Jo made it back home by five thirty in the afternoon. She needed fresh clothes for the trip to York, which meant she needed to do laundry, and halfway through that it occurred to her that dinner would need to happen. She spend a good ten minutes staring at dairy whip and cheese slices before deciding a trip into town might be necessary. She could probably count on Gwilym to bring her some takeaway, but that seemed an unfair side quest since she’d already sent him after research. He may very well be back in Wales, since that was Augustus John’s place of origin . . . one couldn’t find everything in Roberta’s archive. So, onward to Sainsbury’s.
It wasn’t busy on a Monday evening—almost empty, in fact. Jo had a passing worry that they may not be open but the door was unlocked and the lights still on. Just the basics, she told herself. Milk, eggs, bread, veg. Except the prospect of cooking something no longer appealed. She wandered to the cheater section of pre-prepared meals and was just choosing between crispy potatoes and chicken pasta when a familiar voice asked about razors.
The man wasn’t, it turned out, speaking to Jo. MacAdams stood at the end of the aisle, shopping basket over one arm and a minibottle of mouthwash in his free hand.
“Aisle four,” said shelf stock. Except it wasn’t. Jo waited for the clerk to wander away, then set about course correction.
“End of aisle six, actually,” she said. MacAdams looked up with what, for him, counted as a startle response. “Used to be in four, but they rearranged things in March.”
“Oh. That’s—I don’t even know why I’m surprised you know.”
“I hate it when they rearrange things,” Jo admitted. She shopped only one store for a reason: the comfort of knowing frozen peas were where you last left them. “I had to rememorize the place in April. It’s annoying, because I have to overwrite the original orientation—and some things didn’t change—so it’s sorting out which memory map is the right one.” She pointed at her head, as though this better explained it. “Sorry. You didn’t ask.”
“Well, I would have.” MacAdams dropped the mouthwash into the basket. “And I do need the razors. And dinner.”
“Same,” Jo said. “I was just in Newcastle.” For some reason, this caused a sort of face cramp in MacAdams’s wooden features.
“Yes. I know. I saw you there. You had . . . dogs.”
Now it was Jo’s turn to be surprised. “Why were you in Newcastle?” she asked. “The dogs are Arthur’s.”
“Arthur . . . ?”
“My uncle’s widow—It’s a long story.”
“Do you like shepherd’s pie?” MacAdams asked. Jo was good for a non sequitur but this was unexpected even for her.
“Yes?”
“We can get two, then. And you can tell it.”
MacAdams kindly paid for both pies—and Jo returned the favor by reminding him to buy the razors he’d come for. They’d arrived at a tacit agreement that baking them at his house made more sense than trekking back to Netherleigh, so Jo trekked her own groceries into his kitchen and camped them in MacAdams’s mostly empty refrigerator. A SMEG model. There was a nice, weird word—just slightly perverse. Jo pocketed it for later use.
“It’ll be a minute,” MacAdams said, firing up the oven. Jo perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island. She’d sat there before, just over a year ago. The view had changed.
“New curtains,” she said.
“Yes, they are.” They were yellow and MacAdams gave them an appraising glance before sitting down on the opposite stool. “Arthur and his dogs, you say.”
“Right. He and my uncle were—I don’t know what you call it here. Common-law married? Unofficial, but long term.”
“I thought your uncle Aiden lived in York?”
“He did! Sort of. Mainly his address lived in York. He mostly stayed in Newcastle. I didn’t know anything about it until yesterday; he emailed me. There were letters, um, left to me.” Jo had not actually had time to process the various feels regarding all that and didn’t want to get too near the subject. “Anyway, I stayed in the guest room and then walked the dogs to meet Chen Benton-Li; she’s the one who repaired Evelyn’s painting.”
“That’s a lot of new information.”
“You have no idea,” Jo groaned slightly. “Where did you happen to see me?”
“Near Hammersmith and Company. It’s the firm Ronan Foley worked for; I believe Green tried to get your attention,” MacAdams said—and Jo made the connection.
“Never, ever, ever, honk at me,” she said.
“I didn’t, but I’ll pass it on.” MacAdams pursed his lips a moment. “There’s no other reason you were in Newcastle?”
“No? Why?” But she’d just managed to catch his sideways drift. “You thought I was getting involved in the murder investigation, didn’t you?”
“I thought you were getting more involved,” he said, which—fair—Foley did die not far from her doorstep.
“At least I’m not a suspect. I’m not, right?” she asked. MacAdams let out a protracted breath.
