Thursday, 18:37
Jo stared down an empty street. They had been following the yellow raincoat for ten minutes. Yellow like Caution, or Slippery When Wet; it should have been easy to track. It wasn’t. The woman never stopped, rarely slowed and moved with erratic cadence . . . almost as if she knew someone followed behind and had every intent of losing them.
Now she had.
Jo leaned against a light post and overlooked Grey’s Monument.
“Gone,” she muttered, lifting her left foot. There had been entirely too much walking all day, and a newborn blister was forming. Gwilym rolled his shirtsleeves. The evening promised to be cool, but they’d both worked up a sweat in the chase.
“Maybe she went into one of the shops?” he asked. Jo looked at her flagging phone battery and frowned.
“According to GPS, we’ve been heading south and east pretty directly,” she said, showing the blue line of their recent movements. Gwilym had tucked Aiden’s notebook under his arm and followed along on his own mobile.
“So not as random as it felt,” he said. “She must have a destination in mind. I mean, she might even live around here.”
“But we first saw her in Abington,” Jo protested.
“Honestly, all I saw was a yellow blur. How can we be sure it’s even the same person?”
“It’s her. I saw her face. Also, the coat doesn’t have lapels; you don’t see a priest’s collar on a rain slicker very often,” Jo said. But there was something more, too, something that assured her even if she couldn’t quite explain it. It felt the same. Both times she’d seen her Jo had the same strange presentiment, the long-shadowed feeling of dread. It wasn’t a superpower, but pheromones . . . And according to recent scientific study, it wasn’t even rare. Humans evolved to pick up emotion chemicals; they simultaneously evolved to forget that’s what they were doing. Chemical signatures shared through sweat glands: I have a bad feeling about this. The woman was afraid . . . and on some subconscious level, Jo could smell trouble.
“We need to find her before something bad happens,” Jo said finally. And to his credit, Gwilym started hunting the map for possibilities.
“Welp, if she keeps on south, she’ll have to cross a bridge.” He looked at his watch, then back to the phone. “We might be able to catch up.”
They headed south, not quite jogging down Grey Street with Gwilym in the lead.
“Okay, decision time,” Gwilym said as they circled a roundabout in a nest of stately sandstone buildings. “High Level Bridge or Swing? Those are more likely for pedestrians.”
“Let’s do both. I’ll take Swing and meet you on the other side.”
The High Level Bridge arched above them, meaning Gwilym had to backtrack. Jo stole another look at her own map before heading toward the river.
Swing Bridge took the middle between High and the stately auto bridge; it was, however, the far more humble construction. The pedestrian way wound outside of the supports; no rails or bumper between pavement and a short drop to the water. Safe enough, she guessed, as fat drops began falling. Jo pulled her hood in place as pedestrians ducked under awnings on her side of the river. The far side appeared empty; no shops, no one traveling the bridge, not even a passing car. Certainly not a woman in a rain slicker. Jo headed across anyway.
The drops became a steady—if light—rain by the time she reached the end. The south side of the river had a wholly different feel. On the hill she could see a hotel; street level offered mainly spray-paint-tagged garage doors of closed shops. The wind had begun to blow, sending a chill down her damp spine. Gwilym would be coming from the west, so she chose to go east and south.
Bottle Bank Street ran next to a stone wall and the separation of the river. There had been crowds all day, everywhere she went; the business corridor felt strangely blank and lonely by contrast. She stood at the next intersection, a prickle raising hairs on the back of her neck. Text MacAdams, she thought. She’d meant Gwilym. Until she didn’t.
Jo pulled out her phone and scrolled to M. We’ve found and lost the vanishing hiker, she typed. Send. Send. Send, send, send . . .
The screen blinked and turned off: dead battery. Jo huffed and tucked it back in her pocket, eyes straying down the cross street and its identical apartment lofts for rent—and a single flash of distant yellow.
“Wait!” Jo shouted, but she was far ahead of her. The street headed away at an angle, past the hotel. Service drive, Jo thought. Garbage bins and maintenance vehicles, and probably no trespassing, but the girl had just vanished around the corner. Jo followed, ignoring her screaming blister—but the road dead-ended at a parking garage. Jo stared at two square doors and warnings about low ceilings. There wasn’t anywhere else to go; she must have run inside.
