Struthers’s forensic lab occupied space below the Abington clinic, walking distance from the station, technically connected if you took the right hallways. MacAdams thought he could probably navigate by smell: antiseptic and the not-quite-something-else he’d learned to associate with morgues in general.
“Come in, come in—just scrubbing up,” Struthers said. He looked fresher than he had that morning, though his fair hair now stuck up at odd angles.
“Record time, Eric,” MacAdams said.
“Well, it’s just the autopsy so far. I have more work to do on the clothing you sent, but come see our chap up close and personal.”
Struthers led him to the metal slab and a now-nude cadaver, covered to the waist in a blue sheet.
“We’re lucky the blow came from behind,” he was saying. “Otherwise, it would have caved in the nose and eye-sockets.”
“Thanks for that.” MacAdams grimaced. “I imagine he didn’t see it coming?”
“No defensive wounds to speak of, no. And as predicted, no broken bones or bruising that might have been consistent with car strike. The impact had to be made by something heavy, possibly with a flat edge to one side.” Struthers turned on the backlit screen to show off the X-rays.
“That could be anything,” MacAdams said as he looked at the gray-white screen.
“Not anything.” Struthers mimicked a downward striking motion. “The blow was downward arcing.”
“Meaning it came from above?”
“I think so, based on the point of entry. The object would have been solid, with at least one edge, but not uniform in shape.”
“So not a hammer?” Green asked.
“A hammer leaves a proper indent, and fractures in a standard way, usually leaving a nice clean hole. I am still trying to ascertain the shape, but whatever it was, I’d say a hell of a blow.” Eric pointed to two trays farther along. “Still going through his belongings—not much to report. Expensive shirt, that. Silk. Trousers don’t really go with the ensemble. Bit humdrum.”
“What about the piece of jewelry?”
“Ah. That’s more interesting, but also seems a tad out of place. No prints or anything useful, but I sent one of the lads to the jeweler in town for a look.”
“Earring, wasn’t it?” Green asked.
“Seems to be. Not for him, though. Ears weren’t pierced.”
MacAdams made a mental note. “Belonged to the killer, then? Yanked out in the scuffle?”
“Only if the dead man managed to put the back on it again after. No, I’d say it was in a shirt pocket or something. The other might be at the bottom of the mud pit. That’s it for the outer possessions.” He gestured to the table farthest. “Now, the viscera. Might help with the time of death. His liver and lungs tell a story, at least.”
MacAdams cleared his throat. “Drinker and smoke, then?”
Struthers wagged a finger at him. “Used to be. I’d say this chap was cleaning up his life. Plenty of regeneration. Longtime smoker, but not recently—maybe even a teetotaler.”
“Is his hair natural?” Green took a closer look at the body.
“Dyed, but he still had plenty of it at least. Good muscle structure, heart in decent shape. Sixty-two by the driver’s license but looks younger inside and out. Shame to do all that work for nothing.”
“A cautionary tale,” Green suggested. “What are those marks from?”
MacAdams leaned forward over the sternum. Grayish skin, the usual amount of chest hair. There were, however, oddly shaped patches of white.
“A skin condition?” MacAdams asked.
“Like vitiligo, maybe?” Green added. Struthers followed her gaze, and put on another pair of gloves. He slid one finger over the discoloration.
“Not sure yet. They happened after death—and I can’t rule out the boys’ manhandling him out of the ditch.” He smiled at her. “You have sharp eyes. I didn’t think you’d even notice them.”
Green really did have sharp eyes—and used them a lot on MacAdams. She saved her beyond-case query for the elevator.
“Okay, boss. What happened? You skipped lunch, your neck tendons look like iron cables and you’ve been talking without moving your jaw.”
“A murder happened, Green.”
“Yes, that keeps us in our jobs. I mean what happened when you saw Jo?”
MacAdams had given them all a detailed description of what happened . . . so he knew very well her question wasn’t about protocol. And she knew him well enough to spot a lie.
“You would think after everything that happened last year, she wouldn’t open her house to murder victims.”
