Evans had been placed in the interview room—the only proper one, really. Arianna awaited them in the sometimes-storage cupboard.
“You’re going to take Evans,” MacAdams explained.
“Because?” Green asked testily.
“You and Arianna have history, and—” he held up his hand to forestall remonstrance “—and Evans and I have history. It doesn’t matter what kind or why, but it’s better if neither is on their guard.” He peered through the window at Evans; he hadn’t risen from his chair, but managed to be in constant motion anyway. MacAdams had seen long distance runners burn fewer calories. “Less on their guard.”
Green wasn’t exactly mollified, but she uncrossed her arms and smoothed the lapels of her blazer.
“So I should be nice,” she said.
MacAdams handed her two cups of tea to carry in with her. “Be your usual charming self,” he said. Then he returned to the kettle for two more. Perhaps milk and sugar would placate Ms. Templeton, who had been far less nervous but also more recalcitrant about coming to the station.
She sat very straight in her chair, ponytail pulled back tight at the temples. It had looked professional in situ; without her uniform—and with her present expression—it just looked severe.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, passing her a cup of tea. “Here you go. You were kind enough to offer me some when we came to the Abington Arms.”
Arianna had seemed about to decline, but he’d scored a point by recalling her own charity.
“Thank you, yes.”
“I know this wasn’t your plan for a day off,” he said (they’d found her at home, in the midst of doing laundry). “But it will be very helpful for our inquiries.”
She took a sip of tea and looked about the small, spare room. “I’ve never been inside a police station.”
“It doesn’t really improve on further acquaintance,” MacAdams admitted. “I just need to clarify some details.”
“Sheila thinks I lied. I didn’t. I told you then—I’m telling you now—I never heard of Ronan Foley until he rang on Friday. You can tell her that.”
MacAdams patted himself on the back for not allowing Green to run this particular interview.
“We don’t think you lied—not intentionally.” MacAdams laid the hotel registration book on the table in front of her. “You said Foley asked if there were reservations in his name.”
“Yes. And there weren’t any.”
“Not under his name. But I want you to look at the numbers.” He’d circled Foley’s. And then he’d circled a dozen more. Arianna stared in blank confusion.
“How—What? But that’s Mr. and Mrs. Connolly! A married couple from Manchester; they come every few weekends.”
MacAdams had managed to get that far after seizing the register. Now he needed the rest of the story.
“Was Mr. Connolly an Irish gentleman?”
“Well, yes. But—”
MacAdams slid across the photograph of Ronan Foley printed from the Hammersmith website, with his name visible underneath. Arianna caught her breath and covered her mouth with one hand.
“Oh my God. That’s—that’s the man you found dead?”
“Is it a match?” MacAdams asked. She nodded slowly, her face blanching behind her makeup.
“What’s happened to his wife?” she whispered.
Wife? MacAdams felt his pulse spike. Ronan Foley didn’t have a wife, not a legally listed one anyway. Was “Mrs. Connolly” the owner of the earring or scarf? He kept his tone neutral.
“It would help the investigation to know more about her,” he said.
Arianna drank the rest of her tea in a single go. Her demeanor had changed, or changed again. From hostess to disgruntled potential witness to something more human. And fragile.
“Slight,” she said. “A tiny thing. Really young, but I never really spoke to her.”
“How so?”
“Nathan—Ronan. Whatever his name is. Was.” She took a breath. “He always arranged everything, and he was so attentive. Like she was a china doll. He bought flowers and champagne, chocolate, roses. Always some little present or surprise ahead of their coming.” It had, MacAdams realized, really made an impression on her.
“I take it such behavior is rare at Abington Arms?” he asked.
“We cater to high society, remember? MPs and judges and their wives. They—Of course, they’re always very well turned out. But presents and flowers? That’s not for married people.” Arianna had looked away when she said this, so the last was delivered to the left-hand wall.
MacAdams extrapolated. “Mr. Connolly treated his wife the way most of your guests treat a mistress?” he asked.
Arianna’s eyes flitted back. “I didn’t say that. Look, the first time they came was their honeymoon. Newlyweds. He called her his ‘little Alina.’” She pursed her lips. “Dammit. If Connolly wasn’t his real name, though, was he lying about the rest, too? I mean, were they married at all? Or just cheating under false names?”
MacAdams had written all of this down, but he had a very different idea taking shape. As there was no Ronan Foley in the records . . . perhaps that was the false name, and this the real one? He’d have Gridley run a search on Alina and Nathan Connolly.
“If there’s anything else—anything—let us know,” MacAdams said. “I’ll see you out.”
Arianna stood up but didn’t move toward the door.
“Don’t go telling Green I was dizzy on romance. I just thought they were a nice couple, is all.”
“Understood,” MacAdams said, still trying to usher her out of the room.
Arianna pointed at him with a well-manicured finger. “She’s not my ex, by the way, in case you’re thinking it. Sheila Green is not my type.”
