Debriefing occurred at six, Thursday morning. The sun had not yet come up, but at least the office was pleasantly cool. Green looked as mysteriously well-rested as ever; Gridley looked daggers at the clock. Andrews—very intelligently—brought a mother lode of pastry, and MacAdams had taken the initiative to bring everyone’s preferred beverage: double-espresso, flat white and Andrews’s “dirty” chai. They all looked tired, but perhaps none more so than Struthers, who was just walking in. He didn’t take coffee, so MacAdams sent Andrews to make a strong cup of tea.
“Thanks for coming, Eric,” he said.
The pathologist smiled weakly. “Would be all right if I’d had a full night of sleep,” he said.
MacAdams clapped him on the shoulder in a way he hoped was bracing. After returning from Jo’s cottage the night before, he’d called Struthers back to his lab. Knowing the murderer may have been back on-site, they needed—first, a much closer time of death, and second, a thorough reexamination of Foley’s belongings. MacAdams hadn’t been idle, either. He lifted documents from the printer and handed them around.
“Sea change,” MacAdams said, taking his position in front. “I know it’s tempting to follow the artifact trade, but I don’t think that’s what got Foley murdered.
“We’ve been struggling with this case for two reasons. First, we didn’t know Foley, the man. Now we do, thanks to Tula Byrne. Second, we had no sense of the murderer apart from seemingly random weapon of choice. Now, we’ve got a bit more.”
“All because Jo didn’t lock her front door?” Gridley asked through a puff of powdered sugar. And when you put it that way, it did sound thin. But MacAdams rallied:
“Small details break cases,” he said, returning to the board. “Let’s make a list. The murderer ice-packs the body, then later returns to the cottage for soap, so he’s careful—fastidious,” he said, borrowing Jo’s word. “What else does this tell us?”
“They’re bold? It’s a hell of a risk, going back,” Green said. “What if someone saw him?”
“Yeah. Plus, how’d he know he could get in, even?” Andrews asked. “We know the door was unlocked, but did he?”
“Or she,” MacAdams said. Green acquiesced this time.
“It’s a good point. You found Foley’s key on the nightstand; he didn’t even have it on him when he got killed.”
MacAdams smiled grimly. “We found it on the nightstand. We assumed Foley didn’t take it with him.” He nodded to Struthers, still blowing on his tea.
“Because we didn’t find any trace of blood in the cottage, we knew the victim was murdered somewhere else. As a result, not everything had been tested for prints.”
“The door?” Gridley asked. Struthers made a half-offended of course noise.
“Obviously, but no usable prints from the latch handle. And since both doors were open, with the key to hand—”
“No one dusted the key,” MacAdams said. “I picked it up from Jo’s last night, sent it to Eric.”
“A nice fat print, thumb, I think,” Struthers said. “Only it doesn’t match our victim’s.”
“It didn’t match anyone in the database, either,” MacAdams explained. “But it did match the extra prints we found in Foley’s flat.”
“Holy shite, boss. You’re saying the murderer actually walked into Netherleigh Cottage while Jo was asleep?” Green’s eyes hovered in their whites. “What if she’d heard him—what if she woke up and caught him? Also, why the hell did he bring the key back?”
That had kept him up most of the night.
“I don’t have an answer to any of that,” he said. “Jo didn’t wake up, thank God. As to the murderer, he may have been looking for something. Struthers has been attempting to find possible prints or DNA on items in Foley’s bag.”
“We’ve no clear evidence—yet—that anything had been rummaged,” Struthers said, but MacAdams already noted at least two inconsistencies. First, why throw the muddy trousers on top of everything else? Second, the damaged pair didn’t look like anything in Foley’s closets. Pale trousers, the sort of thing you might wear to deck chairs—and a size smaller than the pair Foley wore when he died. He’d worn them, they matched the description Jo gave, but it was one more inconsistency.
“I don’t think the various contents are going to yield us much more—especially as our killer doesn’t have prior,” Struthers cautioned. “So I spent most of the night reading tea leaves. Viscera, actually. Trying to narrow down the time of death.”
“We’ve got that at between elevven, when Jo last saw him, and 3:00 a.m.,” Green confirmed.
Struthers nodded. “Right,” he sighed. “I thought I could confirm it with stomach contents. No luck.”
“Okay, I’ll ask,” Andrews said, raising his hand. “How would the stomach help, even?”
Struthers stifled a yawn before continuing. “Well, if you ate something right before being murdered, it wouldn’t be digested. It takes four to six hours to clear the gut. I thought we might be able to work backward if I knew his last meal—maybe even work out what type of food, and whether he consumed it here in town.”
Andrews put down the chocolate éclair and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Sorry I asked.”
