Page 29 of The Dead Come to Stay

Sheila Green pulled a long-sleeved T-shirt over her head and tugged on a pair of cargo pants. It wasn’t her usual workplace

attire, but today wasn’t a usual day.

“You all right, babe?” Rachel asked. She was still in her sleep shirt, sitting cross-legged on their bed.

“Mostly,” Green said. She looked into the bureau mirror, past her own reflection to see Rachel’s. “Do I look enough like a

Pennine Way hiker?”

“You look like a sexy lesbian.”

“I am a sexy lesbian.”

“No, you’re my sexy lesbian,” Rachel said, getting up to join her. A good six inches shorter, she nuzzled her head against Green’s shoulder.

Green always preferred her natural hair to extensions; the box braids were short and tight—except for the baby hairs along

her neck. Rachel already had her fingers coiling around the stray strands.

“I’ll give you a call when it’s over,” Green said, turning around.

“Too fucking right, you will.” Rachel planted a kiss on her lips. “You got this. You’re the best there is when things get

real.”

And they had definitely gotten real. When they got through with a building search, they’d found more than fifty boxes of looted history.

It wasn’t quite as big as the Interpol raid a few years earlier, perhaps—that one turned up nineteen thousand stolen artifacts in an operation that spanned over a hundred countries.

But when it came to precious objects of antiquity, size and number were no indication of cost .

Millions of pounds’ worth had been stored in the York building site.

Where there was money, there was trouble—and that was

before taking into account where the artifacts came from. Even without Interpol, York Central was able to source some of the pottery back to Syria, and Gridley’s

online search turned up plenty on the looting of cultural sites. War. Warlords. In a weird way, Green almost wished they were

dealing with drug trafficking instead—less complicated, at least.

Green tied up her boots. She had been trained and licensed for firearms use but set that aside when she became a DS. Neither

she nor MacAdams—nor much of anyone else—carried a gun, and she didn’t miss it. Except on days like today.

They were walking up to the van— one of the vans—in a largely deserted area, which may or may not be on alert already after the break-in last night in York. Green

had spent the afternoon in Newcastle with some of her former mates, and her former chief... and she’d called in a favor:

would they send a few members of the firearms division, just in case? They would. In her opinion, they should . They owed it.

When she called the chief in the middle of the night saying MacAdams had been assaulted in an artifacts raid, she didn’t even

have to ask. The officers would be waiting for her at the station, and they’d brought extra protective gear for her, Andrews

and Gridley. Probably this was more caution than necessary. But Green didn’t take chances.

The weather had changed again, was wet and brooding and cool. The van arrived as predicted by nine; Green had watched them park up through binoculars.

“Same plate as the one from yesterday,” she said to Gridley.

The registration had checked out just fine, listed as belonging to a Samuel Fordham. Mr. Fordham lived in Bent Road, Newcastle,

and had opened his door to police in his pajamas. Yes, he was who he claimed to be—current driver license, no infractions.

Trouble was, he didn’t own a van, or a car, either. His identity had been stolen, lifted and applied to the white butty van

presently parked down the hill from where Green and the others took positions.

“Firearm team ready?” Green spoke into Gridley’s radio.

“Yes, Detective, we’ve got you covered,” returned the tinny voice.

Green patted the vest well concealed under a windbreaker and nodded to Gridley.

“Careful,” Gridley mouthed.

Andrews gave her a thumbs-up; they had the road blocked to either side. She nodded, took a break and made her way down the

far side of the hill.

She could hear music playing long before she got to the open window and its metal counter. Punk, she thought; not her style

but Rachel liked it—possibly Ghost Car, out of London. Green rapped on the counter hard enough to jostle condiments.

“Oi, be there in a minute,” came the reply, followed by a pocked face and a shock of red hair. Not the youth they had encountered

before—but also about twenty. “What can I get you?”

“Actually,” Green said. “I am not here for bacon butty.”

His face appeared to be on hold. “What are you here for, then?” he asked.

Green kept her face neutral, body language casual. “Same as you,” she said. He didn’t appear to be buying it. “Just running

late today. It’s muddy out there.”

“You—you’re a walker?” he asked, one hand squeezing down the volume control on a set of portable speakers.

Green felt her eyebrows twitch. A walker , he said, when the common term was rambler. Did it signify? She decided to commit.

“I’m the walker today,” she said, changing to the definite article.

“Haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m new.”

