Saturday, midafternoon
The Geordie had a name. And he was very forthcoming, even if it required a translator for all the Geordie dialect.
Billie Bowes met Foley some years ago. At the time, he’d been selling sandwiches out of a cart, trying to make a living after being in lockup for dealing cannabis. Foley came regular, a businessman who didn’t mind buying bacon butties from a former criminal. They got to be friendly enough for a pint, and Bowes felt honored that a city-boy type in nice suits would bother. That’s before he knew Foley had been in some trouble himself. It’s just that Foley hadn’t done time; he’d skipped town and changed his name. Then one day, he asked Billie if he’d like to make a little side money. Yar. All he needed to do was to take a package and hang on to it. Someone would come for a butty, and he’d give him the package as well.
It wasn’t drugs, Bowes was keen to tell them. It echoed Dmytro’s earnest admission, too, as if the fact made the trade not truly illegal. It reminded MacAdams of the old days of car stereo theft. Someone turned up with a radio, someone else bought it, no questions asked. It was, as Bowes said for the record, a canny job. He’d have been happy with that, or so he told them. But Foley had bigger plans.
“And that’s where we begin the last six months,” Green said. She and Gridley were sharing a basket of chips outside in warm sunshine. They had traded the beloved Red Lion for the pub near the airfield—principally for its view of the river. Possibly it was all the time spent near the Tyne in Newcastle, but a riverside beer garden just felt right.
“Well, as far as Billie goes, yes,” MacAdams agreed. “But Burnhope and Foley go back a lot further than that.”
“I can see how Foley and Bowes get on. But I’m still surprised a rich boy like Burnhope got mixed up with Foley. He’s not the criminal type.”
The golden boy wasn’t as spotless as he pretended, though nothing was ever quite a crime. The Eton rumor was probably well-founded and there was further suspicion of cheating at Oxford, as well as a bust-up over illegal betting on sports. But that was practically clean-nosed by comparison.
“That, I think, was the point.” MacAdams flagged the waiter for the bill. “He as much as told us: he hired Foley to be the heavy at Hammersmith. Someone who could bully and push people around when necessary.” He nodded to Andrews, who’d just arrived with brown ale, more chips and a bacon butty. A dish MacAdams was certain he’d never eat again.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked.
“Nah, it’s just getting good,” Green told him, plucking a plastic cup of extra curry from his tray. MacAdams moved over on the bench.
“We have to make a few guesses on this side of the story,” MacAdams said. They couldn’t ask Burnhope, who was still in hospital and presently in an induced coma. They expected him to pull through, but in the meantime, MacAdams had pieced it together pretty well. “We have to start with Ava.”
Burnhope had everything: A beautiful home, a beautiful wife and, as of five years ago, two kids. MacAdams assumed Ava had given up her musical career for motherhood; he was right—and wrong. Unable to have children of her own, she determined to adopt. And that’s when Ava went to Syria, a trip both profound and life altering. She’d found her purpose, and she bent her will and her efforts—and Stanley’s, too—on bringing over as many refugees to the UK as possible. It was Ava who sought out Sophie and Fresh Start. But the trip to Syria impacted Stanley, too.
“Burnhope is an art collector. Maybe he brings something back—maybe he doesn’t declare it at customs. Guess what? It’s easy.” In fact, he and Green were learning just how easy; the UK had surprisingly lax laws by comparison to the EU. “Business had just hit a downturn, so he decides to use his various connections to bring artifacts in for distribution.”
“Entrepreneurial spirit,” muttered Green.
“Charity, practically,” MacAdams said. “That’s what Gerald Standish told me. Thinks of himself as a mini–British Museum. The people who buy it—even Burnhope, who trafficked it in—don’t see it as a crime.”
“Oh yes, they do,” Green said, dusting salt from her fingers. “Otherwise, you don’t need the heavy.”
MacAdams pointed a bingo finger in her direction. Foley had told Billie Bowes about his past life; chances were good he’d told Burnhope, too. A semireformed criminal made the perfect partner.
