Page 43 of The Dead Come to Stay

I pleased, I decided to help people like Dmytro. He came to us early this year, just seventeen. His father and brother were

both enlisted in the Ukrainian army and he has three younger sisters, one of whom is disabled.” She had crossed the room and

now stood before a bank of lockers. “They sent Dmytro here, seeking asylum. To protect him, you see, as the last male in the

family, meaning no one expects his father and brother to make it. He hoped to find work, save money and bring his mother and

sisters—but it isn’t that easy.”

“Because?” MacAdams asked. His mood had softened slightly, and he wanted to guard against it. She could be lying. Or, she

could be telling the truth—and the truth was motive for murder.

“Visas are hard to get if you don’t have family already here and background checks take ages. We sponsored Dmytro, who applied for asylum instead. But you can’t apply for asylum from the Ukraine; you need to be here already.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“The system doesn’t make sense,” Sophie explained. “But there is a logic to it. You apply for a visa from your home country;

you seek asylum because you already fled, in fear for your life.”

“So either Dmytro’s mother and sisters wait in line, or they have to make it here on their own?”

“Or with sponsors,” Sophie said. “But we can’t take everyone. And it’s even harder because his sister has special needs .”

MacAdams was aware that this wasn’t the proper terminology for disability anymore—but then, Sophie saw everything in terms

of needs, didn’t she? He was starting to lose his patience.

“You haven’t explained what you know about Ronan Foley. You said he wasn’t involved in the charity, but here we are.”

Sophie stopped and took a breath. “He wasn’t. Anymore . He came round, early on, offered to help out. But he took too much interest in my young women.” She grimaced. “I didn’t

know he also threatened my young men.”

She opened the nearest locker. Inside were shoes, a hoodie, what looked like an iPad and a bundle of dirty shirts.

“This is Dmytro’s locker. I provide these for the staff.

” She reached in and folded over the edge of a T-shirt.

Something vaguely metallic shone from beneath.

It was some sort of antique figurine. MacAdams followed her lead, pulling back fabric without touching the object itself.

It was made of bronze, about the size of his hand and human shaped, a seated woman with a tambourine.

As the others, it wasn’t especially ostentatious, no gold or jewels.

But it had all the hallmarks of being a Syr ian artifact, and therefore priceless. He turned to face Sophie Wagner.

“Start talking,” he said.

“On Friday, before the charity event, Dmytro missed an all-staff meeting. He had been missing them, but this was important ; I went looking for him myself. And I found him here, trying to hide this in the bottom of the locker.”

“And you didn’t think to tell the police?”

“I didn’t know what it was ,” she explained. “It could be a hood ornament for all I know.”

MacAdams took a second look at the figurine. A deity, perhaps. A muse, but rendered in bronze. Behind him, Sophie continued.

“It was his behavior after being caught that made me suspicious. He just broke down entirely, and everything came tumbling

out—some of it in Ukrainian.” Sophie leaned against the locker. “When I... encouraged... Foley to stop coming round

the clubhouse, he gave his number to Dmytro. Said he had a job for him. Could he carry a package for him across town?”

“Here in Newcastle.”

“The first time, yes. Then a few just a train ride away. Regional.”

MacAdams dug out the notepad. “Who did he deliver to?”

“Ah. No one. He dropped them at various places. Hotels, pubs. Like a courier service, but always to a place where someone

was supposed to pick up later.”

Of course , MacAdams thought grimly. They would try to get the locations out of Dmytro, but chances were good no one who held the packages

knew what they were. If they could ID someone...

“He got paid a bit of money, and for a while that was it. Then he was asked too often, and Dmytro didn’t want to miss work.”

“Let me guess. Dmytro recruited other people,” MacAdams asked.

Sophie pursed her lips. “There is a job placement agency that sometimes helps find work for our asylum seekers. He met people

there. But it was Foley who asked him! He didn’t mean to get anyone into trouble.”

“Let’s talk about the day you found it,” MacAdams said. “It’s Friday. You are having a gala—and you have just uncovered a

crime. But you don’t call police. Did you call Foley ?”

“Why would I?”

“Because you just found out he’d coerced a kid into stealing for him. Come on, Ms. Wagner. You know that’s no hood ornament.”

He stood up to face her, and she struggled to meet him eye for eye.

“It’s... not,” she admitted, “It’s the Syrian goddess Anat.”

“Ms. Wagner, I’m arresting you on suspicion of artifact trafficking—”

“Wait! I didn’t know that when I first saw it!” She’d thrown her hands up as though MacAdams meant to tackle her the way Green

had tackled Dmytro. “I swear to you, Detective! I—I just took a photograph and did a reverse image search.”

“Meaning you knew Foley was smuggling,” MacAdams said, still menacing her with arrest. “ So , did you call him? Did you demand he meet you somewhere?”

“Who? Foley?” Sophie shook her head in evident confusion. “No. I told Dmytro to leave it, and I locked it up with my own key.

He’s a good boy, Detective. I knew he didn’t realize it was wrong. I meant to deal with it—but not Friday. I had an event

to run.”

“So you catch Dmytro stealing, and Foley trafficking, and you decide to do... nothing.” MacAdams might not have the fullest

range of facial expressions, but there would be no hiding his complete disbelief.

Sophie looked at him, full of pleading. “Getting into this country is hard; getting kicked out is easy. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize Dmytro. I thought I could handle it myself, one way or another, without alerting anyone.”

“Not even Stanley Burnhope?” MacAdams asked.

Sophie looked horrified. “Especially not! I couldn’t do any of this without him—his donations, Ava’s connections.” She’d said

it with feeling. But the picture it painted was not an exonerating one.

“Foley’s actions have endangered one of your refugees, while also threatening your position with the Burnhopes. Is that right?

And you were, what? Planning to return this stolen treasure to him and ask him to go away quietly?” His eyes strayed to the

figurine again. Was that heavy enough to be a murder weapon? He’d have it bagged and sent to forensics.

“I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it, and that’s the truth,” Sophie said. “I was about to have hundreds of people descend on

the biggest fundraiser of the year. Ronan could be dealt with later.”

“Ronan was dealt with later,” MacAdams said darkly.

“Ms. Wagner, where you were last Friday night between 11:30p.m. and 3:00 a.m. on Friday night?”

“Here. With Burnhope and a room full of people.”

“Do you have concrete proof of that?” he asked. “Not just the glad-wishing of your favorite donors?”

Sophie tilted her head—then, unexpectedly, she smiled at him.

“Yes. Yes, I do. We had a camera crew cover the event for marketing. It’s been flashed to a drive. Six hours of footage—and

you’ll see I’m always there.”

That was highly convenient. MacAdams would be sure they went through every frame.

“I’ll take it with me,” he said.

“Back at my office. Shall I bring it to you?”

“I’ll follow and wait,” MacAdams said, not that he expected her to bolt. Rather, he had a last question. “I want to ask you about one of your patrons. He was at the charity ball, and I take it he’s a big donor: Gerald Standish.”

It could be his imagination, but Sophie appeared relieved.

“Oh him . He’s here, I imagine. He keeps bar hours every day between two and four.”