Page 85 of The Dead Come to Stay
“I’m sorry, what was the name?”
“I don’t know how to pronounce it; the texts sayD-m-y-t-r-o.”
“Thank you for your time,” MacAdams said, the phone sliding down the stubble of his chin. Dmytro and Artem, those were the names of the other refugee employees he had met on their last visit.
And at the moment, they were both standing right in front of him. He locked eyes upon Dmytro; blond hair, blue eyes, the handsome adolescent most likely to be attractive to young people of either sex.
“Hello there; you’re one of Sophie’s recent hires—from Ukraine, am I right?” he asked.
Dmytro nodded.
“I’d like to ask you a question about your girlfriend, Rose,” MacAdams said.
Dmytro nodded again—he seemed willing to cooperate, to his surprise.Maybe this won’t be so hard after all, MacAdams thought. And then, before any of them could react, hebolted.
***
There wasn’t time to explain the phone call to Green; there wasn’t time for much of anything. MacAdams shed his jacket in a single swift motion and dashed after Dmytro in full pursuit.He didn’t know the grounds, and he wasn’t at all dressed for a hotfooted chase, but a year off cigarettes made a hell of a difference. MacAdams had height to beat him stride for stride; what he didn’t have was Dmytro’s youth and stamina. He needed to catch himnow, or at least hope Green could intercept before his knees gave out.
Dmytro headed for the golf course greens. MacAdams watched him leap a drystone wall and dash eastward. In a moment, he’d lose him to the topography.Dammit; he wasn’t hurdling a three-foot wall without breaking something. He slowed on the penultimate and used both hands to vault over, ignoring the grating of palms against stone. Below, he just glimpsed a flash of white disappear among two outbuildings near the water hazard. Did he think to hide there? MacAdams slid down the decline toward the pond and banked right, breathing hard.Good. Stay there, he thought. They could flush him out later. Then he heard the interrupted rumble of a motorcycle kick start.
It came from the largest of the buildings; metal sides, a small garage for equipment. The attempted kick start sounded again; the engine hadn’t yet turned over. MacAdams held his breath and hoped itwouldn’t—then he shoved open the unlocked door.
“Dmytro, stop!” he shouted, holding up his badge. “Get off the motorbike!”
Dmytro gave him a wild, panicked stare and gave a heavy kick. The engine sprang to life and a 74 R90/6 BMW lurched forward—directly at MacAdams. There wasn’t much time to dodge aside; he spun left and Dmytro stuttered past, almost losing balance but ultimately skidding across the concrete floor and out the door. Right into a broom handle.
MacAdams blinked dust. Dmytro had just been clotheslined off the motorbike, which sputtered forward, died and fell onto its side for lack of momentum.
“Don’t even think about it!”Green shouted, getting a knee onto a coughing and nose-bloodied Dmytro.
“Is he all right?” MacAdams asked, getting up from where he’d fallen against old tarpaulins.
“Areyou?” Green asked, getting the handcuffs out. “Am I, for that matter? Wrenched my shoulder clean out.”
It was a blessing he wasn’t going any faster. Dmytro didn’t struggle; he seemed suddenly spent—though being hit in the chest with a broom handle may have had something to do with it. Green got him to his feet and read him the rights, and MacAdams called for backup. They were going to need an interview room at Newcastle station.
Chapter 25
Thursday, 11:45
The Velmont Hotel stood like a palace over the Tyne, great yellow blocks of stone stacked in a rising pyramid of arched windows. Jo felt a wave of nausea as they walked through the opulent lobby; the environment wasperfect, but she had never been less correctly dressed for a venue in her life. Thank God for Chen, who sashayed in all silver and cinnabar—a lure for those who would otherwise be staring at the neurodivergent misfit in jeans and T-shirt. At least Gwilym had a waistcoat on.
“The restaurant occupies the top floor,” Chen explained, still leading the charge. “You can see the whole city.”
“Part of it is open—part under a solarium,” Arthur said as they climbed into the lift. “We watched the rain fall from a table there. Number 24. We requested it whenever we came back.”
Jo pursed her lips. Memory was a curious puzzle box; whole years might be shoved together under a generic cover. Just a four-cornered brick of a thing, uninteresting until the trigger was located, the mechanism sprung. Arthur had been pulling out little treasures, surprising himself that he remembered, shockedthat he had ever forgotten. Jo understood. Everything in her own head worked that way; the difference, she supposed, was that she knew it—and could find her way back to almost anything. People laughed about Sherlock’s mind-palace, but it was a real strategy, first described in a case about Russian reporter Solomon Shereshevsky in 1968. Events, memories, words had color and taste and form; he built those into structures inside his own head. Jo’s memory worked that way, too; for years she thought everyone else’s did. She was right, and wrong. The capability was there, but so was interference, the constant turbulent tide of emotion, and something Jo never counted on: thedesiretounknow. Her mother forgot so much. She’d forgotten the times she hurt Jo, forgotten things that were unpleasant to remember. Jo kept them all, but she wondered now if that were a blessing... or not.
“Here we are, my lovelies,” Chen said as the doors opened to a rich purple interior. As promised, great colorful squares graced the walls—Chen’s modernist work.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gwilym said, still escorting Chen, “how did you come to choose Augustus John for study when your styles are so different?”
“Are they different?” Chen asked. “Brush stroke and subject, yes. But I like to think mine are as psychological as his own.”
“John grew more expressionist as he ages, too,” Jo added.
Chen released herself from Gwilym with a laugh. “Artists change! A concept more than one admirer confuses.
