Sheila Green pulled a long-sleeved T-shirt over her head and tugged on a pair of cargo pants. It wasn’t her usual workplace attire, but today wasn’t a usual day.
“You all right, babe?” Rachel asked. She was still in her sleep shirt, sitting cross-legged on their bed.
“Mostly,” Green said. She looked into the bureau mirror, past her own reflection to see Rachel’s. “Do I look enough like a Pennine Way hiker?”
“You look like a sexy lesbian.”
“I am a sexy lesbian.”
“No, you’re my sexy lesbian,” Rachel said, getting up to join her. A good six inches shorter, she nuzzled her head against Green’s shoulder. Green always preferred her natural hair to extensions; the box braids were short and tight—except for the baby hairs along her neck. Rachel already had her fingers coiling around the stray strands.
“I’ll give you a call when it’s over,” Green said, turning around.
“Too fucking right, you will.” Rachel planted a kiss on her lips. “You got this. You’re the best there is when things get real.”
And they had definitely gotten real. When they got through with a building search, they’d found more than fifty boxes of looted history. It wasn’t quite as big as the Interpol raid a few years earlier, perhaps—that one turned up nineteen thousand stolen artifacts in an operation that spanned over a hundred countries. But when it came to precious objects of antiquity, size and number were no indication of cost. Millions of pounds’ worth had been stored in the York building site. Where there was money, there was trouble—and that was before taking into account where the artifacts came from. Even without Interpol, York Central was able to source some of the pottery back to Syria, and Gridley’s online search turned up plenty on the looting of cultural sites. War. Warlords. In a weird way, Green almost wished they were dealing with drug trafficking instead—less complicated, at least.
Green tied up her boots. She had been trained and licensed for firearms use but set that aside when she became a DS. Neither she nor MacAdams—nor much of anyone else—carried a gun, and she didn’t miss it. Except on days like today.
They were walking up to the van—one of the vans—in a largely deserted area, which may or may not be on alert already after the break-in last night in York. Green had spent the afternoon in Newcastle with some of her former mates, and her former chief . . . and she’d called in a favor: would they send a few members of the firearms division, just in case? They would. In her opinion, they should. They owed it.
When she called the chief in the middle of the night saying MacAdams had been assaulted in an artifacts raid, she didn’t even have to ask. The officers would be waiting for her at the station, and they’d brought extra protective gear for her, Andrews and Gridley. Probably this was more caution than necessary. But Green didn’t take chances.
The weather had changed again, was wet and brooding and cool. The van arrived as predicted by nine; Green had watched them park up through binoculars.
“Same plate as the one from yesterday,” she said to Gridley.
The registration had checked out just fine, listed as belonging to a Samuel Fordham. Mr. Fordham lived in Bent Road, Newcastle, and had opened his door to police in his pajamas. Yes, he was who he claimed to be—current driver license, no infractions.
Trouble was, he didn’t own a van, or a car, either. His identity had been stolen, lifted and applied to the white butty van presently parked down the hill from where Green and the others took positions.
“Firearm team ready?” Green spoke into Gridley’s radio.
“Yes, Detective, we’ve got you covered,” returned the tinny voice.
Green patted the vest well concealed under a windbreaker and nodded to Gridley.
“Careful,” Gridley mouthed.
Andrews gave her a thumbs-up; they had the road blocked to either side. She nodded, took a break and made her way down the far side of the hill.
She could hear music playing long before she got to the open window and its metal counter. Punk, she thought; not her style but Rachel liked it—possibly Ghost Car, out of London. Green rapped on the counter hard enough to jostle condiments.
“Oi, be there in a minute,” came the reply, followed by a pocked face and a shock of red hair. Not the youth they had encountered before—but also about twenty. “What can I get you?”
“Actually,” Green said. “I am not here for bacon butty.”
His face appeared to be on hold. “What are you here for, then?” he asked.
Green kept her face neutral, body language casual. “Same as you,” she said. He didn’t appear to be buying it. “Just running late today. It’s muddy out there.”
“You—you’re a walker?” he asked, one hand squeezing down the volume control on a set of portable speakers.
Green felt her eyebrows twitch. A walker, he said, when the common term was rambler. Did it signify? She decided to commit.
“I’m the walker today,” she said, changing to the definite article.
“Haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m new.”
The kid looked Green up and down, and she immediately regretted not sending Andrews, who was youngest of them and looked younger still. For a tense moment, she thought the game was up. Then he reached behind the counter and lifted up a hiker’s backpack.
“Your turn,” he said, and Green began to sweat. Her turn for what?
“Show me what’s in the bag first,” she said, heart beating hard against her ribs. He still had one hand on it, firm.
“Ain’t how it works,” he said. “Gimme the envelope.”