“Exactly that. And I am guessing the two of them ran the business for at least four years. Burnhope made connections with the art world and cleaned the books; Foley handled the shipping. They weren’t rivals, as we’d suspected, but true partners.” It put Foley’s last email to Stanley Burnhope in a whole new light. It really was a partners’ meeting. It just wasn’t about Hammersmith or architecture.
“So Foley’s got the East London connection,” Green said, meaning the Cockney presently in lockup. “The shipments came through there.”
“Okay. It’s coming in through the London ports. But what’s the loot doing here? The van was in Abington,” Andrews pointed out. MacAdams understood the confusion all too well; the case had sent them in circles.
“Golf,” MacAdams said. “Foley played golf with Standish, but not in Newcastle, where he was under Burnhope’s thumb. They played at the course near Abington Arms.”
It’s probably where Foley first heard about Gerald’s interest in antiquities, where he got the idea about cherry-picking the best artifacts and selling them off on his own for cash and where he discovered there was a very fine hotel with rich clientele who might be buyers.
“Can we nail Standish?” Green asked.
“I wish,” MacAdams said, shaking his head. Bowes didn’t give them any names, but even so, he’d been the start of Foley’s endeavor, not the end of it. “Foley, we now know, had a tendency to get in over his head. Gerald was just one man. To really expand, he needed a way station. A place where he could go through inventory at leisure. He might have been older and wiser than he was back in Belfast, but he hadn’t shaken his gambler need for more wins. So he takes over a build in York and starts off-loading some of the shipments there.”
Green had a mouthful of food but waved her hand. “Time to expand,” she said, swallowing. “Get’s the Geordie a van. Then two vans.”
“Is that when he starts using Dmytro?” Gridley asked.
“No,” MacAdams said, leaning on his elbows. “That’s when he meets Lina.”
It had taken some delicate digging, but Ava had been very happy to help this time. Maryam, the Burnhopes’ nanny, had not come as a sponsored refugee but as an asylum seeker. And she hadn’t come alone. Maryam had a sister named Lina.
They’d come on their own to Fresh Start because refugees were welcome there. Sophie helped with the paperwork and both applied for asylum. Thus far, all was aboveboard. Except asylum seekers are prohibited from entering the workforce . . . and Burnhope needed a nanny. He told Ava she’d been accepted as a sponsored refugee. Lina, meanwhile, remained at Fresh Start on government support. She was young, attractive and had time on her hands. Foley was single, knew enough Syrian from his travels to be semiconversant, and—unlike Burnhope—had an easy way with women.
“They fell in love,” MacAdams said.
“Or something,” Green said.
MacAdams ignored the addition. “Then, six months ago, both women had their claims rejected. Burnhope can’t face telling Ava he lied, so he deepens the hole he’s in. Makes an appeal and greases some palms to make sure things move quickly for Maryam. Foley naturally expects him to do the same for Lina.”
“But he doesn’t, you’re gonna tell us,” Gridley said rolling her eyes.
“Right. He’s not willing to risk it. And that’s when Foley decides he’s going to bleed him.”
Billie Bowes confirmed that part; suddenly he was driving the vans all over, selling something daily, sometimes for far less than the things were worth. Foley didn’t care. He sold up and started banking what he could, ready to fly.
“That’s when he tapped Dmytro, and Dmytro tapped the other kids. Right under Fresh Start’s nose.”
“Rash,” said Gridley.
“Desperate, even. Which is how we get to the murder bit,” Andrews said triumphantly. “Dmytro gets caught stealing, Burnhope finds out about the double cross and wham.”
“You’re forgetting our man’s psychology,” MacAdams said. “Stanley doesn’t get his hands dirty. He originally hired Foley to be the asshole on job sites. No, he isn’t planning to kill him. He needs him.”
“So what happens?”
“You have to remember,” Green said. “It’s Foley who asks for the meeting. A partners’ meeting, his way of saying this is about the artifact business.”
Andrews threw his head back. “The shoes and suit—Foley was ready to split on him, wasn’t he?”
“He’s already married Lina. Now they are going to run away and leave Burnhope behind,” MacAdams explained.
“What a guy,” Gridley sighed. “Deciding not to abandon his pregnant lover this time.”