“I’m rather sorry I bothered,” Struthers said. “Stomach told me nothing. I still think he must have been murdered very soon after eleven. Liver mortis set in even before we packed him back to my lab.”
This time, no one asked—but it was an important point.
“Blood pooling,” MacAdams said.
Struthers nodded. “Deterioration of blood cells, more accurately.” Still standing next to Andrews, he borrowed his arm and pressed down hard with his thumb. “See how it turns white? In a second or two, the pink returns. When a body’s been dead twelve hours or so, the color doesn’t change anymore.”
“So killer goes back inside with the key,” Andrews said, rubbing the depression vigorously. “And the murder took place closer to eleven? Doesn’t that suggest the murderer went to the cottage to get Foley—and back inside shortly after?”
It seemed likely, but not definitive. They had searched all around the grounds and found no evidence of foul play; Foley had been spirited off somewhere to be murdered.
MacAdams addressed the room. “In review, this murderer steals soap to tidy up the car and even returns the key. It sounds coolheaded, well planned. Except they doesn’t wear gloves, and they kill Foley with an object not well-suited to be a weapon.”
Struthers lifted a bin bag onto an empty chair, then took out several glass curios and the ashtray. Several had evidently shattered.
“I was able to replicate the damage with various objects, but only the ashtray worked in a single blow—and most left shards. I’m convinced now that this was a heavy object, resilient to shattering. If glass, tempered.”
“Then it’s time to go looking in Newcastle,” MacAdams said. “At the Burnhopes’. They are, after all, into the arts. What about our other leads?”
“Gimme a sec!” Gridley said, snatching something from the printer. “I got the guest list from the charity ball at Lime Tree Greens. I also spoke for two hours with various art dealers in York and Newcastle to see which of them were big collectors. And I cross-referenced with the booking list at Abington Arms.”
She had highlighted a name: Gerald Standish. “He’s a Newcastle man, made his money in oil and gas. Big giver at the charity.”
“Good work,” he said. “We’ll look him up, too.”
From the back, Andrews gave a wave.
“Oi! Sketch artist has a rough copy of the mystery woman ready. You can pick it up at the front desk.”
MacAdams fished his keys out of a pocket and beckoned to Green. It was time to pay the Burnhopes a visit.
* * *
They didn’t stop at Costa this time; MacAdams and Green chose assorted foods from Tesco and made it to Hammersmith by nine, hoping to catch Stanley, first, then Ava at home. Unfortunately, Burnhope wasn’t in. MacAdams half wondered if it was an attempt to avoid them. It wouldn’t work. Fifteen minutes brought them to the Burnhope residence, its top floor skylights glinting in morning sun. Green rang the bell; as before, Nanny Maryam was the one to answer. She recognized them this time, but she still didn’t smile.
“Please wait here,” she directed.
A moment later, Ava Burnhope took her place to usher them inside.
“Trisha Simmons told us you were coming,” she said, sweeping along in a floor-length duster of sea-foamgreen, MacAdams would have said, except so desaturated to the point where color words seemed irrelevant. He wasn’t just looking at her, however. He was casing the entire house.
“He is working from home, I take it?” he asked, eyes straying to the mantelpiece as she led them through. Two bronze rabbits. A sizable freestanding clock.
“He is. And does,” Ava said. “There’s a conference room upstairs and he’s in a meeting.” Ava slow-blinked at them. “You’re welcome to wait, though I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
They were in the rear music room again, exactly as MacAdams hoped. He wondered suddenly if it was soundproof. What might happen in such a space with the shades drawn? The glass “muses” stood as before, far too large to be used as weapons. But they weren’t the only sculptures on display.
“You two patronize the arts, I understand?” MacAdams asked, choosing a seat. Ava did not like her household disturbed, clearly. But she wasn’t rude, either; she took one of the chairs for herself, all poise and social graces.
“Of course. As you have clearly seen.”
“What about that one?” MacAdams asked. He indicated a figure in molten silver and orange, the size and shape of a cockatiel.
“Local artist,” Ava said. “Part of a series of ten.”
“May I?” MacAdams asked, intending to pick it up. Ava stood to intercept him.
“It’s fragile. Blown glass, Detective. You can see how delicate.” She picked it up herself and brought it gently to his notice—but didn’t allow him to touch. Regardless, it was no murder weapon.
“Do you ever purchase anything older? Or foreign?” Green asked. Ava’s look remained aloof, if slightly vacant.
“I don’t follow,” she said, replacing the glass bird.
“Antiquities. From Syria,” MacAdams clarified—and watched her eyes narrow precipitously.
“As in a building site full of stolen goods, Detective? No.” She stood up. “I am not a fool. We’ve already answered to York police, and I understand you have questions. But don’t pretend pleasantries and don’t make assumptions.”
