams agreed. “We placed that ad ourselves.”
Tula nodded, sending waves of curls bouncing. Then, she shuffled the pile to bring forward news from the day before, folded to the obituaries.
“Aye, o’ course you did. Looking for next of kin, ain’t you?”
“That was the plan,” Green said.
“Right. Well. Here I am.” She pulled up a spare bar stool and sat upon it, hands leaning on the flat front edge of her seat. MacAdams felt suddenly like a trap was being set.
“You. You’re Ronan Foley’s next of kin?”
“O, aye.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “See, I’m hiswife.”
Chapter 20
Jo watched the water run in swirling eddies around the retired Mill wheel. It had been a weird two days. Even for Jo, whose days never seemed to be normal. But reflecting on the last eleven hours was an exercise in mild embarrassment. You weren’t supposed to sleep too soundly after a head injury, and someone needed to make sure. MacAdams argued about this and lost, then proposed sitting in the lobby. Its horrible foam sofas would keep anyone awake. Which wasn’t true; Jo could sleep anyplace, so she ensured wakefulness by making free with the EZ pod coffee maker in the corner... and then eating all the peanut M&Ms from the vending machine. That’s when she launched into the history of automats. Did MacAdams know that by the 1920s, some three hundred thousand people had office jobs in Manhattan? (He didn’t.) They needed cheap places to eat in a hurry and fast-food chains had yet to really catch on. Germany had the answer: they developed coin-operated diners to dispense with waiters and menus. You could see the offerings behind glass, pay your dime and pull out the food. There were hundreds of them in Manhattan, but the last one closed in 1991, so Jo never had the pleasure. (She had, of course, edited a history about them.)
“Vending machines were invented in Germany?” Macadams had asked.
No, they weren’t, Jo explained. Vending machines were designed by Percival Everitt in 1883 for London train stations. Vending machines weren’t even related to the German automats—they just associated together in Jo’s head. And that’s pretty much how things went until MacAdams was permitted a lie-down. She still had to wake him again every hour to ask his name and address, that sort of thing. But she herself had been too full of coffee and chocolate for slumber.
She would have liked to doze on the way back to Abington, but of course, MacAdams wasn’t yet permitted to drive. Some sort of sting operation had happened that morning regarding the butty van—or so she gathered from the one-sided conversations he’d had with Green. She was concentrating on the driving part, especially as this wasnother car. “What’s happening?” had been met with “I’ll let you know when it’s over.”
So she’d dropped him off, eaten a cold cheese sandwich from Teresa’s coffee cart and spent the rest of her time sitting cross-legged in front of the Mill stream. Waiting. But he hadn’t contacted her yet, and it was well after lunch. MacAdams was fine, she figured, or someone would have told her.
Jo rolled over on her stomach, leaning on her arms against bent grass. Was she worried? Technically, he’d worried about herfirst. He’d sat on the floor with her and talked about carpet stripes.She couldn’t even be sorry he’d seen her like that, because his kindness was a gift and that would be refusing it. Then, two hours later, he’d been attacked. Seeing MacAdams covered in blood had jolted her clean out of herself. (Noted: adrenaline made a better emotion-hangover cure than pizza.)
MacAdams was fine. A&E confirmed he was fine. Again. Obviously, everything wasfine.But would it kill him to send a text?
She was being irrational. Jo hated being irrational.Go home, shetold herself.Get some sleep, which also helpfully killed time. She was meeting Gwilym at the Indian restaurant for dinner, and he promised to have all sorts of news about Augustus John. Jo stood, stretched and suppressed a yawn. It was a two-mile trek back to her cottage, but at least the walk was a pleasant one.
Jo followed the river until she passed the cemetery, then began the slow climb up the double lane that led to Jekyll Gardens and the estate. The wind had shifted and the air turned warm and close—and promised rain again. It also brought a sudden crushing exhaustion, as if crossing into home territory kicked away whatever support had kept her upright for the last twenty-four hours. Her overnight bag felt heavy. Her Doc Martens, too. She could hear her heart rushing in her ears and a dull headache promising.
Just close your eyes a minute, she told herself.
It was a mistake. The world did a flat spin, as if she’d been drinking. When had she last eaten? Jo touched grass, literally, and blinked away the cloudiness. From her crouched position, she could just look up over the knoll—the tall grasses that bordered the field and fens. And she saw a yellow raincoat.
Jo bolted to standing, which caused a secondary blood rush, followed by red-green splotches in her vision. When her world came to rights again, she dropped her pack in the lane and ran toward the knoll. Up through scratchy furze she went, waist deep in herbaceous borders. But the field waved beyond, empty.
Dammit.No one on the path above, no one below and no one had passed her by. Jo felt the trickle of adrenaline wick away. A trick of the light, maybe. The brain filling in gaps with what itwantedto see rather than strict reality.
That, or the mysterious vanishing hiker had been hill-walking their way into town not far from the trail she’d seen her on before.
Sleep. Jo needed sleep. That was all.
