The early-morning smell of Costa coffee always reminded MacAdams of stakeouts. As a detective constable in service of a DCI fond of (often pointless) surveillance, he’d managed to get through thermoses of the stuff. By four in the morning, it was always cold, and the burned-in flavor stuck to the back of his throat.
“More milk,” he told Green, who was busy selecting two bacon croissants.
“You put three in there already.”
“I did.” MacAdams pulled out a chair. It had taken less than an hour to get to Newcastle, and it was still only ten in the morning. A little early to start knocking on doors, yet. Green joined him and resumed their conversation from the car.
“Olivia and Lotte are skint, right?” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “And Sid is partly to blame. At least in Olivia’s case. I did a bit of looking.”
“True about taking her 10K?” MacAdams asked. Green tipped her head to one shoulder, then the other.
“Depends on what you mean by take. Olivia apparently busted her ass in her twenties, had aspirations of getting to London. Just a high school diploma, but she held two and three jobs at a time, I gather, and was a good saver. Married Sid at thirty and, according to local gossip, went downhill pretty quick after.”
“Still working, now?”
“Yeah. Bartending,” Green said. “Anyhow, whether he took the cash or they blew it together, it’s definitely gone. Ten thousand is a lot of money to most folks, especially if hard-won. It’s a motive.”
“It could be,” MacAdams agreed. The wind was picking up outside, and he watched a plastic bag gallop its way through traffic. “I’m assuming money is the motive where Rupert Selkirk is concerned as well.”
“Right, but the sisters have another beef, too. Sid cheated on them both. With the first wife, Elsie.”
“We don’t know that,” MacAdams cautioned. “We know they think so. But I agree, that could be a motive, too.”
“Two motives. Two sisters. We know they wind each other up.” She pointed to the slightly fuzzy section of braiding and what might be a fingernail scratch or two. “Maybe they convinced each other to do a crime neither would try on their own. Then, they come to Abington and play the grieving widows to deflect suspicion.”
It wasn’t a bad theory. MacAdams had played around with that scenario, himself; could Lotte have been at the cottage? Did she lure him? There was just one problem.
“That doesn’t explain Sid’s mystery income,” he said. “Because Lotte and Olivia aren’t pulling in 5K a month consistently, of that I am reasonably certain. I’m not ruling out the idea, mind. But I have a harder time believing they would shoot him.”
“It’s effective,” Green suggested. MacAdams finally unwrapped his own croissant. It didn’t have the usual appeal; possibly due to the Costa coffee smell that lingered over everything.
“Maybe, but why use a gun at all? And why that gun, an antique? And why shoot him in the cottage where he’s sure to be found?”
“You’re telling me there are easier ways to get rid of your ex.”
MacAdams grimaced slightly. That was basically the truth. Sid had used both women and would probably be induced to try again; they could have lured him almost anywhere with promises of money or sex or both. But even poison would be simpler than a gun. Hell, they could have run him over with a car, for that matter.
“There are really two questions, here,” MacAdams explained. “First is who had the gun. But second—why a gun. What’s it for? What does a gun give you that pills and poison don’t?”
Green appeared to ruminate.
“Power. But I see where you’re going with this. It’s a risk, so why take it?” She crumbled the sandwich wrapper and tossed it between her hands. “Threat level, maybe? Sid might not respect a lot else.”
“Good, yes. So—it’s a negotiating tool?” MacAdams rubbed his chin. “That would suggest not premeditated murder. But then, why make it look like one?”
Green shook her head.
“You lost me,” she said. MacAdams tapped the table.
“If you were going to plan a murder, you’d make it look like an accident,” he said. “Three bullets in Sid’s back in a cottage someone was about to move into, and they didn’t even bother removing the second whisky glass; they only wiped away their prints. That’s about as far from accident as you could get.”
“Hold up,” Green put her hands in the air as if trying to keep a thought from escaping. “Are you saying the murderer made it look more murder-y?”
“In a way, yes. Think about it—no one was likely to be up there—even Sid wasn’t supposed to be. The killer had plenty of time after shooting him to wash and put away the glasses, or even to smash a few things and leave the door open as though it were a break-in. And, since Sid bled internally, they could even have disposed of the body somewhere else with no one being the wiser. There’s a bog just by the road. Hell, he was on a convenient rug for dragging.” MacAdams waited for Green to digest this; she didn’t look wholly convinced.
“All right, but that’s a damn cool head—and dragging Sid off would be a heavy job. Could be this wasn’t planned, and the killer just panicked and left things as-is.”