* * *
MacAdams poured himself an honest cup of coffee, in a mug and everything, and retreated to his office. He had time to process Arianna’s last remark as he waited on Green’s report. Arianna was probably not Sheila’s type, either; that would be Rachel, fierce feminist fireplug nutritionist who favored scrubs and fleece and for whom fuck was a universal adjective, noun and conjunction. He wondered why Arianna thought it important to tell him; he decided it wasn’t worth sharing with Green.
He also had time to process the fact that Jo Jones had somehow been less than a block away from Hammersmith, the erstwhile employer of their murder victim . . . who had also been her temporary lodger . . . and whom she had seen alive during his final hours. Instincts and long practice told him that this, of course, made Jo a person of interest in the case. But he would no more suspect her than he would Annie. And also he should stop putting the two of them in the same category.
“Boss?” Green asked; she was leaning in through the open door. “Ready for an interesting story?”
“Do tell,” MacAdams said, beckoning her into the admittedly ramshackle state of his office. She scanned the chairs, all of which now served as shelves, and chose the one with the fewest things to clear away.
“Well, first off, Evan’s full name is Errol Evan Jacob Evans, and that really ought to be a fake name, but isn’t. Second, he identified Foley’s photo. Said that Foley was a well-paying regular customer from Manchester, with a wife, and expecting a kid.”
MacAdams sat straighter. “Come again? Arianna never said anything about that—”
“Arianna knows as much about pregnancy as a sentient vacuum cleaner,” Green said.
It was by far the weirdest insult MacAdams had ever heard, but somehow managed to convey both an empty center and being full of it, while preserving the basic premise that she sucked. Impressive, to be honest.
“Details, Green.”
“Evans noticed that Mrs. Connolly-not-Foley wasn’t looking well the last time they stayed—which was two weeks ago, in the Empire Suite. He asked Foley about it privately, and he said they were expecting but it was early days.”
“Damn.”
“Right? Except—and here is where things get interesting—Evans said he knew Connolly was a false name. And he suspected they weren’t married.” Green sat back triumphantly; she knew this was a nibble MacAdams couldn’t resist. He’d already produced his notepad.
“Wait, okay, let’s start with the name. How could he know Connolly was false?”
“Google it,” Green encouraged. “I just did. Nathanial Connolly is the lead guitarist for the Belfast band Snow Patrol.”
“Fuck.” No wonder it sounded familiar. “Okay, what were Evans’s expert deductions about their marital status?”
“Well, for a start, why a false name? But Evans also thought the age difference was suspicious. Matter of opinion, obviously. He assumed Foley was a married man courting a younger woman on the side with money and presents.”
“Astute, except we have no record of Foley being married. Arianna told me that he doted on his maybe-wife, assumed they were newlyweds. Seemed to find him charming.”
“Evans didn’t. He described him as . . .” Green thumbed her own notes. “A well-monied and uncultured plebian.”
“Oh of course,” MacAdams groaned. Evans had always been a status chaser, the toady of their old boss Admiral Clapham, but also an obsequious slave to title and nobility. “But he obviously paid court to Foley’s pocketbook. He knows the man is a liar, suspects him of philandering, doesn’t do any background checks beyond making sure the written ones don’t bounce. Does that cover it?”
“Just about.”
“That, Detective Sergeant, is why Evans was Clapham’s man.”
“Boss. Clapham is over and gone.”
“The case is, yes. But that doesn’t mean the Abington Arms has changed its ways. Fill up the hotel with guests who look the part, ask no questions, look away when necessary . . .” MacAdams trailed off. Green was right, though. They had enough going with the current, active murder. They didn’t even have a motive yet. He peered through the glass to where Gridley sat; she noticed and waved with enthusiasm. Hopefully it meant she’d found something they could use.
“Guess what?” she asked when they returned to the common room. “Struthers says he can lift DNA from the scarf; there was a hair on it. It’s not a match for Foley, appears to be darker. Do we want to get a swab from the colleague he took care of, Trisha Simmons?”
“I’d rather get a swab from Burnhope,” MacAdams said.
Green blinked at him. “You think Stanley Burnhope is the mystery woman? I mean. No judgment. But it’s not his color.”
“Ava Burnhope,” he corrected, though he would like to have Stanley’s, too—why not? The answer being, of course, Stanley and Ava would have to submit willingly to a rather intimate ask despite having watertight alibies and friends in parliament.
“You’re serious?” Green asked. “You suspect Ava?”
MacAdams examined the incident board (with now-cold coffee). “Foley has a lady friend, but doesn’t tell anyone about it. They sneak around. He wouldn’t have to sneak with the secretary, would he?”
“Ah shite.” Green scrunched up her nose. “That’s a bit of a drop, isn’t it? For a woman like Ava? Slumming it, almost.”
“Not impossible, though, is it?” MacAdams asked.
