“So you’re going to York with Jo Jones, in order to talk shop with your ex-wife’s better half,” said Green. They were in line at Teresa’s tea wagon; it was eight thirty in the morning.
“Your discretion is admirable,” MacAdams said.
“Just clarifying, boss. Same hotel?”
It was, and a budget sort of place, too, because short-notice bookings weren’t exactly easy to make in York during wedding season. MacAdams didn’t say this out loud, just watched the quirk of Green’s lips. They were lined in lipstick, dark brown with plum in the mix. Business makeup. Green was headed up to Newcastle to get a DNA swab of Trisha and to see her old police chief to inquire about Hammersmith.
“Don’t you look professional,” Teresa said when Green made it to the counter at last. She ordered ham-and-egg croissants with coffees, handing take-away cups to MacAdams.
“Just a picnic,” Green said with a wink. He supposed that was true; they were about to pay a visit to Abington trail off Lower Road.
“Gridley is running through the CCT footage again,” Green said. “So far no singular hikers; mostly groups have turned up on the Petrol camera. And no missing persons reported, either.”
MacAdams knew that a connection between Foley’s lady and a vanishing hiker was, in fact, unlikely. The largely tree-less Pennines had a way of fooling the eye. They hid away folds and dips in shadow and heath. A walker might descend quickly out of sight or disappear in the oft-creeping mist. Jo probably just lost visual for a completely usual reason. Then again, Backbone of Britain, the Pennines’ stony spine, offered a bleak sort of beauty, sublime, and was not uncommonly dangerous to outsiders or unskilled walkers. Maybe there was something to it, even if not tied to Foley’s murder. And speaking of—
“Any new records for our victim?” he asked.
Green swallowed a mouthful of croissant before answering. “Still struggling to uncover his movements before 1998—though it seems that’s when he arrived. Andrews hunted passenger charts and found his name on a Belfast-Newcastle. Gridley’s checking cognates of his name, in case he altered it once out of Ireland.”
The worry, of course, was that he may have changed it altogether, despite his driving records attesting to documents on the up and up.
“Might be time to publish an obituary in Newcastle papers, “McAdam said. “See if we can turn up next of kin using his photo.”
“What are we going to do with the man himself? “Green asked. “He can’t just stay in the morgue forever, can he?”
MacAdams was surprised by just how long people could stay in Struthers’s morgue. Evelyn Davies was, technically, still there. Struthers had begun to refer to her as his colleague.
The Lower Road had dried firm once more, narrow but serviceable. The spot where Foley had been found wasn’t far.
“Will wonders never cease,” he said, driving past the van to where the road widened for better parking. Jo called this spot a trailhead, but it wasn’t. The path Roberta frequented was instead part of extensive right-to-roam trails that skirted farmland and crossed the moor. It did intersect with the Way as it crisscrossed lonely hills, but it wasn’t much used. Hikers tended to take Upper Road, instead, with its shorter distance to better vistas.
So what was a food truck doing here?
MacAdams closed the car door gently and hitched up his trousers.
“We do not look like hikers, boss,” she said. They looked exactly like two police officers, in fact.
“I wasn’t expecting to find it,” he admitted. There wasn’t anything special about the van; in fact, almost the reverse. Very basic, white, with words on one side in plain black letters. The window was open, however, so someone was presumably there to sell sandwiches. He and Green approached together.
“Hello?” MacAdams said when he reached the window. He expected the character Jo had described: heavy brow and jowls, bit of a bruiser. Instead, a youth scarcely older than seventeen popped into view.
“Morning!” he said, dusting hands against his trousers. “Got no butties ready yet. Have you a coffee, yeah?”
MacAdams chose to stick to questions.
“Is this your van?” he asked.
“God no. Gap year, me.” He turned a freckled face to Green. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks, “she said, casting an are-we-getting-the-badges-out? look to MacAdams. He was weighing that himself and decided against it.
“Bag of crisps, plain,” MacAdams said. “Who does own it—the van?”
“Dunno. I got hired by the Geordie.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s what people call him, I guess.” The kid handed him change. “I just started, to be honest. Couple days ago.”
“Thank you for the crisps,” MacAdams said, leaving him a pound in tip.
Green waited till they were out of earshot to make hay. “You didn’t even ask about the supposedly missing woman hiker. Or why he was parked up here.”
MacAdams handed her the crisps.
