Page 30 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Now we know why Chief Clapham always said you were hardheaded,” he said, because someone had to, and it might as well be Tommy. Green found herself grinning anyway, because she was damn glad to see him, too. And

at some more appropriate point, she wanted the details about how exactly Jo Jones came to be the one to ensure it. There was

something about her that made Green want to root for her.

“Got a lot of debriefing to do,” she said. “And we’re waiting on chaperone for a minor; want a coffee?”

***

“I met the firearms unit,” MacAdams said as they took plastic chairs in the kitchenette. “You took no chances, I see.”

“We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet, do we?” Green said, a trifle defensive. “Gold earrings are one thing, but they

found a quarter-ton limestone plaque on the ground floor.”

“I wasn’t questioning your decision,” he said. “Honest.” Green pursed her lips.

“Right, I guess you weren’t.”

MacAdams sipped his black-no-cream. “You did right, protecting your people.”

“Well. Training.” Green cleared her throat. “Anyway, we looked in that rucksack of Benny’s. It had two items; one was a horse

and rider in terra cotta, and the other a pillar figure made of clay. Gridley found ones like them in a museum collection—Syrian,

Euphrates region. And I’m guessing it’s part of the loot in York.”

“We’ve contacted the British Museum; they’re supposed to send us experts to verify provenance. But it’s a good guess that it’s all Syrian. Looting funds terrorists, and targets include religious sites, cultural institutions and archeological sites to traffic

the spoils.”

“Fucking hell, boss!” Green bucked her sharp chin. “That’s not exactly a precinct kind of problem, is it? I mean, the British

and American governments haven’t been able to stop it; what are we supposed to do about it?”

The answer was: not much. They’d already notified UNESCO—The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural organization

acted as the UN’s watchdog on such things. Multinational art theft lay with the international police. But of course, Abington

CID had problems much closer to home.

“What we do is find out how this relates to the murder of Ronan Foley—or the butty van or Hammersmith,” he said. His head was still pounding. Sort of a background thump, as if a car park were going up just outside his frontal cortex. “Burnhope’s been

out ahead of us,” he added. “As soon as Burnhope had news of our raid, he made a public statement. It’s in the paper already,

I’d guess. Claimed to have no idea that the property had been used to nefarious ends; all Foley’s doing, and so on. Appalled, horrified, betrayed.”

“He told press it was Ronan Foley?” Green grimaced. “Thank God we managed to get the obituary out ahead of this—but who’s

gonna claim him as next of kin now?”

Another question to ricochet in MacAdams head; he needed to clear it before they interviewed their young perpetrators. He

peered through the interview glass at Miss Rose. Her foster mother had not yet made an appearance, but the youth counsel had.

They could start there. MacAdams pushed the door open to face the sad-looking creature before them, still wet-headed but presently

wearing Rachel’s pants and Green’s Newcastle United sweatshirt.

“Detective Chief Inspector MacAdams and Detective Sergeant Green to interview Rosalind Ellis,” he said for the recording.

“It’s Rose,” she sniffed into her teacup.

“Okay, Rose. You were carrying an envelope today. Did you know what was in it?”

The counsel nodded to her client. “You can answer,” she said.

“No.”

“There was money inside. You saw me open it,” Green said.

“I didn’t know before hand,” Rose clarified. “Was just a packet, like.”

“Okay. Where did you get it, then?” Green asked.

“Dunno.”

“Rose,” MacAdams said quietly, “if you don’t want to get into trouble, just tell us where it came from.”

“They said there wouldn’t be no trouble!” she moaned.

“They who?” MacAdams asked.

“Just boys. I don’t know.”

“Boys?” MacAdams asked, but Rose had shut up like a book. He tried asking twice more, but Rose said nothing, and the counsel

reminded him that he could not force her to answer. It was a quiet minute, then Green cleared her throat.

“Hi, Rose. That’s my shirt; I hope it’s warm enough.” Rose nodded, so Green went on. “The people who told you; they were at

the job center, right? Because someone there told Benny, too. You recognized him, I think?”

That got a response, if a small one. She looked up through her eyebrows.

“I don’t like the center. It’s hard getting jobs. Not good ones that pay you anything.”

“You’re right,” Green agreed. “Newcastle is hard like that, especially for early leavers.” MacAdams noted she did not call

the girl a dropout, though it amounted to much the same thing. Good tactic; he let her carry on.

“So somebody was going to give you a better job, right? Some regular pay,” she said—only this time, Rose shook her head.

“Not regular. We only had to do it every couple of months. But it was five hundred pounds each time!” That had been the amount

in the envelope meant for Benny, too.

“That’s a lot,” Green agreed. “Would be nice to have. So how did you earn it?”

Rose rubbed her nose. “There’s a place to get sandwiches outta van.”

“Here in Abington?”

“Nar, in Newcastle. Just on the street, like. I got chips. And this plastic thing.” Rose chewed her lip. “It’s not illegal.”

That was technically true. MacAdams leaned forward, hands spread on the table. If the girl was scared of going back to HM,

then they could use it to advantage.

“Can you tell us what you did next? Maybe none of that was illegal, either,” he said.

