Despite coming down early for breakfast, Jo had lost dibs on her corner booth: it was now occupied by a newspaper and the top of a grizzled crew cut. Occasionally, a long-fingered hand would reach out for the teacup and disappear once more behind the print.
“You can breakfast in the kitchen, if you want to,” Ben suggested. Jo plunked herself down on a barstool.
“Thanks, but here is fine.” She planned to live in this town; she couldn’t keep hiding from the locals. Even if she found herself measuring every patron against her memory of Sid’s little audience the night of—
Well. The night he was murdered. This was the second time she had discovered a body; first it was her mother’s. That hadn’t been a surprise. But expecting it hadn’t made it less surreal. She sat there, waiting for EMS, fighting the association of texture and color that kept threatening. Dead flesh looks like old plastic, she’d thought, the pebbled yellowing of ancient word processors in high school labs. And the reverse meant old plastic now made her think, horribly, of dead flesh. And with that, came breakfast.
“You said no beans, I remembered,” Ben said, setting down the hot plate. Jo attacked the eggs with gusto, eating one-handed and scrolling her phone with the other.
“What do you know about the Ardemores?” she asked Ben. “I can only find stuff about Richard Ardemore up here, mostly about his botanicals. Not much about his son William. Except that he married into industry.” She’d had no trouble finding results for the name Gwen Davies; more the reverse. There were tons of them. She wondered if she’d stumbled on the most common name in all of Wales.
“Don’t really know much. Just that no one was ever around, so it made for a good place to sneak off as teenagers. A fair few parties we had up there,” he said with a blush. “Music and drinking, you know.”
Jo did not know. She wasn’t the sort to be invited to parties—or to go, if she had been. But she smiled to show there were no hard feelings. Uncle Aiden and her mother certainly didn’t seem to have cared what happened at the place.
“So no local color?” she asked. “No gossip? They left in 1908 and no one’s lived there since.”
“A bit of a row when they left, sure,” Ben said. “People felt hard done by, the ones who worked there.”
“Why?” Jo asked. Ben scratched at his chin.
“Hard to explain, I guess. See, around here, there’s an expectation: you own the land, you take care of it and the people who work it. Responsibility, like. But that’s two generations back, now.”
“Ah, but that’s the living! Maybe she’s asking if there’s a disturbed ghost!” Tula said. She’d come round the corner with her apron on, joined Jo at the bar, and troubled Ben for coffee.
“Honestly? I’m just wondering who’s in the painting.” Jo sighed. (Though having a ghost would have its literary charms.) “I only had one look at it, but I’m 90 percent certain she must be related to Gwen’s side.”
“Oh, you and your mystery woman, eh?” Tula laughed. “Going to tell us about her?”
Jo squirmed slightly with anticipation. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t been hoping for this sort of opening.
“Well, I have been trying a name search without much luck. So I started looking up portrait painters instead—you know, who might be hiring out in the Pennines circa 1908.” She pointed to her phone. “Turns out there were all sorts of artists up here in the early twentieth century. I mean, there’s Peter Brook, he’s famous but too late—wrong style. Then you have the Barbizon school of landscape painters and John Constable, he’s the one who said painting is a feeling. But in terms of color and composition, I think it looks like an Augustus John. It probably isn’t. But it has those brushstrokes, sort of daubs, plus his paintings were so psychological and—”
“Slow down, there, love!” Tula said with a laugh. “I thought you were an editor, not an art historian?”
Jo felt the blush starting and pursed her lips. You’re oversharing again, said the internal Tony. Fuck off, Jo managed to reply.
“I’ve just been researching,” she said shyly. Tula peeked over her shoulder.
“You learned all that from a smartphone?”
“My laptop is upstairs,” she said. She’d read close to 40,000 words on art, the Pennines, Richard Ardemore and the many, many Davies since four that morning. “If I’m ever allowed back up to the property, I’ll see if the paintings downstairs have the same sort of style. I mean, I’m still looking for connections between the women in the picture and Gwen Davies’ family in Wales, too. But this is sort of reverse engineering.”
Tula drank her coffee, then leaned her broad chin on one hand.
“You’re a wee stuck on this painting, aren’t you?” she asked.
That was one way of categorizing the fiery creep of obsession, Jo supposed. There had been so many. Four years chasing every word written by or about Ngaio Marsh, a sixteen-month gestation of Jeremy Brett’s portrayal of Sherlock Holmes, her lingering love affair with literary novels, and an embarrassing secret passion for Voltron.
“Maybe. A bit,” she said. “Come on, though! It’s a mystery, right? A woman with strange eyes. Who is she? And why wasn’t she hanging up downstairs with the other two when there’s space? And why was she stolen? It—it doesn’t make sense. And that bothers me to death.”
