Page 19 of The Dead Come to Stay

Evans had been placed in the interview room—the only proper one, really. Arianna awaited them in the sometimes-storage cupboard.

“You’re going to take Evans,” MacAdams explained.

“Because?” Green asked testily.

“You and Arianna have history, and—” he held up his hand to forestall remonstrance “— and Evans and I have history. It doesn’t matter what kind or why, but it’s better if neither is on their guard.” He peered through

the window at Evans; he hadn’t risen from his chair, but managed to be in constant motion anyway. MacAdams had seen long distance

runners burn fewer calories. “ Less on their guard.”

Green wasn’t exactly mollified, but she uncrossed her arms and smoothed the lapels of her blazer.

“So I should be nice,” she said.

MacAdams handed her two cups of tea to carry in with her. “Be your usual charming self,” he said. Then he returned to the

kettle for two more. Perhaps milk and sugar would placate Ms. Templeton, who had been far less nervous but also more recalcitrant

about coming to the station.

She sat very straight in her chair, ponytail pulled back tight at the temples. It had looked professional in situ; without her uniform—and with her present expression—it just looked severe.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, passing her a cup of tea. “Here you go. You were kind enough to offer me some when

we came to the Abington Arms.”

Arianna had seemed about to decline, but he’d scored a point by recalling her own charity.

“Thank you, yes.”

“I know this wasn’t your plan for a day off,” he said (they’d found her at home, in the midst of doing laundry). “But it will

be very helpful for our inquiries.”

She took a sip of tea and looked about the small, spare room. “I’ve never been inside a police station.”

“It doesn’t really improve on further acquaintance,” MacAdams admitted. “I just need to clarify some details.”

“Sheila thinks I lied. I didn’t. I told you then—I’m telling you now—I never heard of Ronan Foley until he rang on Friday.

You can tell her that .”

MacAdams patted himself on the back for not allowing Green to run this particular interview.

“We don’t think you lied—not intentionally.” MacAdams laid the hotel registration book on the table in front of her. “You

said Foley asked if there were reservations in his name.”

“Yes. And there weren’t any.”

“Not under his name. But I want you to look at the numbers.” He’d circled Foley’s. And then he’d circled a dozen more. Arianna

stared in blank confusion.

“How—What? But that’s Mr. and Mrs. Connolly! A married couple from Manchester; they come every few weekends.”

MacAdams had managed to get that far after seizing the register. Now he needed the rest of the story.

“Was Mr. Connolly an Irish gentleman?”

“Well, yes. But—”

MacAdams slid across the photograph of Ronan Foley printed from the Hammersmith website, with his name visible underneath. Arianna caught her breath and covered her mouth with one hand.

“Oh my God. That’s—that’s the man you found dead?”

“Is it a match?” MacAdams asked. She nodded slowly, her face blanching behind her makeup.

“What’s happened to his wife?” she whispered.

Wife? MacAdams felt his pulse spike. Ronan Foley didn’t have a wife, not a legally listed one anyway. Was “Mrs. Connolly” the owner

of the earring or scarf? He kept his tone neutral.

“It would help the investigation to know more about her,” he said.

Arianna drank the rest of her tea in a single go. Her demeanor had changed, or changed again. From hostess to disgruntled

potential witness to something more human. And fragile.

“Slight,” she said. “A tiny thing. Really young, but I never really spoke to her.”

“How so?”

“Nathan—Ronan. Whatever his name is. Was.” She took a breath. “He always arranged everything, and he was so attentive. Like she was a china doll. He bought flowers and champagne, chocolate, roses. Always some little present or surprise

ahead of their coming.” It had, MacAdams realized, really made an impression on her.

“I take it such behavior is rare at Abington Arms?” he asked.

“We cater to high society, remember? MPs and judges and their wives. They—Of course, they’re always very well turned out.

But presents and flowers? That’s not for married people.” Arianna had looked away when she said this, so the last was delivered

to the left-hand wall.

MacAdams extrapolated. “Mr. Connolly treated his wife the way most of your guests treat a mistress?” he asked.

Arianna’s eyes flitted back. “I didn’t say that.

Look, the first time they came was their honeymoon.

Newlyweds. He called her his ‘little Alina.’” She pursed her lips.

“Dammit. If Connolly wasn’t his real name, though, was he lying about the rest, too?