“He’ll tell us he doesn’t know. He’s not the driver Jo met. Possibly not the same van, and that’s a lesson in itself. That’s a lot of activity on a quiet stretch of road a long way from customer density.”
Green hmmm’d. “It does seem a bit off when you put it like that. You really think something’s up?”
“Hard to say,” MacAdams said, tearing out the notebook page he’d copied down the license number onto. “Send this to Gridley when we have signal again.” MacAdams checked his watch. “I’ll drop you at the station so you can pick up a CID car.”
He’d promised to pick up Jo by ten.
* * *
Getting to York by car was a lot faster than taking the train, Jo decided. At least, when she wasn’t driving. Most everything had been booked solid, but she’d found a place called the York Astoria; the name sounded promising. The present-day Waldorf-Astoria on Park avenue, New York, was the very height of luxury and glamour. Hotel spas, signature restaurant, grand ballroom. Of course, these days no one rented rooms in the landmark building. You could buy a thousand square feet of apartment for a cool four million, however.
“You know, the original Waldorf-Astoria was an unofficial palace before it was torn down and relocated,” Jo said, as they followed the satnav into a narrow street. “Built on Fifth Avenue in 1893 by Waldorf Astor. But then his cousin built a taller hotel next door. They eventually stopped fighting about that and connected the two with a marble corridor called Peacock Alley.”
“Why did they call it that? “MacAdams asked, making the final left-hand turn.
“I don’t know actually.”
“I almost find it disconcerting when you don’t know something,” MacAdams said. “Which reminds me, do you know what the Mohs’ hardness scale is?”
“For identifying minerals? Hardness as resistance to scratching?”
“Or cracking open.” MacAdams ran his thumb along his jawline thoughtfully. “Human skull is about a five.”
“I didn’t know that, either,” Jo admitted. It happened a lot more than people supposed. Like right now, as Jo took in the view before them. The York Astoria was not living up to its name.
“Oh.”
They pulled into a badly mended car park in front of a yellow-brick-and-stucco facade. It did not look like the Waldorf. It looked like a Day’s Inn in Gary, Indiana.
The interior did little to alter this impression. There also wasn’t a clerk on duty—which meant running down a member of the cleaning staff. They eventually located the stairs and found themselves on the third floor. The carpeting zigzagged in awful red-and-salmon stripes like something out of The Shining.
“That . . . gives me a headache,” she said.
“We can hope it doesn’t continue inside.” MacAdams dangled door keys. “I think we’re neighbors.”
Jo opened the door and looked in. A very compact room with striped wall panels instead of paper or paint. But at least the carpeting was a dull solid blue.
“It’s not bad,” Jo said.
“Serviceable,” MacAdams agreed; he dropped his bag inside his door and shut it again. “I’ve got to go meet Ashok now. Enjoy the exhibit.”
He tipped his hat (which he wore despite the favorable weather) and headed back down the hall. Jo would herself be walking—they were near the train station and it wasn’t that far. She gave a little chirrup of excitement. Chen promised to tell her about Uncle Aiden! But there was something wonderful and terrifying about fruition; she needed to be properly attired. Jo pulled out a tightly rolled black dress; sleeveless, high neck, a sheath. Next to her funeral dress, it was probably her favorite, and just slightly fancier. There was something deeply uncomfortable about being dressed wrong for an occasion; she hated standing out when she wanted to blend in. To really complete the look, a pair of heels would have been nice—but Doc Martens were technically always in style, weren’t they?
The York Art Gallery looked out upon Exhibition Square, both opened to the public in 1879. Jo had come by way of the lane and—improbably—a footpath called Dame Judy Dench Walk. It meant her phone navigation just instructed her to “turn left on Dame Judy.” The walk did her nerves some good, and before long she spotted her target. Planters with flowers ranged along the arches of its front doors, and already she could see a small knot of people outside. One of them waved a glass-handled umbrella at her.
Chen still wore the mandala jacket, though beneath was a striking orange pantsuit. She tapped the umbrella cane against the pavement.
“Support for the hips and the weather,” she said. “Are you ready to meet Augustus?” Jo was ready to meet Aiden, but this seemed the entrée.
“Very,” she agreed, following her through the doors and into a grand exhibition hall.
“It’s a special opening,” Chen explained. “Will be more crowded tomorrow, during regular hours.”