“Well, the who can’t be all that hard,” Ben said, getting up to collect dishes. “You just need to find someone whose family’s been around forever.”
“Oh, aye. Roberta Wilkinson is who you want, though that takes doing.” Tula gave another of her bright, laughing smiles. “She runs the museum. Be happy enough to tell you her kin been here thirteen generations.”
Jo had just done a little hop on her barstool.
“My God, you have a museum?”
“O’ course! Mind, I wouldn’t get your expectations overhigh,” Tula cautioned. “And she’s nary open on the weekend.”
Which just figured. Jo turned about to scan the room. The man in the corner booth was standing now; he locked eyes with Jo. She half wondered if he’d been waiting on her to notice, the way wolfish barflies did before pouncing. He was, at any rate, approaching.
Jo responded by scooping the last bit of toast into her mouth, and reciting don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me under her breath. Apparently, it worked.
“Tula Byrne?” he asked, a slight smile under his brush mustache. “I wonder if I could have a word?”
Tula answered in her easy way, whisking the gentleman off to the check-in desk. Jo felt simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. She wasn’t socially inept; she thought she’d grown rather good at peopling. It’s just that she had enough on her plate already, including a dreaded phone call to Fiennes & Sons about the roof.
By 10:00 a.m., Andrews, Gridley, and Green perched at their desks with coffee mugs and morning buns. Fleet had been late. Upon arrival, he took a seat in the rear of the room, coat carefully folded over his knee and a teacup—with saucer—at his elbow. He must have been granted it by Cora, because the last of the downstairs china met its end in MacAdams’ constable days. They were all chipped mugs and paper cups, now.
MacAdams pinned photographs to the board with magnets. Mostly, they were images of the crime scene, the body where it lay, and forensic photos of the doors and windowsills. It wasn’t like the BBC versions, though, despite Jo Jones’ allusions. Or, well. Not quite. He flapped one more photo against his palm: a picture of the German derringer.
“We still haven’t located the murder weapon. Uniform searched the estate grounds, but we’re operating on the assumption that the killer still has it,” MacAdams said. Then he motioned for Fleet to step forward. Fleet gave the usual curt nod and faced the room with hands folded behind him.
“German derringer. Affectionately known as the pug. Note the peculiar four-chambered housing. The bore is too small for .22 caliber, so bullets are specially made in limited edition. A colleague of mine who works with antique munitions suggests few were made. It’s rare and old enough to be unregistered.” He waited for MacAdams to pin the photo before going on. “This particular model is from York search and seizure.”
“So the killer has access to an antique weapon that we can’t effectively trace—is that right?” Green asked.
“Affirmative,” Fleet agreed. Gridley untucked the pencil behind her ear and tapped the desk with it.
“It could have been inherited or collected,” she mused. “Whoever has this one might have other weapons that are registered.”
“Already on it,” Andrews said. “I’ve a list of people in the county with permits. We’re working through it as we speak.”
MacAdams nodded appreciatively.
“Good. But note—only three of four rounds were fired. Even if it does take special bullets, we must assume the suspect is armed and dangerous.”
“Once we have a suspect, anyway,” Green finished. Fleet performed another of his military turns to face her.
“There are always plenty of suspects. Just no present leads.”
While true, it was maddening the way he delivered his little corrections. Pompous git. MacAdams expected to hear an earful from Green. He decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“It’s reasonable that Sid knew the killer and invited him—or her—in. Even so, the doorknobs, whisky bottle, and second glass were wiped. Whoever it was had a cool head and presence of mind,” he said. “Otherwise, we have all sorts of various prints and DNA on scene.”
MacAdams spared a glance at Fleet before continuing.
“And DCI Fleet noticed a rubber-soled shoe tread where the rug had been. It suggests someone left a track after we removed the body. I need to know who has been in there without proper protection on their feet. Forensics says it wasn’t one of theirs.”
This announcement was greeted with blank faces and no admissions.
“Could someone else have a key?” Green asked. “I mean besides the ones Sid had.” MacAdams made another mental note to get that set from Rupert; he’d been so damn busy carting Fleet around...
“We know Jo Jones has a set of keys,” Andrews offered.
“Correct. And she does not have an alibi for the night of the murder,” said Fleet. “Neither, I should add, does Tula Byrne. I interviewed her this morning.”
“But Tula was with Ben,” Green said. “I established that they were at the Red Lion together.”
Fleet merely gave a slight shake of his head.
“Tula shut the bar down that night, and Ben was already sleeping soundly when she went upstairs. Tula claims that was just after midnight, which means she can only vouch for Jo Jones until then. And as you say, she has a key.”