“And still wiped the fingerprints off the glass and doorknob, while locking the door behind him?” MacAdams asked. Green squinted at him.
“Or her,” she added. “Okay, have it your way. It’s a negotiation gone wrong. But if the killer meant the scene to look like a very intentional murder afterwards, where does that leave us? What would be the point of that?”
MacAdams had been preparing for just this question, and Green would be the first trial of his theory. He sipped milky coffee.
“Maybe the killer was trying to frame someone else.”
“Like Jo Jones? But no one even knew she was coming, you said so yourself.”
“Okay, fair. Then what if it’s a message? I maintain Sid couldn’t have pulled off hiding the funds successfully entirely on his own.”
“Technically, he didn’t hide them successfully, anyway,” Green offered. MacAdams wagged a finger.
“You say that—but remember, the money went in and then out again. It ended up somewhere else, and we haven’t been able to track down the destination yet. There are brains in here somewhere. The killer might have thought so, too.”
“An accomplice to Sid who helps him make 5K a month doing—or selling—something,” Green said. She shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ve got much less complicated motives closer to home. What if the money and the murder aren’t connected at all, and this is just plain revenge?”
She wasn’t going to let the sisters off so easily, it seemed. MacAdams stood up and reached for his coat.
“Well, that would be very inconvenient,” he said. “For now, let’s set about trying to eliminate a few suspects.” It was time to find out about Elsie’s movements.
Newcastle had its share of postindustrial blight. Smokestacks still rose along the river, though few in use. Elizabeth Smythe had a registered address in Elswick that Gridley had found. Green directed him via her smartphone, and they wound their way down a narrow street of squat redbrick buildings. Flats, mostly, from the look of things.
“Smythe is her maiden name,” Green said as they parked. “But guess what? She has a brother, last name of Turner. Jack Turner.”
MacAdams blinked. The name registered—along with a separate murder investigation outside of York—the one tied to the car theft scheme and the arson a few years ago.
“The Jack Turner?”
“Yup. Doing time at HM Prison in Full Sutton. Apparently, they were in foster care and only Elsie got adopted. Jack went in service. Hard to know if they’re still in contact, but Andrews is following up just in case.” Green opened the door and leaned out. “It’s that one, number 27.”
The door paint had peeled, leaving a stain of weather-beaten bare wood. No bell. MacAdams knocked hard on its surface and waited.
“Any other entrance?” he asked when the silence stretched.
“Not that I can see. I can look round the back.” MacAdams nodded and watched Green’s navy windbreaker disappear around the end of row houses. Then he peered into the window, hands clamped tight against the glare. It didn’t look particularly lived-in. He decided to dial the station and got Andrews.
“Tommy, I need you to get the landlord. We’re having no joy here,” MacAdams said, nodding at Green, who’d returned mouthing the words no back door.
“I’ve good news, then,” he said. “Gridley spoke to the owner this morning as a precaution—said she’d be happy to meet you. Want us to ring?”
MacAdams agreed that yes, this would be expedient, and then headed to the next door over.
“Landlord is on her way,” he explained, knocking at the neighbors. Because neighbors tended to know things.
“Aye, what yee want?” came a voice behind the door. A woman, elderly.
“DCI MacAdams and DS Green from Abington CID.”
“Howay. I’ve nowt for ye.” The door stayed closed, but MacAdams hadn’t expected it to be easy.
“You’re not in any trouble, ma’am. We want to ask about your neighbor. Elsie Smythe is her name.”
Much to his surprise, this announcement was followed by a bolt being slid. A few seconds later a woman’s face appeared in the space between door and lock chain.
“A reet workyticket, she wor.”
MacAdams just looked at Green.
“Troublemaker,” she translated. Not a Geordie herself, she was at least well versed from her time as a cadet in town. Through her ministrations, they discovered that Elsie’s kind of trouble wasn’t the specific sort. The neighbor didn’t like her look, even if she were a geet lush (attractive), and Elsie smoked too much and gave herself airs. MacAdams scratched the back of his neck; maybe she and Sid were a perfect wily pair together. It might explain why Sid kept going back to her—if indeed he did. He had finally met his match.
“Did you happen to see a man about with her, ma’am? Ginger, my height.”
She shook her head. And a moment later, the door slammed shut in MacAdams’ face. He took an involuntary step back, almost into Green, who steadied him at the shoulder.
“The landlady is here, boss,” she whispered, pointing to a smartly dressed woman on the sidewalk. “No renter wants to be seen jawing with the cops.”