“I should not be doing this.” It had never worked before, but she felt obliged to say it anyway. Then she held her breath and crossed into the shadow of the building. Jo half expected to be accosted, or at least to set off some sort of alarm; she saw no one, heard nothing but a distant drip of water somewhere farther within. A row of parked cars ran down the one side, one of them surprisingly American—an SUV as big as an Escalade. Jo stared at her own reflection in its tinted windows, and then, the engine turned over. Jo started and spun around, ready to dash for the entrance, but someone stood just behind her. A man. A man who shouldn’t be there.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, coming closer.
Jo’s voice came out in a gasping whisper: “Ronan Foley?”
19:00
Newcastle’s CID grew considerably quieter in the after-hours. Green and MacAdams had borrowed desk space and were currently going through the charity ball footage frame by agonizing frame. MacAdams had taken a break to refresh their coffees; when he returned Green was hanging up the landline.
“They’re keeping the kid overnight in a cell,” Green was saying. “Worried he’s a flight risk.”
“He’d have every reason. He doesn’t want to go back to the Ukraine.”
“We still have Sophie, too,” he said, though they couldn’t keep her. He’d repeated the interview and taken her statement, but lying about someone else’s offense wasn’t the same as committing one.
“Speaking of.” Green paused the footage and reversed it. “There’s Sophie on the night of.”
Dressed in sequins, she’d be hard to miss. She worked her way through the ballroom. A banner had been hung above, and tiny white lights twinkled against exposed stone walls. Smart-clad staff filled champagne flutes, and Sophie gave her wide, breezy smile to black-tie guests. Time-stamp: 21:12, just after 9:00 p.m.
“That’s the city CEO she’s taking to—Ava’s father,” Green explained. “And that’s the Lord Mayor in the back with the whiskey glass.” The guest list had included plenty more from city governance, but also three MPs and a representative from Home Office, along with not a few local celebrities and the city’s top-earning businesspersons. “They skimmed the whole top layer for this gig. And there’s Burnhope.”
MacAdams squinted at the freeze-frame. He’d given a speech at the outset, about eight, and hadn’t been around much since. Now, four people stood in front of him posing for a photograph and mostly obstructing the view. Stanley said something to Sophie, then he was out of frame again.
“You know, while you were suspecting Ava, I half thought the two of them were carrying on,” Green said. “Sophie and Burnhope, I mean.”
“They did fly to Syria without Ava,” MacAdams agreed, settling back in his chair.
“Right? But it’s like with Trisha and Foley, maybe. One-sided.”
“You think Sophie was keen and Burnhope wasn’t?”
“Or didn’t want to risk it. A wife like Ava and all those fancy connections would be a lot to jeopardize.”
“Yet, he has jeopardized them,” MacAdams said. “If we can find evidence he was part of this mess, he stands to lose just about everything. Then again, what if this case isn’t about the artifacts at all?”
“Didn’t we seize a small museum’s worth of the stuff?”
“Yes. Technically,” MacAdams said. “But it hasn’t helped us make sense of Foley’s murder. What’s the motive?”
“Money, in’it? Makes problems go away. And trafficking anything makes money,” Green reminded him. MacAdams drank his coffee. Obviously, following the money was just good policing. Then why did it feel wrongheaded?
“I know the gold is worth something on its own. The pottery, though. The bronze statue in Dmytro’s locker. Our going theory is that most of the objects that the kids trafficked didn’t ‘look’ expensive. They would be valuable for a select few.”
“It would to the right people, though,” Green said, looking at her screen again. “Standish, for instance.”
“Him and his nose rings. But even he’s not buying a whole warehouse full. That’s the sign of a big operation. Trafficking anything requires a network. It’s global. Hammersmith is global. And yet, this butty van business, the use of the kids, the Geordie driver—”
“With his lead pipe,” Green added, and MacAdams grimaced a smile.
“Ye-es, with that. It’s all small. Unprofessional.” Beside him, Green pushed her chair back and swiveled toward him.
“Ah. That’s why you still suspect Burnhope. And what, this other stuff was Foley cutting corners?”