MacAdams had made note of that, too. And also his kindness toward Trisha, the single mother. In some way, leaving Tula must have haunted him. So much so that Burnhope knew of her, even knew her name (despite his denial). That’s why it pleased him when Jo mentioned her living in Abington. Someone would be able to positively ID the body.
“Burnhope thinks he’s getting the drop on Foley, confronting him with his betrayal,” Green went on. “Instead, a smug Foley says you first.”
MacAdams could well imagine it. Foley was a bully when it came to men; it’s what made him useful to Burnhope. Now he bullied Burnhope in turn. “He wouldn’t help Lina the way he helped Maryam,” MacAdams agreed. “Now he thinks Burnhope owes them a wedding present, which he plans to get by blackmail.”
“Okay, I get it,” Andrews said. “He demanded hush money not to reveal Burnhope’s part in it.”
“To the tune of several million, according the Geordie,” Green added. “He’d been carting Lina around, a mobile hideout, and was supposed to get a percent for his time.”
This was all true. But still only part of the story. And here was where Foley really showed his colors.
“Let’s go back to that York shopping center,” he said. “A bad job. Stagnant. Behind schedule.”
“Right, because it was just a warehouse for his loot.”
“Would you actively court the ire of the Lord Mayor over a building you planned to store stolen goods in?” MacAdams asked.
Andrews had a chip halfway to his mouth. “Um, no, I suppose not. You would want to go under the radar.”
“Exactly. Instead, Ronan Foley fights with the city, causes problems, and ultimately the city halts the work and calls Burnhope.” MacAdams shook his head; they had all underestimated Foley. “He wanted to cause problems. Because they were going to be Stanley’s problems. Give me two million pounds, cash, or I will ruin you. He just has to make a telephone call to the York police.”
“Damn.”
“Exactly,” Green agreed. “Stanley doesn’t have time to think about it. Foley’s standing there with his burner phone, saying wire me cash right now or everything you love goes up in smoke. The York building might as well have been filled with dynamite. I’m kind of surprised he didn’t pay up, to be honest.”
Gridley slapped the table with her napkin. “He couldn’t! We looked at all his finances, remember? It’s tied up in house and business and the charity. No liquidity.”
“Unless you count Ava’s money,” Green added. “So the choices are—let Foley ruin you or take money from your wife, which will still ruin you. Or you pick up the nearest heavy object and smash him over the head.”
“That, my friends, was the point. This was about money. But only partly. Foley has a soft spot for women, certainly for Lina, and a conscience well-haunted by Tula of all people. Burnhope got his nanny into the country by pulling strings but left Foley’s lover out to dry. Getting Burnhope over his head and in trouble with Ava was the point.” He could imagine him flaunting it, even. Laughing when Burnhope said he wouldn’t pay, couldn’t pay. In the end, Burnhope had more to lose than Foley.
That was, in fact, the only thing Foley hadn’t counted on: he’d pushed a rich man too close to losing it all, and Burnhope wasn’t going quietly.
MacAdams knew what his defense lawyers would say; heat of the moment, unintentional manslaughter. But there was no doubt Burnhope could be cold and calculating. Once the deed was done, he planned his next moves like an expert villain: He would make it seem a living Ronan Foley was in Abington well after their meeting, at a time when Burnhope would have an alibi. They didn’t look alike, but they shared an accent, were of similar height, and both had dark hair. In most cases, a witness wouldn’t recall much else on first meeting.
But most witnesses were not Jo Jones.
That was the loose end he hadn’t counted on. In other respects, luck continued to smile on Burnhope. Bowes’s last duty was to take Lina to the Abington Arms. There, she and Foley would assume the identities they had been building up, change into new clothes and then leave with faked IDs for the continent. Bowes parked with Lina on the hiking trail, waiting for a call that never came. He turned up again the next day, and the next. That’s where Jo and Gwilym saw him—and Lina, too, at least for a moment. Spooked, Bowes returned to Newcastle, only to hear that Foley was dead. Panic set in, and Bowes sought help from Burnhope, who conscripted him to clean out the York property with the East London Cockneys.