It was Green’s way of suggesting he avoid reading too much into the woman’s response. But overreading was a relatively useful trait among detectives. Nevertheless, he turned a reasonably friendly expression upon the approaching suited woman. Her hand darted out, perpendicular and ready with a single-pump handshake that a City-boy might be proud of.
“Deidre Sloan. Your constable rang,” she said promptly.
“DCI MacAdams. Could you let us in the flat, here?” The ask was a formality; she already had the keys out.
“I hope there’s no trouble,” she said, turning the key in the lock. “I have two buildings in this estate, and I don’t want bad press.”
MacAdams peered into the snug front room. No mess. But no personal effects, either. Just a careworn sofa, two hard-backed chairs, and the dangling wall wire for a onetime television set. The kitchen told the same story; a few stacked dishes and a coffee maker, but the icebox was empty and the freezer ice half-evaporated.
“Nothing back here, either,” Green said, emerging from a mostly empty bedroom. “No clothes, no shoes.”
MacAdams turned his attention to Deidre, who was clasping and unclasping her hands.
“I thought you said it was still occupied.”
“Yes. But I don’t perform surprise inspections. How was I to know she’d gone?”
“I imagine nonpayment would be a clue,” Green said. Deidre bounced on the balls of her feet.
“No, no, you don’t understand. Ms. Smythe pays for the year. She won’t be overdue till sometime in July.”
MacAdams’ shock must have been showing. Green’s certainly was.
“Is that usual? Having renters who give you the entire year in a check?” MacAdams asked. “How much would that be?”
“I don’t feel I should have to answer that,” Deidre said snappishly. But very quickly thought better of it. “The rent is 700 pounds per month. For Elsie. I—I gave her a break for being so timely and up-front. It’s not a crime.”
Of course it wasn’t. MacAdams inhaled slowly and wished he had a cigarette. Mental calculation put the figure for the year under nine grand. Not an insurmountable sum; not proof she’d come into heavy funds. If anything, it showed a canny grasp on the precarity of her chosen profession (assuming the sister wives were right about that).
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” he asked.
“Months. I’m not even sure.”
“And how long has she been living here?”
“Three years. Four, maybe.”
“We could ask the neighbor,” Green said. “For specifics.”
“Oh Lord. That’s Edith. She isn’t straight in the head, so I wouldn’t put much faith in her.” Deidre was clasping her hands again. “I’m sorry. I really must go see a client. Are we through?”
“We’re through. But I want you to call if you hear from Elsie. Understood?” MacAdams gave her his card and waited until she nodded before adding, “We’ll give one to the neighbor, too. I’m sure she’ll keep sharp eyes out.”
“What was that last little dig for?” Green asked when they made it back to the car. He turned onto the roundabout and back to the highway.
“Paying rent a year in advance is a good way to ensure the landlord stays out of your business,” MacAdams said. “I suspect that Deidre Sloan will say and do nothing to jeopardize a big check every July. So she may as well know that Edith has our number as well.”
Green processed this a moment. Then turned sideways against the seat belt.
“So now Elsie Smythe is a person of interest, too. That’s Selkirk and Associates, the sister-wives, and Elsie Smythe. And Jo Jones, of course.”
“Because?”
“Boss. Come on. She owns the cottage, she argued with him, she found him.”
“By that logic, Tula Byrne is a suspect, too,” MacAdams said, not proud to be advancing one of Fleet’s theories. “She punted him out of her pub, suggested he never be allowed back, and called him a fair few names. And unlike Jo Jones, Tula at least knew Sid. Three bullets in the back says history, to me.” MacAdams downshifted. “It might be a debt gone wrong, revenge, blackmail, or jealous rage. Regardless, they are clearly quick to act on instinct, maybe impulsive, but smart, too.”
MacAdams shut his mouth then, but it was too late. Green didn’t even bother to hide the smug grin.
“A bit like an American who up and moves to an abandoned estate in another country on a whim and knows how to download and use police software?”
The cosmic ironies were against MacAdams, it appeared. He’d only just returned to his desk after their fruitless search for Elsie when the phone rang—and Jo Jones proved his DS very much in the right.
“You’re going where?” he asked of the phone tucked precariously at his ear.
“To Swansea. It’s in Wales.”
“I know where it is.” MacAdams was trying to take his coat off one-armed. They’d only just got back minutes before. “You can’t leave town, there’s a murder investigation on!”
“You’re a little late, I’ve been on the train two hours already.”
MacAdams flattened his palm against his forehead. People did not “up and go to Swansea.” His eyes darted to the wall clock: half past four.