“Maybe. He made a mess of the York property, too. As Burnhope himself told us, no head for business. But if Foley isn’t the trafficking mastermind, then we need to open up our motives again.” He set his mug down. “Leave the video for a minute. Let’s go to the whiteboard. What are our possible scenarios now?”
Green rolled up her sleeves and tapped her chin with one finger.
“Number one: Foley is running it all—dealing with trade and with the front end, in Syria. Gets in over his head. Tries to do a runner but doesn’t make it.”
“Meaning the murder is UNESCO and Interpol territory. Okay, next?”
“Two: Burnhope and Foley are in it together. Foley was his heavy, the dark horse to his golden boy, and the York property was a place to warehouse artifacts before distribution,” Green finished, but MacAdams wagged a finger.
“Except Burnhope knew that the York property was behind schedule and had been called by the Lord Mayor of all people. Ashok said they could have lost the property if the right strings were pulled; that’s no place to keep secrets.”
“Maybe he’s just that brash?” Green asked.
MacAdams stared at the photos pinned to the board. Burnhope, with his hooded eyes, smooth manners, important friends. Foley, with his faux black hair, his habit of bullying men and wooing women and his propensity to bug out when things got hot.
“No. Burnhope is bold. He’s cool under pressure. But not brash. I don’t think he knew the artifacts were in York. If he had, and he was part of the deal, he would have cleaned the place out immediately, not three days after Foley’s death. But that’s not all.” MacAdams drummed the table. “Burnhope said it himself, in a way. Foley did the dirty work, the hands-on business of dealing with contractors. If Burnhope is in on the trade, Foley is the middleman. And Burnhope himself doesn’t want that job.”
Green drew her brows together, thinking.
“Did you just clear Burnhope of murder?” she asked.
“No. But now you see why I don’t think the motive has to do with the artifact trade.”
“Okay, then what about Foley corrupting Dmytro?” Green suggested. “That’s a motive for Burnhope and Sophie. And what about Gerald Standish? He’s a sponsor or whatever, but isn’t he still a likely buyer for the butty van art?”
MacAdams set his coffee mug aside. “Okay, now that makes sense. Small-time operation, that would be the sort of thing that works local. Granted, he still has plausible deniability. He could say he didn’t know the back-of-van objects were illegal.”
“Yes but only because Foley is dead. He can’t plea-bargain and spill it. But he can’t be our murderer, either,” Green said, returning to the computer terminal. “He’s right here on the tapes . . . and he never even leaves the bar.”
The alibis were really starting to gall. Green restarted the video and MacAdams peered over her shoulder. Ava had entered the frame. She wore a gown of shimmering silver, her platinum hair wound up in a complicated braid. The piano had been largely obscured by milling humans; now a spotlight shone upon it, and Ava took her place at the keys.
“You know, I may have had a mild crush on her,” she mused. “Back in Newcastle. She was a joy to watch, even if not exactly my type.”
There it was again: type. He found himself thinking of Arianna—and her taunts about leaving town.
“Do you miss it here in Newcastle?” he asked.
Green lifted her head and smiled faintly. “Sometimes,” she said. “But I left for Rachel.”
On the screen, Sophie had announced the silent auction—and Ava began to play. The long, willowy arms seemed to float above dancing fingers. They had the sound off, but it was captivating anyway.
Green leaned on her hand. “Rachel was seeing someone else when we met. Arianna Templeton. Don’t look at me like that—you knew I’d tell you eventually.”
“I made no assumptions,” MacAdams protested.
“Well, the split was messy. And when we got together, Arianna was furious. At me, not Rachel.”
“Because you replaced her?”
“Because I’m a cop. The queer community isn’t exactly police friendly, and I don’t blame us for it. But that wasn’t it. She said I’d doomed Rachel to a life of worry and pain and looking out windows wondering if I’d come home again.” Green’s smile faded. “Then I lost my partner to a bad call-out. So I left Newcastle because I didn’t want to make Rachel a widow.”
MacAdams noted the gut punch of irony—to leave dangerous city cases only to end up where you started with trafficking and a murder on the side.
“Rachel’s lucky to have you,” he said. Then, after a pause: “So am I.”
Green didn’t reply; he didn’t expect her to. But he was glad he’d said it. On the screen, Ava played on, hands weaving a spell rather than playing music. The light glanced off her pale skin, pearlescent, translucent. Her eyes, he noticed, appeared half-closed; a face of concentration, a face of rapture.