Green chewed her lip. “Okay, I’ll walk with you on this a minute. She could have affairs with anyone, why choose Foley—unless it’s to get under Stanley’s skin. You said he didn’t like the man. But that would still make Stanley the prime suspect, wouldn’t it?”
“Only if he knew about it,” MacAdams said.
“Knowing is the point of revenge affairs, boss.”
MacAdams wouldn’t usually suspect Green of bias, but her responses had a decided lean to them.
“You really don’t want Ava to be involved,” he said.
Green gave him a half smile. “Oh, I think she’s probably involved. Born with a silver spoon, married to money with all the benefits. I just can’t see her stooping. You’ve met her; that’s not a woman who bends.” Green rubbed her chin. “You haven’t mentioned the other woman in all of this: Sophie Wagner.”
“Fair. And we might have less hassle convincing her for a DNA sample.” He stepped to the board and arranged Sophie’s photo next to Ava and the secretary, Trisha. To the other side was Stanley Burnhope and a bracket for the mystery woman.
What about prints at the apartment?” he asked.
“Most usable fingerprints were Foley’s,” Green explained. “They did lift two marks from the doorknob that aren’t his, but also aren’t in the database. Oh, and Foley’s aren’t in the database, either, by the way—no previous.” She bit her lip. “There’s a problem searching his alias for Abington Arms, too.”
“Yes, guitarist,” MacAdams said. Behind him, Andrews—so far quiet—had a fit of giggles. Gridley cleared her throat but didn’t quite drown it out.
“I know we have to treat everyone as a suspect, but we do have some details for Foley’s lover that might help,” she said, “Evans claims she had dark hair, was probably between eighteen and twenty-three and didn’t speak to staff. That doesn’t sound like Ava, Sophie or Trisha. Unless—hang on. Do we know how old Trisha’s daughter is?”
“You don’t mean—” Andrews grimaced in disgust, but Gridley was busy hunting up Trisha’s Facebook page.
“Hey, it’s possible. One reason for sneaking is that the woman is married, yeah. Another is that she isn’t a grown woman.”
“Evans said she was very young,” Green said darkly.
“That would certainly change things,” MacAdams agreed. “It would explain sneaking around. And someone, at least, would have a motive for doing him in.”
“A father, a brother,” Andrews suggested.
“A mother,” Green added.
“A sister—hell, an aunt,” Gridley added. “My niece Teresa is of age, but I’d be after any old guy trying to seduce her.”
“All right, all right,” MacAdams interrupted. “Let’s follow up on Trisha’s daughter and see if we can get a swab of—somebody. And add possible predation to the board; if Foley went after an underage girl, it’s probably not the first time. But don’t put too much stock in Evans’s description; the other three women are still in the running. Now, let’s get back to why he used his real name when he called the Abington Arms.”
“His real name? Ooo, I see. That is odd,” Gridley said, returning to her desk. “If you stay there all the time as Connolly, why inquire if there are rooms for Foley?”
“Exactly,” MacAdams said, pointing at her. “You’re going to stay in Abington on Friday night. You call the local hotel where you usually stay and ask if there is a booking under a different name than you typically use. Why?”
Andrews scrubbed a hand through sandy hair and looked hard at the floor.
“Foley must think there is one under his real name for some reason.”
“Good,” MacAdams encouraged. “Keep going.”
“He thinks there’s a booking under Foley but one he didn’t make—because he uses an alias. So, he checks to be sure. Given the state of his apartment, we already suspected he was on the run from someone. Maybe he thought they’d got the jump on him, had blown his cover—or were already a step ahead. Of course, there isn’t a booking, so it eases his mind. But not enough. So he stays somewhere he’s never been instead.”
Green clapped her hands. “I can get into this,” she said. “Foley must suspect he’s been followed. And he’s right, too, since that someone also murders him.”
“So why not give it up? Go back to Newcastle?” Gridley asks.
“He might have, if he’d found a booking under his own name,” Green offered. “Instead,he books a quiet out-of-the-way spot just to be safe. Damn. That’s it, isn’t it?”
It made sense. That didn’t make it true. MacAdams paced in front of the board, trying to put it together.
“All right. He’s hiding out at the cottage. He must still plan to meet his woman . . . ?”
“Doesn’t get a chance,” Gridley said. “He arrives and bam, there’s Jo Jones. It’s not safe and secret anymore. He has to leave.”
“In a rainstorm, in the middle of the night,” Green added. “And he ends up not far away in a ditch between eleven and three.”
“Timeline problem,” MacAdams said. He’d forgotten to tell them Struthers’s little secret. “The body was iced. It doesn’t make a massive difference, but Struthers suggests he must have been killed very soon after Jo last saw him. As in just after eleven or so.”
“With . . . ?” Green asked. “Do we know what the murder weapon is?”
MacAdams did not relish explaining the coconut problem. “Something heavy,” he said, “in a downward blow.”