Page 36 of The Dead Come to Stay

Debriefing occurred at six, Thursday morning. The sun had not yet come up, but at least the office was pleasantly cool. Green

looked as mysteriously well-rested as ever; Gridley looked daggers at the clock. Andrews—very intelligently—brought a mother

lode of pastry, and MacAdams had taken the initiative to bring everyone’s preferred beverage: double-espresso, flat white

and Andrews’s “dirty” chai. They all looked tired, but perhaps none more so than Struthers, who was just walking in. He didn’t

take coffee, so MacAdams sent Andrews to make a strong cup of tea.

“Thanks for coming, Eric,” he said.

The pathologist smiled weakly. “Would be all right if I’d had a full night of sleep,” he said.

MacAdams clapped him on the shoulder in a way he hoped was bracing. After returning from Jo’s cottage the night before, he’d

called Struthers back to his lab. Knowing the murderer may have been back on-site, they needed—first, a much closer time of death, and second, a thorough reexamination of Foley’s belongings.

MacAdams hadn’t been idle, either. He lifted documents from the printer and handed them around.

“Sea change,” MacAdams said, taking his position in front. “I know it’s tempting to follow the artifact trade, but I don’t think that’s what got Foley murdered.

“We’ve been struggling with this case for two reasons. First, we didn’t know Foley, the man. Now we do, thanks to Tula Byrne.

Second, we had no sense of the murderer apart from seemingly random weapon of choice. Now, we’ve got a bit more.”

“All because Jo didn’t lock her front door?” Gridley asked through a puff of powdered sugar. And when you put it that way,

it did sound thin. But MacAdams rallied:

“Small details break cases,” he said, returning to the board. “Let’s make a list. The murderer ice-packs the body, then later

returns to the cottage for soap, so he’s careful—fastidious,” he said, borrowing Jo’s word. “What else does this tell us?”

“They’re bold? It’s a hell of a risk, going back,” Green said. “What if someone saw him?”

“Yeah. Plus, how’d he know he could get in, even?” Andrews asked. “ We know the door was unlocked, but did he?”

“Or she,” MacAdams said. Green acquiesced this time.

“It’s a good point. You found Foley’s key on the nightstand; he didn’t even have it on him when he got killed.”

MacAdams smiled grimly. “We found it on the nightstand. We assumed Foley didn’t take it with him.” He nodded to Struthers, still blowing on his tea.

“Because we didn’t find any trace of blood in the cottage, we knew the victim was murdered somewhere else. As a result, not

everything had been tested for prints.”

“The door?” Gridley asked. Struthers made a half-offended of course noise.

“Obviously, but no usable prints from the latch handle. And since both doors were open, with the key to hand—”

“No one dusted the key ,” MacAdams said. “I picked it up from Jo’s last night, sent it to Eric.”

“A nice fat print, thumb, I think,” Struthers said. “Only it doesn’t match our victim’s.”

“It didn’t match anyone in the database, either,” MacAdams explained. “But it did match the extra prints we found in Foley’s flat.”

“Holy shite, boss. You’re saying the murderer actually walked into Netherleigh Cottage while Jo was asleep?” Green’s eyes hovered in their whites. “What if she’d heard him—what

if she woke up and caught him? Also, why the hell did he bring the key back?”

That had kept him up most of the night.

“I don’t have an answer to any of that,” he said. “Jo didn’t wake up, thank God. As to the murderer, he may have been looking for something. Struthers has been attempting to find possible

prints or DNA on items in Foley’s bag.”

“We’ve no clear evidence—yet—that anything had been rummaged,” Struthers said, but MacAdams already noted at least two inconsistencies.

First, why throw the muddy trousers on top of everything else? Second, the damaged pair didn’t look like anything in Foley’s

closets. Pale trousers, the sort of thing you might wear to deck chairs—and a size smaller than the pair Foley wore when he

died. He’d worn them, they matched the description Jo gave, but it was one more inconsistency.

“I don’t think the various contents are going to yield us much more—especially as our killer doesn’t have prior,” Struthers

cautioned. “So I spent most of the night reading tea leaves. Viscera, actually. Trying to narrow down the time of death.”

“We’ve got that at between elevven, when Jo last saw him, and 3:00 a.m.,” Green confirmed.

Struthers nodded. “Right,” he sighed. “I thought I could confirm it with stomach contents. No luck.”

“Okay, I’ll ask,” Andrews said, raising his hand. “How would the stomach help, even?”

Struthers stifled a yawn before continuing.

“Well, if you ate something right before being murdered, it wouldn’t be digested.