“Why are you going to Wales at all?” MacAdams could hear the scuff of fabric as she switched hands, making herself comfortable.
“I’m on my way to meet the seller of that eBay photograph. He might have more information on the woman in the painting.”
“Might? Have you even spoken with this person?”
There was a slight crackle in the line, followed by a pause in transmission. When Jo came back, she was midsentence.
“—So I thought you could keep an eye on the cottage for me.”
MacAdams had followed all the words, but still not cottoned on to the meaning.
“Are you asking me to house-sit?”
“I’m not asking you to water the plants and feed the cat or anything. I just thought”—more static on the line—“so I left the key in an envelope on your desk.”
MacAdams scanned the desktop, itself covered in crime photos, notes, and points of interest in the case. Jo’s voice piped back in.
“I stuck it between the lamp and your computer. Your desk is a mess, by the way.”
A crisp blue envelope poked to the left of MacAdams’ monitor. He’d also just noticed the notepads had been arranged in a stack; she’d been in his office again. How did that keep happening?
“Jo, I really need you to stay put until the investigation is over.”
“I didn’t catch that? I think there is a tunnel coming up.”
After that, the line went dead. MacAdams ran fingers through his hair.
“You’re bloody welcome,” he groaned to no one. Or rather, to someone he didn’t realize was there.
“I’m sorry?” Jarvis Fleet stood in the door, his coat neatly folded over one arm.
“Ms. Jones,” he explained, “has decided to go to Wales. And yes, before you say anything, I know persons of interest are not supposed to leave during an investigation.”
He expected Fleet to cite some rulebook from memory. Instead, he invited himself in and sat in the chair opposite.
“Please explain,” he said. MacAdams wished he had the slightest idea how. He half thought of hunting for the bottle of Talisker stashed in his desk.
“She’s still on about that bloody painting,” he said. “I spoke to her yesterday. She had been doing an image search, looking for information about the woman in it—a relative, I gather.”
“The painting she claims was stolen?” Something about the way Fleet said it felt oddly accusatory. It put MacAdams off.
“I don’t doubt it’s missing. But she said it had been stolen by Sid, and we can’t prove that. If it even exists at all, Rupert suggested he may have moved it, since the room has a hole in the roof. But we’ve no evidence of it anyplace, and frankly, what would Sid want with an old family portrait? It’s not even worth anything, can’t possibly be relevant.”
Fleet stroked his mustache absently.
“Odd, isn’t it? That she should be in town so briefly, but be the victim of a theft and also a person of interest in a murder.”
Something squirmed on MacAdams’ insides. Gut feeling, maybe.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked. He half expected Fleet to say she’d made up the theft, maybe made up the painting itself, to get sympathy or throw off suspicion. But Fleet had made a few quarter turns somewhere.
“The painting matters to Jo Jones, so much so that she’d violated orders on behalf of it. If she thinks Sid took it from her, that is a motive.”
“Christ, Fleet! You think she killed a man because of a painting?” MacAdams had raised his voice, and now Fleet was looking at him with a kind of measured judgment. It did not bode well at all, so he settled himself back down. “Look, Jarvis. As far as I can tell, Jo isn’t even interested in the painting itself. This thing in Wales has to do with a family member. It’s ancestry hunting, that’s it.”
Fleet’s thin mouth turned up at the corners.
“You like this woman,” he said. And he may as well have added your judgment is compromised. MacAdams had to force the next bit through his teeth.
“You find murderers by discovering motives, Fleet. Blackmail is a motive. Revenge is a motive. It’s just a matter of narrowing the list.”
Fleet nodded faintly and stood up.
“I am in agreement,” he said. “But I still think there may be more to Jo Jones than you suspect. Even as there was more to Sid Randles.”
“Good night, Fleet,” MacAdams said firmly. Fleet waved his hat and disappeared through the door. After a few moments, MacAdams opened the bottom drawer of his desk. The bottle lay neatly against two tumblers. Tempting. More to Sid Randles. Sure there was. A family on hard times, a dad who offed himself, an unstable mum. Things hadn’t been good for the Randles clan for a few generations. Not that this made crime more palatable—just more understandable. MacAdams bid adieu to the whisky and shut the drawer; the moment had passed, and he still needed to eat something—
And go check on Jo’s cottage.
MacAdams pulled into the lane off the main road, very much regretting his conversation with Fleet. He kept the car in the drive and walked along the brick path, revisiting the man’s theories. They still didn’t make sense. Surely not. MacAdams wasn’t playing favorites; he was just following the most salient evidence. Or so he told himself while unlocking the door.