Green gave him a slow blink. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t in either of their plans.”
“It’s not safe. You’ve seen how small she is.”
“Oh my God. James.” Green put her back to the wall beside him as if she needed a breather. “What’s safe? We’ve got break-ins, theft, vandalism. Hell, stalkers. And what about Tula? She rents ten rooms at a time to perfect strangers. Anything could happen. It usually doesn’t.”
“Yes. But Tula has Ben,” MacAdams protested. And with that, he’d stepped in something he couldn’t back out of. Green stood straight and bucked her razor chin in his direction.
“Oh. I see.”
“Not what I meant,” he protested. Green shook her head.
“It is what you meant. She’s a woman. That’s it, isn’t it? After everything, you still think that woman can’t take care of herself?”
Of course women could take care of themselves. They also took care of everything and everyone else. And he’d had that, once.
There were times when MacAdams wondered if he should have just stayed married to Annie, taken a lateral move to desk work and moved to York like she wanted. They might have had a family. She could have been the one with ideas, and MacAdams could have become the sort of man who complains about kids these days but otherwise avoids having strong opinions.
Instead, he was a single DCI with a DS who knew where to kick him and somewhat complicated feelings for a woman who kept embroiling herself in local murders. Green’s nostrils had flared and her pupils dilated; he had truly offended her, and now he was the one in need of a breather.
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“Okay? How about I’m sorry for being a patriarchal son of a bitch?” Green asked. This was tipping into insubordination territory, but MacAdams assumed he deserved it.
“I’m sorry. I am,” he admitted. “She just—troubles me.”
Green looked far from appeased, but she’d stopped looking daggers at him.
“That’s why you like her, in’it?”
* * *
Gwilym had bought Jo’s whiskey, or tried to, except Tula made everything she ordered “on the house.” If she didn’t watch very carefully, she’d end up too far gone to drive home.
“Was brilliant, I’m saying, you wowed everyone,” he was saying. Again.
“Aye, even Roberta was impressed, and that’s no mean feat!” Tula gave Jo’s shoulder a good shake. She’d removed her apron and declared herself off the clock. Patrons were welcome to the (few) remaining sausage rolls, and Ben could pour the drinks if necessary. It wasn’t very busy for a Saturday night, the beer tent having been well-patronized during the fete. Most people had left the day’s events happy, well-fed and a bit sunburned. Gwilym certainly was.
“I honestly think the day’s event outperformed the . . . local gossip,” Ben said.
“Local murder,” Jo corrected. “At my cottage.” Jo raised her glass, just not her spirits. Dead bodies had a way of dampening things. Including the cottage’s future prospects as a restful retreat.
“Now, wasn’t actually killed there this time, remember?” Tula soothed.
“Plus, I’d stay in a murder cottage,” Gwilym offered.
“Course you would,” Tula smirked. She turned and disappeared through the kitchen door for a moment before returning with a tartan flask and shot glasses. “Celebrating, aren’t we? A toast to Jekyll Gardens, tourist season and Jo Jones.”
“I’m having a guess this is moonshine?” Gwilym asked, twirling the Guy Fawkes mustache he sported these days. Tula gave him a solemn look.
“Gwilym Morgan of Wales,” she said sternly, “I would never countenance illegal trade in this fine establishment.
“Nor thwart the liquor tax,” Ben added with a wink.
Nor have a still in the woodshed behind the Red Lion, Jo thought.
“Forgive mine ignorance,” Gwilym said with a bow.
Tula unscrewed the cap and poured out colorless liquid.
“To Jo,” she said, raising hers. “For a rousing speech. To Jekyll, for many tourists to come . . . And to James MacAdams for that spectacular tie.”
Jo tilted her head at the last bit—but Ben was now pointing toward the door. Jo followed his gaze to see MacAdams; he was here, probably to deliver her keys. She decided to take the shot before turning around.
“Jesus!” she sputtered, coughing. It didn’t just burn; it was fire incarnate. It also made her nose run, so she sought for a napkin. By then, MacAdams had crossed the room and taken a seat at the bar beside her.