It was already crowded in Jo’s opinion. A diffuse background hum of private conversation surrounded them. Chen bypassed the sketches near the front, however. She crossed the room with purpose, and despite being the most striking person in the room, didn’t raise much of a glance. Between that and her expert navigation, Jo gathered, she was at the York museum rather a lot.
“Here we be,” Chen said, stopping in front of a large portrait. Seated as subject was a corpulent man in black, his abdomen filling the bottom of the frame, one arm resting on a near-invisible chair. His face, long, flat, topped with a wave crest of white hair and ending in a double chin, appeared vaguely surprised. “What do you know of Lord Leverhulme?”
Jo ran through her mental Rolodex. Leverhulme. There was a story she’d read . . .
“He hated the painting of himself, didn’t he?” Jo asked.
Chen clapped her delicate hands.
“Very good and very sanitized,” she said. “Have a close look at the canvas, not the man.”
Jo did so. A faint line appeared above the man’s head, and beneath, and on either side.
“You are standing before the headless painting,” Chen explained. “Leverhulme didn’t dislike it, he despised it. Was ashamed of it, even. Told Augustus John it didn’t favor him at all. John told him to pick up a paintbrush and fix it himself. He picked up scissors instead.” Chen’s eyes sparkled, and she flourished the sapphire-bearing hand toward the now-hard-to-mistake rectangle. “Cut his own head right out of the canvas, but by some mistake, the housekeeper packaged it up and returned it to Augustus John. He called it the grossest insult and took the story to the papers.”
She stepped to the side of the portrait to reveal more of the museum curator’s comments along with a reproduction newsprint: Beheaded Portrait, it read.
“Imagine, pet. Artists went on strike. People protested in the streets. They even burned Leverhulme in effigy. How very dare he?”
Jo looked again at the painting. The man in the picture did not look pleasant. Self-important, perhaps, self-indulgent, but also curiously vacant.
“He looks—repulsive.”
“Oh yes,” Chen agreed. “Augustus John painted the inside on the outside, you see? A psychological portrait. That is what made him singular; that’s why he’s a master. He never painted to please the sitter. Now come, child. The gem of the collection is a portrait of Dylan Thomas, fellow Welshman.”
That, at least, was a name Jo knew well.
“‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’” she quoted—words the poet wrote as a plea for a dying father.
“That’s the one,” Chen agreed, turning her cheekbones up toward the canvas. “What do you make of young Dylan?”
Jo found herself mentally tracing brush strokes. This later painting lacked the careful rendering he’d done for Evelyn’s. It was as though his style grew disheveled, the subjects revealing themselves in bolder but less precise strokes. Yet looking at the portrait, Jo felt she knew Dylan Thomas. It was so different from the heavier, swallow-cheeked man whose brow shadowed large eyes in famous black-and-white photos. Instead, here was a youth, almost feminine, bright red curls hugging a high forehead, full lips like a rosebud, slightly parted. And the eyes: strange faraway eyes, wide with something like naive expectation married to the acceptance of fate. Behind him, black-and-blue clouds were streaked in angry white. Here was storm, uncertainty and yet acceptance and a willingness to walk on. Do not go gentle.
“Like Joan of Arc offering humanity to nothingness,” Jo said.
“Ah, pet! That is the perfect interpretation,” Chen said, her eyes moist and approving.
Jo felt a blush surging up the back of her neck.
“Can—can I ask about your painting? The one Aiden bought,” she said—not very slyly returning to her still-unanswered questions. “Why is it called Hiding?”
Chen’s eyes creased at the edges. “Can you visualize it?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Tell it to me. Just like you did with this portrait.”
Jo felt slight panic. “I’m not—definitely not an art critic.”
“Try,” Chen encouraged, her voice humming approbation. “Just speak it.” There was something strangely disarming about the way Chen asked, and it galvanized Jo’s natural need to answer. So she closed her eyes and brought the painting into view.
“The black dot reminds me of a lost shoe,” she said. “Like Miss Havisham’s lost shoe. We only ever see her wearing the one; the other is left behind. That can’t be the point. But it’s the first thing I think about.”
“Very well. And what do you make of the red background?” Chen asked.
Jo chuffed at her bare arms. “It’s bright but it’s not warm. And it’s loud. I don’t know why it’s so loud, but I look at the gray streaks to give my eyes a break.” Jo found herself thinking of the hotel carpeting. “I think it’s angry.”