Stanley Burnhope must have slept better, thinking this last mistake was tidied over—only to be surprised by police inquiries the next day. He’d killed Foley already; now he murdered him in public opinion, claiming no knowledge of his crimes . . . and the papers, at least, believed him.
But of course, there was Lina. And, as MacAdams and Green told him, Lina was pregnant. Bowes had gone to ground after the York bust, leaving Lina on her own in Abington. Burnhope coaxed him back with a promise of cash—if he could bring the girl back. It wasn’t hard. Far from helpless, she had managed to return to Newcastle on her own. Bowes texted her the coordinates to the parking ramp.
“What was his plan with Lina, anyway?” Andrews asked. “He wasn’t gonna cosh her over the head, too, was he?”
“I don’t think so. I suspect he planned to bribe her with the promise of papers. She had the baby to think of—and like Maryam, Lina doesn’t trust police. Not much of a loose end.”
But MacAdams could imagine the shock—the utter dismay—seeing Jo again in Newcastle must have caused. Stanley could have denied being Ronan Foley right then, told her she was mistaken. But Jo caught him out. Lina may have had nowhere else to go, but an American with connections whose face he’d seen in the local papers? Burnhope couldn’t buy his way out of that.
The waiter had returned. MacAdams paid for their current fare (and another round, just in case). Then he stood to go.
“Hang on, you didn’t even finish a single pint!” Andrews said.
Green slapped his shoulder. “Got better places to be?” she asked, pointing to MacAdams . . . who was wearing the Jekyll Gardens tie. He didn’t reply. He did tip his hat, fold his jacket over one arm and head to his car.
* * *
Sunlight streamed through the larch trees, leaving dappled shade across the garden path. Jo had traded Doc Martens for light walking shoes, even if that made her even shorter. She had never quite mastered the art of sundress; too many fussy attributes, so had settled for a light gray T-shirt dress. The afternoon had agreed to play nice, and in almost every respect, was a perfect twin of the previous Saturday. Minus a murder. So far.
“Welcome to the Jekyll Gardens opening, take two,” she said as MacAdams approached the gate.
“Better late than never.”
He was in shirtsleeves again. Jo wondered if she was ever going to get used to that. He also carried a basket.
“Lunch,” he said, handing it over. Jo peered at cheese and olives, a half loaf of bread—and a bottle of white wine.
“That’s not the clowslip kind, right?”
“New Zealand Pinot Grigio,” he said, smiling. “I even brought glasses.” Which was excellent because plastic cups and drinking . . . anything . . . was a stretch for Jo. Lip plastic was almost as bad as lip Styrofoam. Shudder. “Did you want to visit the violets?”
“Actually, no. There’s a gazebo in the center now.” She led the way along bright cornflower, bluebell and columbine. The May flowers were starting to fade, but the roses would soon be blooming everywhere. “It’s the one thing that wasn’t original, but what’s a garden without a gazebo?”
“Perish the thought,” MacAdams said as they entered the shaded structure. He’d already filled her in on most of the case details. Dmytro would be treated with leniency. The charity might yet escape being shut down. Stanley would live, even if that also meant standing trial.
“That part is all down to you,” MacAdams had told her. And she’d replied with the date and page count of the book on first aid she’d edited once. Because she couldn’t seem to stop doing that.
“What about all the artifacts?” Jo asked. Partly because Gwilym was dying to know.
“Interpol will be handling that; hopefully most will returned to Syria. They may follow up on the drop-off locations Dmytro provided, but I have my doubts about whether it will ever lead to arrests. It so rarely does.”
“Right. Because the buyers can claim they didn’t know, or that the seller lied to them about provenance. Actually plenty of them really don’t know what they’re looking at. Which reminds me . . .” Jo took out her phone and called up the photo of the Arabesque work. “Your earring isn’t an earring. It’s a nose ring.”
MacAdams gave her an open-eyed stare. “A very old nose ring?”
“Oh yeah. From Kush, between three thousand and two thousand years BC—” Jo stopped talking. Because MacAdams was . . . laughing. “Are you all right?”
“Oh Gerald, you just couldn’t shut up,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. “Jo, you are a miracle.”
