Page 22 of The Dead Come to Stay
“So you’re going to York with Jo Jones, in order to talk shop with your ex-wife’s better half,” said Green. They were in line
at Teresa’s tea wagon; it was eight thirty in the morning.
“Your discretion is admirable,” MacAdams said.
“Just clarifying, boss. Same hotel?”
It was, and a budget sort of place, too, because short-notice bookings weren’t exactly easy to make in York during wedding
season. MacAdams didn’t say this out loud, just watched the quirk of Green’s lips. They were lined in lipstick, dark brown
with plum in the mix. Business makeup. Green was headed up to Newcastle to get a DNA swab of Trisha and to see her old police
chief to inquire about Hammersmith.
“Don’t you look professional,” Teresa said when Green made it to the counter at last. She ordered ham-and-egg croissants with
coffees, handing take-away cups to MacAdams.
“Just a picnic,” Green said with a wink. He supposed that was true; they were about to pay a visit to Abington trail off Lower
Road.
“Gridley is running through the CCT footage again,” Green said. “So far no singular hikers; mostly groups have turned up on the Petrol camera. And no missing persons reported, either.”
MacAdams knew that a connection between Foley’s lady and a vanishing hiker was, in fact, unlikely. The largely tree-less Pennines
had a way of fooling the eye. They hid away folds and dips in shadow and heath. A walker might descend quickly out of sight
or disappear in the oft-creeping mist. Jo probably just lost visual for a completely usual reason. Then again, Backbone of
Britain, the Pennines’ stony spine, offered a bleak sort of beauty, sublime, and was not uncommonly dangerous to outsiders
or unskilled walkers. Maybe there was something to it, even if not tied to Foley’s murder. And speaking of—
“Any new records for our victim?” he asked.
Green swallowed a mouthful of croissant before answering. “Still struggling to uncover his movements before 1998—though it
seems that’s when he arrived. Andrews hunted passenger charts and found his name on a Belfast-Newcastle. Gridley’s checking
cognates of his name, in case he altered it once out of Ireland.”
The worry, of course, was that he may have changed it altogether, despite his driving records attesting to documents on the
up and up.
“Might be time to publish an obituary in Newcastle papers, “McAdam said. “See if we can turn up next of kin using his photo.”
“What are we going to do with the man himself? “Green asked. “He can’t just stay in the morgue forever, can he?”
MacAdams was surprised by just how long people could stay in Struthers’s morgue. Evelyn Davies was, technically, still there.
Struthers had begun to refer to her as his colleague.
The Lower Road had dried firm once more, narrow but serviceable. The spot where Foley had been found wasn’t far.
“Will wonders never cease,” he said, driving past the van to where the road widened for better parking.
Jo called this spot a trailhead, but it wasn’t.
The path Roberta frequented was instead part of extensive right-to-roam trails that skirted farmland and crossed the moor.
It did intersect with the Way as it crisscrossed lonely hills, but it wasn’t much used.
Hikers tended to take Upper Road, instead, with its shorter distance to better vistas.
So what was a food truck doing here ?
MacAdams closed the car door gently and hitched up his trousers.
“We do not look like hikers, boss,” she said. They looked exactly like two police officers, in fact.
“I wasn’t expecting to find it,” he admitted. There wasn’t anything special about the van; in fact, almost the reverse. Very
basic, white, with words on one side in plain black letters. The window was open, however, so someone was presumably there
to sell sandwiches. He and Green approached together.
“Hello?” MacAdams said when he reached the window. He expected the character Jo had described: heavy brow and jowls, bit of
a bruiser. Instead, a youth scarcely older than seventeen popped into view.
“Morning!” he said, dusting hands against his trousers. “Got no butties ready yet. Have you a coffee, yeah?”
MacAdams chose to stick to questions.
“Is this your van?” he asked.
“God no. Gap year, me.” He turned a freckled face to Green. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks, “she said, casting an are-we-getting-the-badges-out? look to MacAdams. He was weighing that himself and
decided against it.
“Bag of crisps, plain,” MacAdams said. “Who does own it—the van?”
“Dunno. I got hired by the Geordie.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s what people call him, I guess.” The kid handed him change. “I just started, to be honest. Couple days ago.”
“Thank you for the crisps,” MacAdams said, leaving him a pound in tip.
Green waited till they were out of earshot to make hay. “You didn’t even ask about the supposedly missing woman hiker. Or
why he was parked up here.”
MacAdams handed her the crisps.