Green reached into her jacket, a pretense. Could she stall further? If she jumped for it, could she grab hold of the bag strap? Should she blow cover and call for backup?
“Benny? That you?”
Green started at the voice and spun about. Between the punk rock music and the soft, wet earth, she hadn’t heard anyone walking up to them. Not just anyone; a young girl in a blue poncho and wellies. She had something tucked under one arm.
“Ah, shit!” Benny, as the pocked teen must be known, had recognized the girl—and also his mistake. He slammed the window shut. Green wasn’t fast enough to stop him from latching it, but at the moment, she had bigger problems. The girl had taken off across the moor.
“Stop! Police!” Green shouted, not because she assumed it would work, but to alert the others that the jig was up. The girl had a good start, but Green was fast and in better footwear. She pelted across the trail in pursuit.
Off the trail, the hills were a matrix of boggy earth and hard rock. The girl in blue slid down a muddy incline on her backside, momentarily vanishing from view. Green took the hill at an angle instead, carving to the left and picking up speed as she raced after her.
Near the bottom was a ravine, presently swollen with runoff water. The girl plunged in, tripped against rocks or current or both, and fell face-first into the water. Green jumped in after her, grasping hold of the girl to lift her out. They both semicollapsed on the grass, the girl still clutching a plastic sleeve.
‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” she squealed as Green tugged it away from her. Inside was a brown manila envelope. She opened it to reveal a sheaf of crisp bills.
“I’m placing you under arrest,” she huffed. “You don’t have to say anything—but it might harm your defense if—” But by this point, the girl was wailing. Green stared at wet blond hair and spoiled makeup on what might have been a fifteen-year-old. “Oh for—Are you hurt or something?”
The girl shook her head but continued to cry and, possibly, hyperventilate. Green knelt next to her.
“Okay, okay now. Let’s breathe. In and out, slow. You’re all right.”
“I’m not. All right. I’m not.” Her words came out like gasping hiccups. “They gonna send. Me back. Don’t want. To go back!”
“Back where?” Green asked. The girl looked up, nose dripping.
“HM,” she said.
* * *
HM, Her Majesty’s Young Offenders, incarceration for troubled teens, young drug addicts, petty thieves. Green sipped hot tea; she’d gone home for a quick change after her dousing—she honestly felt bad that the girl couldn’t do the same. Best she could manage was to bring in a pair of Rachel’s scrubs and a sweatshirt.
“How old is she?” Gridley asked.
“Seventeen. I know, she doesn’t look it,” Green said. “She finally gave us the name of her guardian; foster mum. We’re waiting on legal representation, as she’s a minor.”
She called herself Rose, though her name turned out to be Rosalind Ellis. In and out of care homes, high school dropout, did some time for stealing.
“Job training center,” Gridley said, flipping through the print-fresh file. “Part of her early release; curfew with the foster, get some skill levels at the center.”
“Hold up, which one?” Andrews asked. He had two calls going, one on the landline and one on his cell. “Newcastle City Center by chance?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Hold—hold on,” he said to the landline call. “Look here. That’s where our young friend Benny’s been jobbing out of, too.”
Green hovered over his shoulder. He’d scratched out a dozen notes on a pad at his elbow: Benjamin (Benny) Wendall, twenty-one, had denied knowing anything about anything, despite an attempt to flee (stopped at the roadblock). But it seemed he had been in and out of the same job center.
“Has form, too,” Andrews added, pointing to the mobile phone call ongoing. “Public drunkenness and assaulting a traffic cop.”
“Find out everything about the center, then. I want rosters with names before the boss gets in.”
“I’m already in.”
“Boss!” Gridley flew across the room to meet MacAdams. For a second, Green thought she might hug the man. “God, we’re glad you’re all right.”
“Mostly,” he said. He traced a finger delicately along the back of his head. “Better after a sleep, but headache lingers.”
Andrews managed to untangle himself from phone cords.
“Now we know why Chief Clapham always said you were hardheaded,” he said, because someone had to, and it might as well be Tommy. Green found herself grinning anyway, because she was damn glad to see him, too. And at some more appropriate point, she wanted the details about how exactly Jo Jones came to be the one to ensure it. There was something about her that made Green want to root for her.
“Got a lot of debriefing to do,” she said. “And we’re waiting on chaperone for a minor; want a coffee?”
* * *
“I met the firearms unit,” MacAdams said as they took plastic chairs in the kitchenette. “You took no chances, I see.”
“We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet, do we?” Green said, a trifle defensive. “Gold earrings are one thing, but they found a quarter-ton limestone plaque on the ground floor.”
“I wasn’t questioning your decision,” he said. “Honest.” Green pursed her lips.
“Right, I guess you weren’t.”