“It was Gwilym this time, actually.”
“Both of you, then. And I change my previous answer. I think, in fact, we might just get a conviction or two,” he said, smiling. Actually smiling. Jo smiled back and wondered if she was blushing again.
They hadn’t talked about Thursday night, or the fact MacAdams obediently held her close until paramedics arrived. And then, that he’d carried her to the elevator and out to the waiting ambulance to be looked over. He’d had to leave her right after that, and spent the night and next day processing things in Newcastle—so Gwilym had driven her home on Friday in her own car. Now, they had time to spare and plenty to say. And she couldn’t think of anything.
“We are going to do all we can for Lina,” MacAdams said as he poured wine. “Her actions will be considered as under duress, a bit like self-defense. Ava will be a good advocate. She’s already remunerated Maryam, who at least has a visa now.”
“And Lina’s baby will be born here, in the UK,” Jo said, a little wistfully. MacAdams leaned forward to chime his glass against hers.
“Yes. I have been meaning to ask you about that.”
“About Lina’s baby?”
“About Evelyn’s.”
Jo drank the wine. She wasn’t very knowledgeable about vintages, which suddenly bothered her. Make a note. But it was crisp and dry and smelled of pears.
“Violet. Later Viola.” Jo had built a picture in her mind’s eye, though they only had the one image, blurry in newsprint from her wedding day. Tall, willowy, but with eyes like Evelyn’s. “She lived most of her life in Canada, believe it or not. Montreal. I was within striking distance when I lived in New York and never knew it.”
“You have family there, then?” MacAdams asked, and the question sent a sudden shiver through Jo. He noticed it, too. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s not an ugly shiver. It’s more like turning on a light. A little bit of current. I’m just not used to thinking about having family. That kind of family. Instead of all of you, I mean.” Jo stopped and frowned. “Um, none of that came out right; can I start over?”
“Please do.” MacAdams refilled her glass.
Jo took a breath. “Aiden didn’t get as far as living relatives. But two of Violet’s children married. One of them actually returned to the UK in the 1960s, but I lost track after that. I don’t know if they are still living, or if they had children who might be. It’s exciting and scary at the same time, but it feels different now.”
It was partly what Gwilym had said (and what Aiden and Arthur and Chen proved): family and blood weren’t the same thing. It was partly knowing that Evelyn’s kin had treated her so evilly, sent away by the father, seduced by her brother-in-law and refused medical help by a jealous sister who later gave her baby away. But most of all, it was the realization that Jo herself didn’t feel alone anymore.
“I want to find them. I plan to,” she said. “But I don’t need to. Aiden spent so much time hunting for our family that he missed out making his own with Arthur. My mother never learned to let go of anything, and ended up bitter and alone. I don’t want to be like that.”
MacAdams had been listening attentively. Something he was very good at, she decided. Now he looked over her head to the garden and the open sky where Ardemore House used to be.
“Yes, I think I’ve had similar revelations,” he said. “I stayed married a long time after I wasn’t married anymore. So to speak.”
“I still haven’t met Annie,” Jo said.
MacAdams finished his glass. “You will,” he said. It wasn’t a speech or anything. It wasn’t particularly poignant. But Jo was blushing suddenly and her fingers felt tingly.
“Oh. Good.” Jo cleared her throat and decided to eat cheese before putting any more wine on her oddly buoyant spirits. She made double portions. “I do have something planned. Sort of.”
“A party?” MacAdams asked.
“More like a funeral,” Jo said, and MacAdams choked wine.
“Sorry?” he asked after a minor coughing fit.
“Check, I won’t call it that,” Jo said, nibbling Brie. “It’s just that we haven’t buried Evelyn yet. And I also want to celebrate Violet, her daughter. And introduce Arthur. Maybe I should call it a baby shower?”
“That might likewise confuse people,” MacAdams said. He stood up and walked about the gazebo. “You’re bringing Evelyn home. You could call it a homecoming.”
He’d completed a circuit and now stood just in front of her chair. His tie had fluttered to one side. Jo stood up and straightened it.
“James?” she asked. “That’s perfect.”