“No. And I’ll drink to that. Whiskey?”
Jo kicked her heels and watched him dig ice out of a SMEG. He handed her a glass and poured a single.
“Caol Ila,” he said. “Distillery near Port Askaig on the isle of Islay. Copper stills, but only half filled to maximize contact.”
“Moving on from Talisker?”
“Expanding horizons,” MacAdams corrected, clinking the rim of her glass. Jo took a sip; it was less peaty than she expected, like salt and caramel and smoke.
“Oh fancy, I like it. Here’s to not being on the incident board.” She waited till after MacAdams finished his first taste before adding, “I might be investigating something in a not-murder-case kind of way, however.”
“Does this have to do with a butty van?” he asked. “Gwilym told Sheila.”
“Did he tell you about the vanishing hiker?” Jo asked. MacAdams had the whiskey glass halfway to his lips. Now he stopped, and Jo went on in a hurry. “It’s probably nothing. But we saw her walk to the van, and then when we arrived, no one was there. Gwilym thinks they just kept on, slipped out of sight while we weren’t looking. Except I saw a van again, a similar one, this time in Newcastle.”
“Hold on,” MacAdams said, pointing his index finger (while still holding the whiskey glass). “How can you be sure it was the same kind?”
“Because I knocked on the window. He got angry as soon as he saw me and called me a—a nebby hinny?”
“Nosy woman, more or less,” MacAdams said.
“Am I being silly? It’s here near where Roberta found the body, then a woman vanishes, then I see it again in Newcastle and—”
“A woman. The hiker was a woman?” A subtle change had just come over him. It looked like interest.
“Oh—it’s important,” Jo said.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Your face says it is.”
“I am assured that my face says very little,” MacAdams insisted, and Jo laughed.
“Not true. Well, it is true. But the little details matter. That’s my whole life—I mean, yes, people accuse me of not reading a room. But actually, I’m the only one who really does. Looking for the secret handshake you all take for granted so much. Your eyebrow just twitched up and your hand went so still the whiskey stopped swishing.”
The timer went off, announcing that their food was ready. MacAdams picked up pot holders.
“You missed your calling in life,” he said, pulling the pies out. “Foley had a girlfriend we’re trying to track down. She is a person of interest. But you were talking about the artist your uncle hired—”
“Chen. She’s an expert on Augustus John,” Jo said, hopping off the stool to hunt in her bag. MacAdams seemed to be hunting too—for knives and forks. “There’s an exhibition. See? I need to go to York tomorrow.”
* * *
MacAdams dropped the silverware. A knife managed to skitter under the refrigerator, but it could stay there. He retrieved a second set and plated dinner.
Jo was going to York tomorrow. Of course she was. For someone who wasn’t a suspect, she ended up in the most curiously suspicious places.
“An exhibition,” he repeated.
Jo handed him the brochure. “On the Slade art school. There are paintings on loan from all over. Have you been?”
“To York?”
“To the gallery there.” Jo cut into the pie, releasing a cloud of steam. She probably meant the York Art Gallery, and yes, he had.
“A long time ago.” After the wedding, in fact. He took a bite that was much, much too hot and attempted to float hot mashed potato in his mouth while hurrying to fill a water glass. “I’ll be in York tomorrow myself,” he said, when he managed to swallow it down.
“Can you drive?” Jo asked. Apparently his not-so-expressive face was registering its confusion, because she blushed and clarified. “Sorry! It’s just . . . I only drove there the one time. I got stuck on that outer circle—couldn’t work out how to exit—and stalled out on the bridge. I’d rather chew glass.”
“Um,” MacAdams said. Jo was spooning gravy and mash into her mouth with gusto, unaware of the dilemma she’d just put him in. This was police business, after all. He was going there to speak to his ex and her partner about Hammersmith, and he’d planned to stay the night somewhere.
“I won’t be back till Wednesday,” he said.
“That’s okay, I probably am, too. Just have to find a hotel.” She stopped eating. “Oh—would you rather I didn’t? With you, I mean. I could take the train.”
Yes, take the train and let him feel like the complete jackass he undoubtedly was. It was his turn to do some reading; Jo didn’t look mad—or even hurt. She looked expectant, bright, unsinkable as usual, looking up through mussed bangs and suspending a forkful of shepherd’s pie in want of an answer. It would be fine. They might stay at the same hotel, which was also fine. Everything was perfectly fine. For fuck’s sake, James, pull your finger out.
“What time can you be ready?” he asked.