The room shifted around this piece of information. MacAdams found the idea of Tula or Jo stalking Sid frankly preposterous, but saying so would likely get him accused of bias. Again.
“All right, noted,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t make them suspects, necessarily. But we do need everyone’s movements. Including Sid’s closer connections. His mum went into a care home with early-stage dementia and died last year.” He didn’t think it necessary to mention that Sid’s father committed suicide when he was nine. “No siblings. But there are the exes.”
Green put two photos on the board. “His second and third wives, Lotte and Olivia. They are sisters, they are loud, and they turned up in here an hour ago demanding release of Sid’s body.”
MacAdams studied the photos. One was a redhead—bottle red—and the other sported brown hair and heavy fringe. Obviously related, not unattractive.
“Does that mean they are claiming rights as next of kin?” Gridley asked.
“Don’t know, but you can ask them as I’m sure they will be back.” Green sighed. “They want a funeral at St. George’s. Like, tomorrow.”
“What about the first ex?” MacAdams asked. That had been years ago; his only recollection was Sid’s insistence that she was an “animal” in bed.
“Name of Elsie Randles. We haven’t been able to locate her yet.” Gridley stopped short; her phone was buzzing and she snatched it from a trouser pocket. “Hang on. It’s about Sid’s finances. Let me get my email.”
“Good,” MacAdams said. “We could use something tangible.” While they waited, Fleet made a signal as though intending to speak in confidence. He dropped his voice low.
“Tell me, MacAdams, what’s this about a stolen painting? Ms. Byrne says that’s what started the argument with Sid in the pub room.”
“Not quite,” MacAdams contradicted. “He’d been fired, and I wouldn’t call it an argument—”
“Boss!” Gridley interrupted. “Shit—sorry—but look at these bank statements.” She pushed papers aside and turned the monitor for better viewing. She’d highlighted a series of lines, each appearing monthly at around the same time: five thousand pounds.
“Every month? When do these things start?”
“Five years ago, May,” Gridley said, scrolling down.
“That’s almost exactly when he took over the cottage,” Green said—and Andrews gave a slightly indecent chuckle.
“Damn. Either the rental market is better than I thought, or someone was paying him off.”
A payoff. MacAdams looked at Green. Curried chips, he thought.
“It gets stranger,” Gridley said. “Money goes in and then money comes out in smaller, less conspicuous amounts—but it tallies. Cash both ways. Though, I mean, all his deposits are cash.”
“They would be,” MacAdams said, scanning the sheets. Everything under the table, as usual. The amounts varied—and were surprising even apart from the shocking enormity of five grand. He was certainly making money somewhere.
“Three questions: Who was paying Sid? For what? And then, who was Sid paying?” he asked.
“It’s not honest cash, that’s for sure,” Green said, puffing air. “It looks like drugs, I know it does. But we went over his flat and cottage with sniffer dogs and everything. Clean and clean. There’d have to be some sign, wouldn’t there?”
MacAdams tapped his chin. There were other ways of making money in Abington. Gambling, for one. And some years back, he remembered a car theft ring had been busted out of York and Newcastle, plenty of money changing hands there. Five thousand was, however, a very round and very specific number.
“Let’s go back to the idea of a payoff. Gridley, you see if the amount Sid pays out always tallies. It could be he’s getting a lump and gambling with it, or something. And I want to know about these other payments, too. It could be from the cottage rental—which might tell us something.”
“It’s gonna be hard to know, boss. It’s not exactly traceable.” She scanned the file again. “Dammit, though, he makes a good buck. Or would have if he weren’t spending it all.”
MacAdams looked over her shoulder. Credit card hits went to gambling sites. He knew that about Sid already. But Gridley was right; assuming the rest was truly from holiday letting, it was more than enough to live on. No wonder he was sore about losing it.
“For now, see what you can dig up on Lane and Selkirk’s finances, quietly, please. They claim there’s no money in the property, but the handyman was turning over a few grand a month and receiving mystery cash infusions.”
“What about the wives? Should I fetch them in for questioning?” Green asked. MacAdams tapped his chin. They wanted a funeral, and that might be a good idea. Better than keeping Sid on a slab and would offer a chance to pay special attention to the mourners.
“No. Not yet. Get Sid’s body released for burial, instead.”
“Will do,” said Andrews. “Oh—the cottage? That Ms. Jones was asking.” MacAdams watched his officers head off to their separate tasks, aware that Jarvis Fleet was quietly waiting to be directed. There were times when an officiously civil straight man could come in useful.
“You can release the cottage back to Jo Jones. Fleet and I are going to interview Selkirk and Associates,” he said.