“Ah,” said Chen, “a small, forgotten thing, clinging to a thin veil in the midst of a red, red rage? I think you understand the painting very well.”
Jo opened her eyes.
“But what’s hidden in it?” she asked. “I can’t tell that.”
The old bell was ringing; there were connections, but she just couldn’t see them yet. Colophon, Calliope, Centennial . . . Smeg . . . Chen reached out a gentle hand and laid it upon Jo’s, which had accidentally turned into a thumb-hiding fist.
“The artist,” she said, her voice a quiet rasp. “I was hiding. Being out, being yourself in the bad old world, it’s hard and it’s grim. When I had my first art gallery opening, I couldn’t face the crowd. I just couldn’t do it.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything. I went home and I attacked a canvas. I told Aiden it was a talisman, a bit of magic to trap the old, scared self and all her rage. I left it there in the painting, and I walked right on out into the sun.” She turned slowly in place, looking at all the art at once. “Augustus John had a bit of that magic in reverse.”
“Dorian Gray?” Jo asked. For a moment, Chen’s eyes were a blank, but then they fired to life.
“Ah—perhaps! Something like that. He told people things about themselves they wanted to stay hidden. You can’t hide in an Augustus John portrait. He painted to reveal hidden truths.”
Jo felt a shiver run through her, as though she was wearing skin a size too small.
“Evelyn,” she whispered, thinking of her far-away expression, the angle of her eyes that was still wrong, mismatched from her body, “off” somehow. Her body was in a posture of longing. Expectation. The way she seemed both retiring but resisting, the effect of holding back passion. “Oh. Oh no. He painted her in love.”
A head tilt, a nervous movement of hands, a quickening of pulse; each could be an indicator if you read them right, and each might be hidden or ignored. But once rendered as a painting—one to be hung with Lord William and Lady Gwen Ardemore—the revelation must surely have been imminent. Gwen, long-suffering, barren, in what was probably a marriage of convenience and consolidation of wealth . . . maybe she could countenance an affair. But could she hang it on the wall in her own home?
“Did Gwen destroy the painting?” Jo asked. “She couldn’t bear to see the proof each day of her husband in love with someone else?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but Chen’s hand gave hers a squeeze.
“Your uncle Aiden thought so. And now, I think it’s time I tell you a story. Not here, of course. But I know the perfect place for tea and cake.”
* * *
MacAdams waited until ten past the hour, ensuring Ashok and Annie would already be seated and saving himself the awkwardness of playing host. They sat at a corner table, sipping still water and chatting idly. Surveillance was the guilty pleasure of the detective, and so he indulged: Ashok was a trifle younger than Annie; he had a fresh face beneath thick black hair and expressive eyes of amber brown. He smiled. A lot. Annie smiled, too, her cheeks flushed by the warmth of the day. Also she was now looking right at him. A sixth sense, he long decided. She’d got him on her radar somehow.
“James!” said Ashok, who darted up and shook his hand with police-rookie enthusiasm.
“Hello, Ashok. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“We ought to be appreciating yours,” Ashok said. “I’m so happy to help.”
“And it’s the only way we’ll get you to a meal,” Annie added, popping up to mime a cheek kiss.
MacAdams took a seat.
“How’s the baby?” he asked. Green had reminded him to send a congrats card for the arrival of young Edward, named for Annie’s father.
“Noisy and not sleeping, your average eleven-month-old,” Annie assured him. “Tell Green thank you for the card.”
MacAdams wondered why they bothered pretending he did any of the usual niceties himself. He had half a mind to tell her he’d changed the curtains. The server came and went while they finished the small talk. MacAdams ordered fish and chips and out came the notebook and pencil.
“Hammersmith,” he said.
Ashok nodded and leaned his forearms on the table. “It’s a good firm. I know a few of the architects who work for them. Top-notch people who really enjoy the work. But that’s what makes their business in York so odd.”
“Stanley Burnhope suggested he’d received complaints about Ronan Foley,” MacAdams said. “The manager of a certain build in York that went wrong.”
“He should, if Ronan was overseeing that development. That site should have been finished a year ago. The designs were simple enough, just a mixed-use space on the other side of the Ouse River—not far from the 1237 motorway. Not even their usual thing. Low-brow, almost.” Ashok talked with his hands, and almost upset his water glass. Annie saved it.
“Have they done jobs in town before?” MacAdams asked, moving his own water out of reach.