“Tula’s medicine?” he asked, forcing what looked like an attempt to smile.
“You missed your turn. We’re all empty.” Gwilym seemed about to offer his own shot to MacAdams, but caught a deadly look in Tula’s slate-gray eyes. Down went the liquor, and to his credit, he handled it much better than Jo.
“Good lad,” Tula told him. “And what can we get you, Detective?”
“A single,” he said, then turned to Jo, presenting keys. “You’ve eaten?”
Still standing, Gwilym’s stare was impossible to ignore. Tula set upon him before he had a chance to open his mouth and ushered him to the kitchen, but that did not make it remotely less awkward. Just less crowded.
“Right.” MacAdams hazarded a glance in her direction. “You’re not still cross with me about the cottage, though? We’re good, aren’t we?”
Were they? Probably. It was always rather hard to tell, but he probably wasn’t inviting her to reason that out. The proper response to these things tended to be “Yes?”
“Good.”
Jo waited for a follow-up. MacAdams drank whiskey.
“Are . . . you okay?” she asked, finally. MacAdams ran one hand through his hair, which, given the humidity, made it stand on end. Now it was his turn to say the expected yes, but he didn’t.
“So, Airbnb? I thought you were planning on a freelance career. In editing.”
Jo slow-blinked. Yes, that had been the plan. Except her old clients had indemnity clauses that her ex had worked into noncompete contracts, and authors from other houses didn’t want to pay for external editing when they could get it in-house for free. She’d advertised: “Editor for hire: hyperlexic, speed reading, photographic memory, mental Rolodex of facts to hand.” And so far? The only takers had been romance novelists. And . . . and . . .
“I can’t edit romance,” Jo admitted. MacAdams pursed his lips.
“Beg your pardon?”
“That’s the market.” Jo rubbed her forehead vigorously. “I’m a developmental editor, a fact-finder. I can find out who died of what in 1687. I can tell you a LOT about poison plants, Egyptian embalming and how to make your own plywood. But—and this is a direct client quote—I don’t know what romance requires. And . . . and . . .” Jo felt a blush coming, so said the last bit very fast. “And reading steamy sex scenes make me want to jump out a window.”
MacAdams finished his whiskey.
“You’ve done that,” he said. “The jumping out of windows.”
“Just the once,” Jo said.
“Well, I’d like that not to be repeated. Any of it.”
“So, no being chased by a murderer through a burning building. I think I can manage that.”
“Good. I’m glad we got sorted,” he said, and as if by the magic of eavesdropping, Tula reappeared.
“James, I do believe you had some questions for me about your investigation?”
“Do I,” he said, repossessing himself. Then he took out the notepad and clocked out of polite civility. “Last week—did anyone call here looking for a room by the name of Foley? Ronan Foley?”
“Afraid not,” Tula said, shaking her head. “Common enough name in Ireland, though. Through a fistful of barley and you’d hit at least one.”
“Fair. I’ll have Green bring by a photograph, anyway. Just in case. And Jo? I’ll be looking forward to the full details of that statement.”
He tipped the hat he wasn’t wearing and turned around for the door. Jo jingled the keys in her pocket. Was he worried about her? Did she want him to be? She caught a sideways look from Tula. Jo didn’t understand what was being communicated, though, and in a moment he was through the door and gone. Tula shook her head.
“The detective has a new tie,” she said. Jo knew that; she’d stared at it at the tea tent. It was the pictographic sort, yellow stone arch, burst of green above, tall stands of hollyhock below. It reminded her of something.
“What about it?”
“Love, the man hasn’t worn a new tie in five years. I suspect he wore it on purpose for opening day of the gardens.” And because she knew Jo a little too well to leave it to chance— “For you.”
Jo pinked right to her ears.
“Oh.” She’d lost the opportunity of complimenting him, which made her feel both embarrassed and like she’d dodged a bullet at the same time. Even so, the whole weird day seemed strangely salvaged knowing he’d meant to come after all.
And it was a nice tie.