Whatever else Ava might be—philanthropist, pianist, patron of the arts, suspected murderer—she was at least impressive about it. And he had to respect plain dealing.
“All right. I do plan to ask about the artifacts.”
“I don’t know anything about them.”
“Perhaps your friends do? Gerald Standish?” MacAdams asked.
“I don’t know him, either,” she said resolutely. He didn’t believe her in the slightest. But it wasn’t his last card trick.
“He was one of the collectors on the guest list for the gala. But no matter. Maybe you can help me with this instead.”
The sketch artist had produced a rough but serviceable rendition based on Arianna’s description back at the hotel. A young subject looked up from the folded paper, peaked chin, round cheeks still in puppy fat. The eyes were dark and large, almond shaped. Hair: black. He presented the image to Ava.
“Do you recognize this woman?” he asked.
“Not immediately. Should I?”
“She’s missing, and possibly in trouble. Look carefully,” he said. Ava reengaged her attention.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, peering down with greater interest.
“The kind that got Ronan Foley killed,” MacAdams said.
“I told you, I didn’t know Ronan Foley.”
“That’s strange. He called your house several times.”
“Well, I never spoke to him.”
“You’re sure?” MacAdams asked. Ava’s gaze could freeze quicksilver.
“I am,” she assured him.
Thankfully, Green picked up the broken thread. We’re asking because he’s been keeping company with this girl,” she said, crossing the room. Now she and Ava looked at the sketch together. “Young. Very young, we gather. Vulnerable.”
“Is she an immigrant?” Ava asked.
It surprised MacAdams—Green, too.
“Why would you ask that, Ms. Burnhope?”
Ava handed back the drawing and fixed her with those pale eyes.
“I spend most of my time in charity work for refugees. Most of them are young—very young—and vulnerable.”
“We think she’s in trouble,” Green said.
“Trouble is what makes a refugee,” Ava assured her. “Ukraine, Gaza.”
“And Syria,” MacAdams said suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s where Maryam comes from, isn’t it?” MacAdams asked. “You said she’d been with you for a year, from Syria.” Ava’s face remained placid as ever, but the hard edge had returned again.
“I don’t see why that is relevant.”
“Don’t you?” Green asked. “You could scarcely find more trouble than the Syrian crisis. Thirteen years of people displacement—”
“Funding war crimes through traffic in artifacts,” MacAdams added. “Like the ones we found in York.”
“I know of the horrors,” Ava said tersely. “Better than you. And I don’t condone the looting of vulnerable cultures. But frankly, I don’t see what that has to do with Maryam or why you insist on asking me about her.”
“All right. Let’s talk about Fresh Start instead,” MacAdams said. “How many Syrian refugees have you sponsored?”
“Many. Obviously.” Ava stood up and walked to the tall windows. “You say you know how terrible it is there. Have you seen it? Have you looked into the eyes of children who have?” She wrapped her arms around her willowy frame, despite the sun and its warmth. “I suppose for you I’m a wealthy socialite, making good on my charitable giving. Don’t think I haven’t heard that before.”
Her voice changed with emotion; the velvety quality grew somehow stronger, more intense and varied. A symphony.
“We cannot take them all,” she said, still looking away over the manicured gardens. “We bring a few, and they weep at night for their sisters and brothers, cousins and grandparents. Why can’t we save them?”
When Ava turned about, her glass-like eyes held unfallen tears.
“Do you know what it’s like to say we can’t? Half of Maryam’s family remains behind. We don’t even know if they are still alive. All this—all this—” she swept her arm about the room with its bespoke furnishings “—and we cannot save them all because of paperwork and politics and because no one cares.”
MacAdams allowed her to finish, and for the silence to stretch. Then he held up the sketch again.
“I care,” he said. “Ronan Foley wasn’t who he pretended to be. His real name is Rhyan Flannery, and he was mixed up in antiquities trafficking, art theft, forgery and maybe worse. He was also involved with this woman—or girl. You say you didn’t know him. If it’s true, then you have every reason to help me—because this woman is missing, and I think she’s in trouble.”
Ava’s cool exterior had softened when she spoke about the refugees. Now it shattered. She looked no different to the unpracticed eye, but there was a human under there.
“A forger. An art thief,” she repeated. “And you say he was Stanley’s partner?”
“And that he called your house. Repeatedly,” Green added.
MacAdams watched the import of that sink in before adding, “There’s a connection here somewhere between money and artifacts and murder and that girl. If you really want to help, then it’s about time your husband finished his meeting.”
Ava nodded. It was slight, but resolute. Then she turned around and walked out of the room.
“Follow me, please.”