MacAdams sipped his black-no-cream. “You did right, protecting your people.”
“Well. Training.” Green cleared her throat. “Anyway, we looked in that rucksack of Benny’s. It had two items; one was a horse and rider in terra cotta, and the other a pillar figure made of clay. Gridley found ones like them in a museum collection—Syrian, Euphrates region. And I’m guessing it’s part of the loot in York.”
“We’ve contacted the British Museum; they’re supposed to send us experts to verify provenance. But it’s a good guess that it’s all Syrian. Looting funds terrorists, and targets include religious sites, cultural institutions and archeological sites to traffic the spoils.”
“Fucking hell, boss!” Green bucked her sharp chin. “That’s not exactly a precinct kind of problem, is it? I mean, the British and American governments haven’t been able to stop it; what are we supposed to do about it?”
The answer was: not much. They’d already notified UNESCO—The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural organization acted as the UN’s watchdog on such things. Multinational art theft lay with the international police. But of course, Abington CID had problems much closer to home.
“What we do is find out how this relates to the murder of Ronan Foley—or the butty van or Hammersmith,” he said. His head was still pounding. Sort of a background thump, as if a car park were going up just outside his frontal cortex. “Burnhope’s been out ahead of us,” he added. “As soon as Burnhope had news of our raid, he made a public statement. It’s in the paper already, I’d guess. Claimed to have no idea that the property had been used to nefarious ends; all Foley’s doing, and so on. Appalled, horrified, betrayed.”
“He told press it was Ronan Foley?” Green grimaced. “Thank God we managed to get the obituary out ahead of this—but who’s gonna claim him as next of kin now?”
Another question to ricochet in MacAdams head; he needed to clear it before they interviewed their young perpetrators. He peered through the interview glass at Miss Rose. Her foster mother had not yet made an appearance, but the youth counsel had. They could start there. MacAdams pushed the door open to face the sad-looking creature before them, still wet-headed but presently wearing Rachel’s pants and Green’s Newcastle United sweatshirt.
“Detective Chief Inspector MacAdams and Detective Sergeant Green to interview Rosalind Ellis,” he said for the recording.
“It’s Rose,” she sniffed into her teacup.
“Okay, Rose. You were carrying an envelope today. Did you know what was in it?”
The counsel nodded to her client. “You can answer,” she said.
“No.”
“There was money inside. You saw me open it,” Green said.
“I didn’t know beforehand,” Rose clarified. “Was just a packet, like.”
“Okay. Where did you get it, then?” Green asked.
“Dunno.”
“Rose,” MacAdams said quietly, “if you don’t want to get into trouble, just tell us where it came from.”
“They said there wouldn’t be no trouble!” she moaned.
“They who?” MacAdams asked.
“Just boys. I don’t know.”
“Boys?” MacAdams asked, but Rose had shut up like a book. He tried asking twice more, but Rose said nothing, and the counsel reminded him that he could not force her to answer. It was a quiet minute, then Green cleared her throat.
“Hi, Rose. That’s my shirt; I hope it’s warm enough.” Rose nodded, so Green went on. “The people who told you; they were at the job center, right? Because someone there told Benny, too. You recognized him, I think?”
That got a response, if a small one. She looked up through her eyebrows.
“I don’t like the center. It’s hard getting jobs. Not good ones that pay you anything.”
“You’re right,” Green agreed. “Newcastle is hard like that, especially for early leavers.” MacAdams noted she did not call the girl a dropout, though it amounted to much the same thing. Good tactic; he let her carry on.
“So somebody was going to give you a better job, right? Some regular pay,” she said—only this time, Rose shook her head.
“Not regular. We only had to do it every couple of months. But it was five hundred pounds each time!” That had been the amount in the envelope meant for Benny, too.
“That’s a lot,” Green agreed. “Would be nice to have. So how did you earn it?”
Rose rubbed her nose. “There’s a place to get sandwiches outta van.”
“Here in Abington?”
“Nar, in Newcastle. Just on the street, like. I got chips. And this plastic thing.” Rose chewed her lip. “It’s not illegal.”
That was technically true. MacAdams leaned forward, hands spread on the table. If the girl was scared of going back to HM, then they could use it to advantage.
“Can you tell us what you did next? Maybe none of that was illegal, either,” he said.
“It weren’t!” she agreed enthusiastically. “It’s just a train ride, getting here. Then I was s’posed to go for a walk. Leave the envelope in the van and take a bag.” Her eyes searched the counsel’s face. “That’s not crimes, is it? They can’t send me back for that, can they?”
“Then what?” MacAdams repeated, trying to mask his impatience. “Who were you supposed to meet?”
Rose only shrugged. “Someone was supposed to find me,” she said.