The kid looked Green up and down, and she immediately regretted not sending Andrews, who was youngest of them and looked younger

still. For a tense moment, she thought the game was up. Then he reached behind the counter and lifted up a hiker’s backpack.

“Your turn,” he said, and Green began to sweat. Her turn for what?

“Show me what’s in the bag first,” she said, heart beating hard against her ribs. He still had one hand on it, firm.

“Ain’t how it works,” he said. “Gimme the envelope.”

Green reached into her jacket, a pretense. Could she stall further? If she jumped for it, could she grab hold of the bag strap? Should she blow cover and call for backup?

“Benny? That you?”

Green started at the voice and spun about. Between the punk rock music and the soft, wet earth, she hadn’t heard anyone walking

up to them. Not just anyone; a young girl in a blue poncho and wellies. She had something tucked under one arm.

“Ah, shit!” Benny, as the pocked teen must be known, had recognized the girl—and also his mistake. He slammed the window shut.

Green wasn’t fast enough to stop him from latching it, but at the moment, she had bigger problems. The girl had taken off

across the moor.

“Stop! Police!” Green shouted, not because she assumed it would work, but to alert the others that the jig was up. The girl had a good start, but Green was fast and in better footwear. She pelted across the trail in pursuit.

Off the trail, the hills were a matrix of boggy earth and hard rock. The girl in blue slid down a muddy incline on her backside,

momentarily vanishing from view. Green took the hill at an angle instead, carving to the left and picking up speed as she

raced after her.

Near the bottom was a ravine, presently swollen with runoff water. The girl plunged in, tripped against rocks or current or

both, and fell face-first into the water. Green jumped in after her, grasping hold of the girl to lift her out. They both

semicollapsed on the grass, the girl still clutching a plastic sleeve.

‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” she squealed as Green tugged it away from her. Inside was a brown manila envelope. She opened it to

reveal a sheaf of crisp bills.

“I’m placing you under arrest,” she huffed. “You don’t have to say anything—but it might harm your defense if—” But by this

point, the girl was wailing. Green stared at wet blond hair and spoiled makeup on what might have been a fifteen-year-old.

“Oh for—Are you hurt or something?”

The girl shook her head but continued to cry and, possibly, hyperventilate. Green knelt next to her.

“Okay, okay now. Let’s breathe. In and out, slow. You’re all right.”

“I’m not. All right. I’m not.” Her words came out like gasping hiccups. “They gonna send. Me back. Don’t want. To go back!”

“Back where?” Green asked. The girl looked up, nose dripping.

“HM,” she said.

***

HM, Her Majesty’s Young Offenders, incarceration for troubled teens, young drug addicts, petty thieves.

Green sipped hot tea; she’d gone home for a quick change after her dousing—she honestly felt bad that the girl couldn’t do the same.

Best she could manage was to bring in a pair of Rachel’s scrubs and a sweatshirt.

“How old is she?” Gridley asked.

“Seventeen. I know, she doesn’t look it,” Green said. “She finally gave us the name of her guardian; foster mum. We’re waiting

on legal representation, as she’s a minor.”

She called herself Rose, though her name turned out to be Rosalind Ellis. In and out of care homes, high school dropout, did

some time for stealing.

“Job training center,” Gridley said, flipping through the print-fresh file. “Part of her early release; curfew with the foster,

get some skill levels at the center.”

“Hold up, which one?” Andrews asked. He had two calls going, one on the landline and one on his cell. “Newcastle City Center

by chance?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Hold—hold on,” he said to the landline call. “Look here. That’s where our young friend Benny’s been jobbing out of, too.”

Green hovered over his shoulder. He’d scratched out a dozen notes on a pad at his elbow: Benjamin (Benny) Wendall, twenty-one,

had denied knowing anything about anything, despite an attempt to flee (stopped at the roadblock). But it seemed he had been

in and out of the same job center.

“Has form, too,” Andrews added, pointing to the mobile phone call ongoing. “Public drunkenness and assaulting a traffic cop.”

“Find out everything about the center, then. I want rosters with names before the boss gets in.”

“I’m already in.”

“Boss!” Gridley flew across the room to meet MacAdams. For a second, Green thought she might hug the man. “God, we’re glad

you’re all right.”

“Mostly,” he said. He traced a finger delicately along the back of his head. “Better after a sleep, but headache lingers.”

Andrews managed to untangle himself from phone cords.