“Not usually. They did the new facade of a larger hotel a few years back. Modern aesthetics are a little out of place in York.”
MacAdams couldn’t disagree; the firm seemed better fit for the city center of London in terms of their look.
“So why take on something like this at all, then?” he asked. The food had arrived; he permitted himself chips between questions but hovered over his notepad all the same.
“Honestly? It’s been hard all round for that sort of thing. Brexit, various shutdowns, new trade sanctions.” Ashok took a healthy bit of his chicken salad before adding, “If you’re mainly office high-rises, it’s a tough time to be an architect.”
Gridley had, in fact, taken a good look at what Hammersmith produced since about 2016. There were golf clubs and art centers, a few theater rehabs and several (very high end) condos, but they won awards for being the cradle-to-grave company for design and construction of tall glass buildings. But their finances seemed very sound, and despite the empty offices, there hadn’t been a single layoff in either the architectural or real estate side of things. Perhaps that was unusual in itself. He made a note to check back.
“Are you suggesting they lost interest in the project, somehow? Not good enough for them?” MacAdams suggested.
“Not sure. But they’re going to lose the project entirely if the Lord Mayor has a say,” Ashok said, and Annie piped in:
“Part of that building is supposed to house a community center. People are angry it’s been stalled, and I don’t blame them.”
“Especially since the city would have to find another set of real estate developers, at expense,” Ashok added. “Which means a change in space use.”
“To retail, probably,” Annie sighed. “Because we need more of that.”
MacAdams worried the conversation was about to veer toward the state of public programs. He tapped his pencil against the table.
“Would you say delay is the biggest complaint, then?” he asked. “I got the impression that personalities may have been at odds.”
“Oh that,” Ashok said. Yes, MacAdams thought, that. “It was fine until the city put pressure on the job manager. I never met the man, but he had words with the council leader and his deputy. You’d have to be gormless, yeah? You don’t take the piss when it comes to city council.”
“Ashok!” Annie admonished and Ashok blushed to his dark eyebrows. First time MacAdams felt some fellow feeling for the man.
“Sorry! But it’s true.”
This was the first plausible, business-oriented motive MacAdams had come across, as far as Burnhope was concerned. “How much money would Hammersmith stand to lose on a job like this?”
“Probably not more than they could stomach,” Ashok said with a shrug. “It’s more about reputation, though.”
“Especially if bigger jobs are thin on the ground,” MacAdams added. Could Foley have been jeopardizing Hammersmith’s position in a new niche? Or did his mismanagement in York do more than annoy the locals?
“Anyway, this Foley hasn’t been around all that much. That’s frankly the problem.”
“Absence, not presence,” MacAdams clarified. Foley couldn’t very well spend much time in York if he was twice a month in Abington with his lady friend, could he? He dipped his chips in brown sauce, still ignoring the fish. “Tell me, Ashok, what about the property now? Is it still active?”
“I haven’t been by it, so I’m not sure. As far as I know the city hasn’t pulled the plug yet, so it’s not out of Hammersmith’s hands.”
MacAdams had a sudden desire to see the property himself. If derelict, would it be locked up? Better to go first to York Central Station. If Foley had made an ass of himself, the city wouldn’t mind some poking about. He might get surveillance on the place.
“I need to make a call,” he said, pushing his chair back.
Ashok pushed his chair away, too. “I need to answer one,” he said, winking at Annie. “Be back.”
MacAdams watched him disappear in the direction of the WC.
“Don’t be scandalized, James,” Annie said. “When you have toddlers, it’s all potty humor.”
“Right,” he said, because what else did one say to that? “This has been very useful—today—meeting here.”
“And you’re about to do a runner on lunch, aren’t you,” she said, looking at their half-finished plates.
“I’m sorry, Annie.”
“No, you’re not,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve not seen you this engaged with a case since . . . possibly ever.” She narrowed her eyes over apple cheeks and pretended severe scrutiny. “There’s something different about you, James MacAdams.”
“I doubt that,” he said.
“No, it’s true. Your slacks have been ironed.”
“I can do laundry, Annie.” He hunted out a ten-pound note for his portion. Annie batted it away, so he stuck it beneath Ashok’s plate.
“He’s a good man, isn’t he?” he asked.
“Yes, he is,” Annie said and smiled. “I’m happy.”
“I’m glad,” MacAdams said. And he meant it.