A knock came at the door, then, and Gridley entered, but she wasn’t alone.
“Sir, Rose’s foster mum—” was about all she managed to say.
“Rosalind! I thought we’d got past all this!” said a harried-looking women in tracksuit and jacket. “And you can’t interview her without a guardian!”
“We have provided for counsel,” MacAdams said.
“Well?” the woman demanded, though it was hard to know from whom she expected an answer. Rose had retreated further into Green’s sweatshirt. She hadn’t made the drop; she hadn’t even been to the hotel yet—she couldn’t tell them any more.
“Do you want to go home?” MacAdams asked. Enthusiastic nodding ensued. He nodded to Green. “Thank you for answering our questions. We may have more; please don’t leave town.”
“She’s not leaving the house, is what,” the foster said, helping Rose out of her seat.
MacAdams gave both of them his card.
“Does that mean—Am I not under arrest now?” Rose asked hopefully.
“You’re free to go,” MacAdams assured her. It was the first time she smiled.
* * *
In the end, interviewing Benny put them at the same disadvantage. He really did work the butty van, and only did the “other” job now and then. Deliver a bag, take an envelope. He knew Rose from the job center, but they weren’t the only ones working the gig. There had to be other pairs, but Benny and Rose didn’t know them. And neither of them seemed to know Foley, either.
“Fucking evil,” Green said. They were seated in the Red Lion, opting for an honest lunch and a pint after all that. “Butty vans and coffee wagons pepper the way between petrol stops. No one questions you stopping. And the kids aren’t told anything. Disposable. Itinerant. It’s genius in a way; no one on either side has enough info to incriminate you.”
MacAdams shrugged. The porter was going down very well and the throbbing had finally ceased. “Genius or reckless? What if a kid steals an artifact? Or pawns it?”
“That’s only if you know what you have,” Green reminded him. “Okay, the gold earrings are fancy. But half the stuff in York was painted pottery and such. What’s a kid gonna do with that? You said yourself you have to know a network. A big, international one.”
“Right, there’s the problem,” MacAdams said. He had been slow-scrolling through an article about looted antiquities. “Big. Multinational. Plenty of the artifacts are laundered through auction houses, even museums. A buyer could almost be aboveboard.”
“Okay,” Green said slowly. “So if it’s not that hard to source the stuff, why buy it out the back of a butty van?”
“Exactly.” He clinked her glass. “There were too many artifacts in the York property for this to be a small-time operation. Efficiency, planning, connections. Hiring troubled teens to port things via butty van is anything but.”
“So—it’s two problems?” Green asked. “Why would a high-flying, clearly well-lubricated operation stoop to selling on back roads? And who buys their artifacts that way?”
MacAdams still didn’t have an answer to the first question. He might have an answer to the second. “Frankly, it has to be someone local.”
“You’re joking. Who around here would have the money for that sort of thing?” Green asked; MacAdams gave her a thin, hard smile.
“The kind of people who stay at Abington Arms, I would guess,” he said.
“Or the kind who join gold clubs in Newcastle?” Green offered. She had as much respect for Burnhope as he did for old Clapham. Rich men whose money made bad things go away. Burnhope seemed to be using those riches in the right way, but neither of them were quite ready to let him off. Did that make them biased against the fantastically wealthy? Or just wise flatfoots who’d seen a lot of crooked morals among the great and good? Wisdom, he decided, knocking back the rest of his pint.
“Time to rattle Burnhope again, then, too,” he said, And Ava, he added silently. He waved at Tula for the bill, but she didn’t bring it. Instead, she slapped the day’s edition of Newcastle news on the counter.
“You just saved me a trip,” she said, pointing to the front page. Stanley Burnhope peered up front and center, shaking hands with the mayor: “Local business targeted by black market dealers: Stanley Burnhope seeks counsel of mayor after discovery of building break-in.”
“Wow,” Green said. “That’s a hell of an interpretation.”
MacAdams had predicted it, but even he was impressed with how Burnhope spun the story to appear as the victim. Tula, however, wasn’t concerned with this particular bit of news. She’d underlined a name farther down the article lead: Ronan Foley.
“That’s your dead guy,” she said.
“It is,” MacAdams agreed. “We placed that ad ourselves.”
Tula nodded, sending waves of curls bouncing. Then, she shuffled the pile to bring forward news from the day before, folded to the obituaries.
“Aye, o’ course you did. Looking for next of kin, ain’t you?”
“That was the plan,” Green said.
“Right. Well. Here I am.” She pulled up a spare bar stool and sat upon it, hands leaning on the flat front edge of her seat. MacAdams felt suddenly like a trap was being set.
“You. You’re Ronan Foley’s next of kin?”
“O, aye.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “See, I’m his wife.”