“She’s beautiful to watch, isn’t she?” Green asked. “Wait till you hear her.” She increased the volume and notes spilled out of the speakers.
“Complicated piece.”
“No shite. That’s Piano Concerto No. 3 by Sergei Rachmaninoff,” Green told him. “It’s her showpiece—one of the most difficult to play. She stopped touring five years ago; this would have been a big draw to this crowd.”
MacAdams wasn’t familiar with classical music, but agreed her performance was incredible.
It was also distracting. All eyes were upon Ava—including their own. MacAdams forced himself to search the crowd.
“Where’s Burnhope?” he asked.
“He steps out of frame at nine-twelve, remember?”
“Right before a signature performance his wife hasn’t given in years?” MacAdams paused and scrolled back, then forward. Stanley Burnhope left; he didn’t come back. “This is the only camera angle?”
“Yes. Unless you count CCTV; we collected it from the parking lot, and from the rear hall. It’s loading and storage for the booze. Expensive shipments with bottles that tend to walk away if you aren’t watching.”
MacAdams was still scrolling forward, partygoers speeding along in jerky treble time. Sophie glinted in and out, Ava too—dancing at one point with her father. No Stanley.
“Queue up CCTV on the second monitor,” he said.
Green scrolled to a secondary jump drive. The first view offered a parking lot with nothing but sheets of diagonal rain.
“Switch to the rear door.”
“Whew. Lots going on here,” Green said.
The camera had given them a gray-and-white view of the hall behind the annex kitchen. Crates stood on the floor, stacked double. Three uniformed staff members were busily unloading—a fourth slipped by precariously with a tray of glasses. She disappeared to the right, and in her place appeared a man in a mackintosh.
“Hold! Stop it there,” MacAdams said. Frozen, the image was less distinct, but here was a man with his collar up and an umbrella in his left hand. “It’s Burnhope. It must be.”
“But we know he’s back on stage to give the farewell address.”
“That’s half past midnight.” MacAdams checked the coordinates on his phone. “You can make it from here to Abington in an hour and ten. Faster if you’re really pushing it.”
“Okay, but saying he left at nine-twelve, he’d not get to town till almost ten thirty. Foley was at Jo’s by then, and she’s with him till just after eleven.”
“Burnhope could still make it back to give the speech,” he said. “By quarter past midnight at the latest.”
“Boss, you’re counting from 11:00 p.m. Think about it. First he has to lure Foley out, then kill him, wrap him in ice for some reason, drive to the back road and dump him. That takes time. Like, a lot of time.”
Dammit. She was right; he’d got caught up in the minutiae. MacAdams slumped back into his chair, pressed both palms (gingerly) to his eyes and heaved a sigh.
“Sheila. I hate this case,” he said. “Nothing adds up.”
“I know.” Green put down her coffee and fished around in the bag at her feet. She emerged with assorted biscuits from Tesco—what Jo called cookies—and offered him one. “This would be a lot easier if Jo last saw Foley an hour or so earlier.”
“You’re telling me.” He accepted her offering; his stomach had been making noises of protest for an hour.
“Well. Here’s a thought, boss. What if Jo is wrong?”
MacAdams gave her what he hoped was a look of incredulity.
“Jo Jones, who details the minutiae of absolutely everything and can cite chapter and verse?” he asked.
Green swallowed biscuit and chased it with now-cold coffee.
“Nobody’s right all the time,” she said. “Even Struthers was gonna put time of death earlier, remember?”
“Only because he can’t be more precise. None of the other tests were conclusive—” MacAdams stopped midsentence. The other tests. He dug out his phone and speed-dialed the pathologist.
Green watched him, sharp eyed. “What—what have we missed?” she asked.
“Scroll to Burnhope’s last speech and zoom in,” he said.
“Struthers here,” came the voice on the other end of the line.
MacAdams watched the footage. Burnhope stepped onto the stage at twelve thirty-two. Now that he was looking for the right thing, it was hard to miss.
“Eric, we’ve got a problem.”
“What sort of problem?” Struthers asked.
MacAdams lifted the biscuit until it was eye level, a little round shortbread with a sticky, jam middle.
“Jammie Dodgers,” he said.