He might almost be standing in a different cottage altogether than the one they hauled Sid’s body out of. A standing lamp gave a warm glow to the sitting room. Gone were the leftover furnishings and all the previous knickknacks. Spotlessly clean, but not so much to make you feel uncomfortable; the mismatch of black-and-white photographs, odd modern art, animal print pillows, and quilted throws invited you to make yourself at home. MacAdams knew it was box-fresh—everything brand-new, and he even knew where from. Like a magazine shoot, almost, less a lived-in space than a movie set for living in. “Put yourself here.” Did people do that?
MacAdams poked his head upstairs, which was largely unfinished, and then down the hall to the bedroom and bath. On the bedside table was a single photograph: an elderly woman who, given the resemblance, must be Jo’s late mother. A few other odds and ends, a book with a cracked spine, a necklace in a clamshell dish. He retraced his steps to the living room and settled into a chair next to the fireplace.
To his practiced eye, what most readily stood out? The books. There were a lot of them, considering she traveled with a small case, and they had been placed everywhere. He might almost call them strewn, where all else was arranged at right angles. To his left, a stack of used mystery novels she may have picked up at Arthur’s Bookshop in town. From where he sat, he could see literary tomes (on closer inspection, Jane Austen and the Brontes, principally). But also Modern Physics, a reference on garden herbs, a Visual Guide to Architecture, four chemistry textbooks and a Compendium of Weird Facts. Cozy, curious, and random met analytical, practical, desperately organized. Jo was an editor, but also apparently an epicure of odds and ends.
Assessment: he’d had it the wrong way round. Far from being impersonal and magazine-like, the retooled cottage spoke Jo into being, even the carved wooden fox that appeared to be laughing at him from the curio table. Without clutter or even many actual past-life items, the cottage felt a bit like Jo in a way that Sid’s flat, mostly empty and much too tidy, did not feel like Sid Randles.
And that, by circuitous reasoning, brought MacAdams back to his interview with Rupert Selkirk. That office had seemed wrong somehow, and now he knew why. Rupert Selkirk had lived in Abington his whole life, and practiced law in the same office almost as long, and there hadn’t been a single personal item anywhere. Despite being a widower with three kids and a grandson, not a single photo graced his office, no memorial to his wife, no kids playing at beaches, no handmade coffee mugs or ashtrays. It made MacAdams wonder just what he was hiding behind the scrubbed and tidy facade.
He permitted himself a sigh. MacAdams hadn’t come to check on the cottage so much as to check on Jo Jones. She was a woman alone in the world, trying to make a new start. He more than understood it; he respected it. Annie had done that after their divorce (even if MacAdams hadn’t). Jo Jones chased new beginnings—but Sid’s murder emerged from his past. One suspect down; he’d crossed Jo firmly off the list. MacAdams put his hands on the chair arms and prepared to be on his way.
Then, he heard a clang. The unmistakable sound of metal on metal.
His response was instinctual—muscle memory, almost. MacAdams ducked low, keeping his profile out of view in case the floor lamp gave him away. More sounds: grating? Rasping? Prying? He waited, scarcely breathing. The noise hadn’t come from the front, but the rear of the house—he would guess the kitchen window casement.
MacAdams crept across the floor in a crouch, using the breakfast bar as a screen. The sink and counters disappeared into shadow, but he could see the window. It was old, the sort that gave just enough room to allow the passage of a metal file, a housebreaker’s favorite.
The clock over the stove ticked loudly. His heart pounded. Then he heard it again, the rasp of steel, the jingle of the window latch. MacAdams’ palms were slick with sweat. Rush him, he thought; catch him halfway through the window. He was forty-five and not exactly in fighting trim but chose to ignore these critical details for the moment. Instead, he bounced on his heels, breathing shallow, and watched as a gloved hand pushed through the open casement—
And then his phone rang.
“Fuck—” MacAdams dug into his coat for it, but too late. The file clattered into the sink, and the perpetrator disappeared through the window frame and into the night.
Dammittohell. MacAdams struggled to his feet and dashed for the front door. It took barely ten steps to get around the side of the cottage, but the housebreaker was long gone. A grove of trees backed the cottage, and beyond it the lane. In the moment it took MacAdams to get his bearings, a grim thought occurred to him.
The housebreaker could be the murderer.
And if it was the murderer, then he was probably carrying a gun. MacAdams took a breath and dug out his phone.
“Green?” he shouted when she picked up, “Someone’s just tried to break into Grove Cottage.”