“It weren’t!” she agreed enthusiastically. “It’s just a train ride, getting here. Then I was s’posed to go for a walk. Leave

the envelope in the van and take a bag.” Her eyes searched the counsel’s face. “That’s not crimes, is it? They can’t send

me back for that, can they?”

“Then what?” MacAdams repeated, trying to mask his impatience. “Who were you supposed to meet?”

Rose only shrugged. “Someone was supposed to find me ,” she said.

A knock came at the door, then, and Gridley entered, but she wasn’t alone.

“Sir, Rose’s foster mum—” was about all she managed to say.

“Rosalind! I thought we’d got past all this!” said a harried-looking women in tracksuit and jacket. “And you can’t interview

her without a guardian!”

“We have provided for counsel,” MacAdams said.

“Well?” the woman demanded, though it was hard to know from whom she expected an answer. Rose had retreated further into Green’s sweatshirt. She hadn’t made the drop; she hadn’t even been to the hotel yet—she couldn’t tell them any more.

“Do you want to go home?” MacAdams asked. Enthusiastic nodding ensued. He nodded to Green. “Thank you for answering our questions.

We may have more; please don’t leave town.”

“She’s not leaving the house , is what,” the foster said, helping Rose out of her seat.

MacAdams gave both of them his card.

“Does that mean—Am I not under arrest now?” Rose asked hopefully.

“You’re free to go,” MacAdams assured her. It was the first time she smiled.

***

In the end, interviewing Benny put them at the same disadvantage. He really did work the butty van, and only did the “other”

job now and then. Deliver a bag, take an envelope. He knew Rose from the job center, but they weren’t the only ones working

the gig. There had to be other pairs, but Benny and Rose didn’t know them. And neither of them seemed to know Foley, either.

“Fucking evil,” Green said. They were seated in the Red Lion, opting for an honest lunch and a pint after all that. “Butty

vans and coffee wagons pepper the way between petrol stops. No one questions you stopping. And the kids aren’t told anything.

Disposable. Itinerant. It’s genius in a way; no one on either side has enough info to incriminate you.”

MacAdams shrugged. The porter was going down very well and the throbbing had finally ceased. “Genius or reckless? What if

a kid steals an artifact? Or pawns it?”

“That’s only if you know what you have,” Green reminded him. “Okay, the gold earrings are fancy. But half the stuff in York was painted pottery and such. What’s a kid gonna do with that? You said yourself you have to know a network. A big, international one.”

“Right, there’s the problem,” MacAdams said. He had been slow-scrolling through an article about looted antiquities. “Big.

Multinational. Plenty of the artifacts are laundered through auction houses, even museums. A buyer could almost be aboveboard.”

“Okay,” Green said slowly. “So if it’s not that hard to source the stuff, why buy it out the back of a butty van?”

“Exactly.” He clinked her glass. “There were too many artifacts in the York property for this to be a small-time operation.

Efficiency, planning, connections. Hiring troubled teens to port things via butty van is anything but.”

“So—it’s two problems?” Green asked. “Why would a high-flying, clearly well-lubricated operation stoop to selling on back

roads? And who buys their artifacts that way?”

MacAdams still didn’t have an answer to the first question. He might have an answer to the second. “Frankly, it has to be

someone local.”

“You’re joking. Who around here would have the money for that sort of thing?” Green asked; MacAdams gave her a thin, hard

smile.

“The kind of people who stay at Abington Arms, I would guess,” he said.

“Or the kind who join gold clubs in Newcastle?” Green offered. She had as much respect for Burnhope as he did for old Clapham. Rich men whose money made bad things go away. Burnhope seemed to be using those riches in the right

way, but neither of them were quite ready to let him off. Did that make them biased against the fantastically wealthy? Or

just wise flatfoots who’d seen a lot of crooked morals among the great and good? Wisdom , he decided, knocking back the rest of his pint.

“Time to rattle Burnhope again, then, too,” he said, And Ava , he added silently. He waved at Tula for the bill, but she didn’t bring it. Instead, she slapped the day’s edition of Newcastle news on the counter.

“You just saved me a trip,” she said, pointing to the front page. Stanley Burnhope peered up front and center, shaking hands

with the mayor: “Local business targeted by black market dealers: Stanley Burnhope seeks counsel of mayor after discovery

of building break-in.”

“Wow,” Green said. “That’s a hell of an interpretation.”

MacAdams had predicted it, but even he was impressed with how Burnhope spun the story to appear as the victim. Tula, however,

wasn’t concerned with this particular bit of news. She’d underlined a name farther down the article lead: Ronan Foley.

“That’s your dead guy,” she said.

“It is,” MacAdams agreed. “We placed that ad ourselves.”

Tula nodded, sending waves of curls bouncing. Then, she shuffled the pile to bring forward news from the day before, folded

to the obituaries.

“Aye, o’ course you did. Looking for next of kin, ain’t you?”

“That was the plan,” Green said.

“Right. Well. Here I am.” She pulled up a spare bar stool and sat upon it, hands leaning on the flat front edge of her seat.

MacAdams felt suddenly like a trap was being set.

“You. You’re Ronan Foley’s next of kin?”

“O, aye.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “See, I’m his wife .”