It takes four to six hours to clear the gut.

I thought we might be able to work backward if I knew his last meal—maybe even work out what type of food, and whether he consumed it here in town. ”

Andrews put down the chocolate éclair and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Sorry I asked.”

“I’m rather sorry I bothered,” Struthers said. “Stomach told me nothing. I still think he must have been murdered very soon after eleven. Liver mortis set in even before we packed him back to my lab.”

This time, no one asked—but it was an important point.

“Blood pooling,” MacAdams said.

Struthers nodded. “Deterioration of blood cells, more accurately.” Still standing next to Andrews, he borrowed his arm and

pressed down hard with his thumb. “See how it turns white? In a second or two, the pink returns. When a body’s been dead twelve

hours or so, the color doesn’t change anymore.”

“So killer goes back inside with the key,” Andrews said, rubbing the depression vigorously. “ And the murder took place closer to eleven? Doesn’t that suggest the murderer went to the cottage to get Foley—and back inside shortly after?”

It seemed likely, but not definitive. They had searched all around the grounds and found no evidence of foul play; Foley had

been spirited off somewhere to be murdered.

MacAdams addressed the room. “In review, this murderer steals soap to tidy up the car and even returns the key. It sounds

coolheaded, well planned. Except they doesn’t wear gloves, and they kill Foley with an object not well-suited to be a weapon.”

Struthers lifted a bin bag onto an empty chair, then took out several glass curios and the ashtray. Several had evidently

shattered.

“I was able to replicate the damage with various objects, but only the ashtray worked in a single blow—and most left shards. I’m convinced now that this was a heavy object, resilient to shattering. If glass, tempered.”

“Then it’s time to go looking in Newcastle,” MacAdams said. “At the Burnhopes’. They are, after all, into the arts . What about our other leads?”

“Gimme a sec!” Gridley said, snatching something from the printer. “I got the guest list from the charity ball at Lime Tree

Greens. I also spoke for two hours with various art dealers in York and Newcastle to see which of them were big collectors.

And I cross-referenced with the booking list at Abington Arms.”

She had highlighted a name: Gerald Standish. “He’s a Newcastle man, made his money in oil and gas. Big giver at the charity.”

“Good work,” he said. “We’ll look him up, too.”

From the back, Andrews gave a wave.

“Oi! Sketch artist has a rough copy of the mystery woman ready. You can pick it up at the front desk.”

MacAdams fished his keys out of a pocket and beckoned to Green. It was time to pay the Burnhopes a visit.

***

They didn’t stop at Costa this time; MacAdams and Green chose assorted foods from Tesco and made it to Hammersmith by nine,

hoping to catch Stanley, first, then Ava at home. Unfortunately, Burnhope wasn’t in. MacAdams half wondered if it was an attempt

to avoid them. It wouldn’t work. Fifteen minutes brought them to the Burnhope residence, its top floor skylights glinting

in morning sun. Green rang the bell; as before, Nanny Maryam was the one to answer. She recognized them this time, but she

still didn’t smile.

“Please wait here,” she directed.

A moment later, Ava Burnhope took her place to usher them inside.

“Trisha Simmons told us you were coming,” she said, sweeping along in a floor-length duster of sea-foamgreen, MacAdams would have said, except so desaturated to the point where color words seemed irrelevant. He wasn’t just looking at her, however. He was casing the entire house.

“He is working from home, I take it?” he asked, eyes straying to the mantelpiece as she led them through. Two bronze rabbits.

A sizable freestanding clock.

“He is. And does,” Ava said. “There’s a conference room upstairs and he’s in a meeting.” Ava slow-blinked at them. “You’re

welcome to wait, though I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

They were in the rear music room again, exactly as MacAdams hoped. He wondered suddenly if it was soundproof. What might happen

in such a space with the shades drawn? The glass “muses” stood as before, far too large to be used as weapons. But they weren’t

the only sculptures on display.

“You two patronize the arts, I understand?” MacAdams asked, choosing a seat. Ava did not like her household disturbed, clearly.

But she wasn’t rude, either; she took one of the chairs for herself, all poise and social graces.

“Of course. As you have clearly seen.”

“What about that one?” MacAdams asked. He indicated a figure in molten silver and orange, the size and shape of a cockatiel.

“Local artist,” Ava said. “Part of a series of ten.”

“May I?” MacAdams asked, intending to pick it up. Ava stood to intercept him.

“It’s fragile. Blown glass, Detective. You can see how delicate.” She picked it up herself and brought it gently to his notice—but

didn’t allow him to touch. Regardless, it was no murder weapon.