“He’ll tell us he doesn’t know. He’s not the driver Jo met. Possibly not the same van, and that’s a lesson in itself. That’s
a lot of activity on a quiet stretch of road a long way from customer density.”
Green hmmm’d . “It does seem a bit off when you put it like that. You really think something’s up?”
“Hard to say,” MacAdams said, tearing out the notebook page he’d copied down the license number onto. “Send this to Gridley
when we have signal again.” MacAdams checked his watch. “I’ll drop you at the station so you can pick up a CID car.”
He’d promised to pick up Jo by ten.
***
Getting to York by car was a lot faster than taking the train, Jo decided. At least, when she wasn’t driving. Most everything had been booked solid, but she’d
found a place called the York Astoria; the name sounded promising. The present-day Waldorf-Astoria on Park avenue, New York,
was the very height of luxury and glamour. Hotel spas, signature restaurant, grand ballroom. Of course, these days no one
rented rooms in the landmark building. You could buy a thousand square feet of apartment for a cool four million, however.
“You know, the original Waldorf-Astoria was an unofficial palace before it was torn down and relocated,” Jo said, as they followed the satnav into a narrow street.
“Built on Fifth Avenue in 1893 by Waldorf Astor. But then his cousin built a taller ho tel next door. They eventually stopped fighting about that and connected the two with a marble corridor called Peacock Alley.”
“Why did they call it that? “MacAdams asked, making the final left-hand turn.
“I don’t know actually.”
“I almost find it disconcerting when you don’t know something,” MacAdams said. “Which reminds me, do you know what the Mohs’
hardness scale is?”
“For identifying minerals? Hardness as resistance to scratching?”
“Or cracking open.” MacAdams ran his thumb along his jawline thoughtfully. “Human skull is about a five.”
“I didn’t know that, either,” Jo admitted. It happened a lot more than people supposed. Like right now, as Jo took in the
view before them. The York Astoria was not living up to its name.
“Oh.”
They pulled into a badly mended car park in front of a yellow-brick-and-stucco facade. It did not look like the Waldorf. It
looked like a Day’s Inn in Gary, Indiana.
The interior did little to alter this impression. There also wasn’t a clerk on duty—which meant running down a member of the
cleaning staff. They eventually located the stairs and found themselves on the third floor. The carpeting zigzagged in awful
red-and-salmon stripes like something out of The Shining .
“That... gives me a headache,” she said.
“We can hope it doesn’t continue inside.” MacAdams dangled door keys. “I think we’re neighbors.”
Jo opened the door and looked in. A very compact room with striped wall panels instead of paper or paint. But at least the
carpeting was a dull solid blue.
“It’s not bad,” Jo said.
“Serviceable,” MacAdams agreed; he dropped his bag inside his door and shut it again. “I’ve got to go meet Ashok now. Enjoy the exhibit.”
He tipped his hat (which he wore despite the favorable weather) and headed back down the hall. Jo would herself be walking—they
were near the train station and it wasn’t that far. She gave a little chirrup of excitement. Chen promised to tell her about
Uncle Aiden! But there was something wonderful and terrifying about fruition; she needed to be properly attired. Jo pulled
out a tightly rolled black dress; sleeveless, high neck, a sheath. Next to her funeral dress, it was probably her favorite,
and just slightly fancier. There was something deeply uncomfortable about being dressed wrong for an occasion; she hated standing
out when she wanted to blend in. To really complete the look, a pair of heels would have been nice—but Doc Martens were technically
always in style, weren’t they?
The York Art Gallery looked out upon Exhibition Square, both opened to the public in 1879. Jo had come by way of the lane
and—improbably—a footpath called Dame Judy Dench Walk . It meant her phone navigation just instructed her to “turn left on Dame Judy.” The walk did her nerves some good, and before
long she spotted her target. Planters with flowers ranged along the arches of its front doors, and already she could see a
small knot of people outside. One of them waved a glass-handled umbrella at her.
Chen still wore the mandala jacket, though beneath was a striking orange pantsuit. She tapped the umbrella cane against the
pavement.
“Support for the hips and the weather,” she said. “Are you ready to meet Augustus?” Jo was ready to meet Aiden, but this seemed
the entrée.
“Very,” she agreed, following her through the doors and into a grand exhibition hall.
“It’s a special opening,” Chen explained. “Will be more crowded tomorrow, during regular hours.”
It was already crowded in Jo’s opinion. A diffuse background hum of private conversation surrounded them. Chen bypassed the sketches near