I mean, were they married at all? Or just cheating under false names? ”

MacAdams had written all of this down, but he had a very different idea taking shape. As there was no Ronan Foley in the records...

perhaps that was the false name, and this the real one? He’d have Gridley run a search on Alina and Nathan Connolly.

“If there’s anything else—anything—let us know,” MacAdams said. “I’ll see you out.”

Arianna stood up but didn’t move toward the door.

“Don’t go telling Green I was dizzy on romance. I just thought they were a nice couple, is all.”

“Understood,” MacAdams said, still trying to usher her out of the room.

Arianna pointed at him with a well-manicured finger. “She’s not my ex, by the way, in case you’re thinking it. Sheila Green

is not my type.”

***

MacAdams poured himself an honest cup of coffee, in a mug and everything, and retreated to his office. He had time to process

Arianna’s last remark as he waited on Green’s report. Arianna was probably not Sheila’s type, either; that would be Rachel,

fierce feminist fireplug nutritionist who favored scrubs and fleece and for whom fuck was a universal adjective, noun and conjunction. He wondered why Arianna thought it important to tell him; he decided it

wasn’t worth sharing with Green.

He also had time to process the fact that Jo Jones had somehow been less than a block away from Hammersmith, the erstwhile employer of their murder victim.

.. who had also been her temporary lodger.

.. and whom she had seen alive during his final hours.

Instincts and long practice told him that this, of course, made Jo a person of interest in the case.

But he would no more suspect her than he would Annie. And also he should stop putting the

two of them in the same category.

“Boss?” Green asked; she was leaning in through the open door. “Ready for an interesting story?”

“Do tell,” MacAdams said, beckoning her into the admittedly ramshackle state of his office. She scanned the chairs, all of

which now served as shelves, and chose the one with the fewest things to clear away.

“Well, first off, Evan’s full name is Errol Evan Jacob Evans, and that really ought to be a fake name, but isn’t. Second, he identified Foley’s photo. Said that Foley was a well-paying regular customer from

Manchester, with a wife, and expecting a kid.”

MacAdams sat straighter. “Come again? Arianna never said anything about that—”

“Arianna knows as much about pregnancy as a sentient vacuum cleaner,” Green said.

It was by far the weirdest insult MacAdams had ever heard, but somehow managed to convey both an empty center and being full

of it, while preserving the basic premise that she sucked. Impressive, to be honest.

“Details, Green.”

“Evans noticed that Mrs. Connolly-not-Foley wasn’t looking well the last time they stayed—which was two weeks ago, in the Empire Suite. He asked Foley about it privately,

and he said they were expecting but it was early days.”

“Damn.”

“Right? Except—and here is where things get interesting—Evans said he knew Connolly was a false name. And he suspected they weren’t married.” Green sat back triumphantly; she knew this was a nibble

MacAdams couldn’t resist. He’d already produced his notepad.

“Wait, okay, let’s start with the name. How could he know Connolly was false?”

“Google it,” Green encouraged. “I just did. Nathanial Connolly is the lead guitarist for the Belfast band Snow Patrol.”

“Fuck.” No wonder it sounded familiar. “Okay, what were Evans’s expert deductions about their marital status?”

“Well, for a start, why a false name? But Evans also thought the age difference was suspicious. Matter of opinion, obviously.

He assumed Foley was a married man courting a younger woman on the side with money and presents.”

“Astute, except we have no record of Foley being married. Arianna told me that he doted on his maybe-wife, assumed they were

newlyweds. Seemed to find him charming.”

“Evans didn’t. He described him as...” Green thumbed her own notes. “A well-monied and uncultured plebian.”

“Oh of course,” MacAdams groaned. Evans had always been a status chaser, the toady of their old boss Admiral Clapham, but

also an obsequious slave to title and nobility. “But he obviously paid court to Foley’s pocketbook. He knows the man is a

liar, suspects him of philandering, doesn’t do any background checks beyond making sure the written ones don’t bounce. Does

that cover it?”

“Just about.”

“That, Detective Sergeant, is why Evans was Clapham’s man.”

“Boss. Clapham is over and gone.”

“The case is, yes. But that doesn’t mean the Abington Arms has changed its ways. Fill up the hotel with guests who look the

part, ask no questions, look away when necessary...” MacAdams trailed off. Green was right, though. They had enough going

with the current, active murder. They didn’t even have a motive yet. He peered through the glass to where Gridley sat; she

noticed and waved with enthusiasm. Hopefully it meant she’d found something they could use.