Page 106 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Burnhope couldstillmake it back to give the speech,” he said. “By quarter past midnight at the latest.”

“Boss, you’re countingfrom11:00 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 fromTesco—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 iswrong?”

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.

Chapter 30

Thursday, 19:50

The man standing in front of Jo wore a tailored suit; hair perfectly set, shoe leather buffed to shine. But his eyes had just widened in their sockets, pulling hooded lids into wells of excess skin folds. Pigeon. Window. Smack.

“Ms. Jones?” he asked, his voice rising on the last syllable, the sharp note of disbelief.

“You’re dead,” Jo said. Because that was the first thought that came to mind, and at the moment shock wasn’t permitting any others.

He opened his mouth, failed to speak and closed it again. Then he gestured to the car door.

“I can explain,” he said finally. “I know it seems incredible, but there’s—there’s an answer. A solution. A verysimplesolution. Can you? Just come with me, please.”

The sentences came out half-formed; a theory, a question, an imperative. Jo did not like it.

“I’m going to go now,” she said. Except she didn’t. Her eyeskept straying to the dark windows; he followed her train of thought exactly.

“You’re looking for the girl.” He took a step forward—Jo took a step back. “I’m trying to protect her. She’s in trouble.