Page 47 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Foley working alone somehow?” Green considered it a moment. “There’s no way, right?”

A golden rule of policing: big jobs are never lonely jobs. The one thread they could follow was that Foley must have plenty

of connections. He must have somehow used Fresh Start to make contacts in Syria; that was at least somewhere to begin. Sophie

admitted Foley had been involved in the early days; he’d ask Newcastle to call Home Office and have every record checked.

Sophie would be brought in for questioning, too, and Burnhope was right—they may very well lose whatever license permitted

them to sponsor incoming refugees.

“He’s got people. For one, he has the Geordie—whoever he is.” They didn’t know the van driver, not even with cooperation from

Dmytro, and they still didn’t know who killed Foley. At present it seemed their excursion to Newcastle had done more harm than good. MacAdams looked

at his palms; he’d been reduced to, literally, going home to lick his wounds.

“Boss?”

MacAdams looked up to see Green. She’d removed her suit jacket, too, and was presently stretching her left shoulder.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Hell of a wrench, but I’ll live,” she said. It occurred to Mac Adams that if it wasn’t for Green and Jo, he might be in hospital. Things could certainly be worse.

“Let’s get back to Abington. I want to go over that video frame by frame,” he said—or tried to. A local DS had just started

shouting at them.

“Sir! Uniform just found a butty van—matches your description!”

Green jumped up ahead of him. “Where?” she asked. The kid handed her his mobile, coordinates on GPS. “Ah fuck ,” she said, handing it over to MacAdams. To him, it was just a dot on a map.

“What’s the trouble, Sheila?” he asked.

She grimaced and spoke through her teeth. “That’s a dumping ground,” she said.

MacAdams stood on the overlook of a quarry-turned-landfill. He’d thought Green meant fly-tipping, the rather notorious practice

of trashdumping on an out-of-the-way property. He hadn’t realized it was an actual garbage dump, nor one that provided for

a steep dropoff if you were bold enough. The butty van driver got full marks for that.

“Locals reported the smoke,” Green explained. “Had mostly burned out by the time anyone got here.”

They picked their way down to the vehicle itself, awash in the smell of petrol and smoking rubber. The lettering had crisped

and peeled, the delivery window smashed in on impact. MacAdams half expected Struthers to climb out of the wreckage, but instead

it was a short woman in her late fifties.

“You want the bad news first?” she asked, peeling away a glove. “I’d say they took a blow torch to surfaces even before dousing, lighting and giving the heave-ho. Black as sin in there. I’m Lori Peterson, by the way.”

“James MacAdams,” he said by way of obligatory greeting. “Is there any good news?”

“No bodies,” she said with a shrug. “I did find something potentially interesting. It’s a shoe. I think I found the other, as well, but it’s melted to the frame.” She motioned to a baggie off to one side.

MacAdams knelt beside the evidence wrapped in blue plastic. Not much to look at; possibly canvas—a sort of walking shoe.

“Can you tell what size that is?”

“Wouldn’t fit me,” Peterson said. “Little feet, whoever they were. Why?”

“I need to know if we have a match,” MacAdams said. Because he was thinking of the fancy heels back at the Abington Arms.

They had been a 37 Euro size—about a 4 in UK.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Peterson agreed.

Green came abreast of MacAdams. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

MacAdams pursed his lips into a tight line. He was thinking about Jo Jones... or rather, about her way of sensing incongruity. Little details mattered.

“The hiker, the one Jo said vanished. We assumed she was another artifact courier for Foley.”

“You don’t think so?” Green asked.

MacAdams shook his head. Jo told him—he just hadn’t really heard her.

“The woman, according to Jo, wasn’t carrying a rucksack the way a hill walker would. Jo sees her walk toward the van; the

Geordie claims he hasn’t seen anyone. Now we find lady’s shoes inside? Too much of a coincidence.”

“Shite. We’re talking about Foley’s girlfriend, aren’t we?”

MacAdams started back toward the car, his brain leaping forward onto the new trail. Girlfriend wasn’t quite the word.

“We’re talking about a refugee that Foley managed to shuttle around in a food truck,” he said. One he’d apparently gotten

pregnant and made promises to—one he was supposed to meet in Abington the night he died. “She’s in danger.”

Green’s brows furrowed, a sign of the gears turning within. “Okay, let’s think. She went to the hotel; she could still be in Abington.”

“The van is here ,” MacAdams said, opening the driver’s door and leaning on it. “Which means the Geordie is here, and the girl, too. I suspect

we’re looking for a big black SUV now—like the one in York.”

“Right. But without make and model, we can’t even send out a search.” Green climbed into the passenger seat. “What do they

want her for? If she witnessed the murder, surely she’d already be dead.”

MacAdams agreed. There was something else afoot. Was she a threat? A bargaining chip? Something else?

“It would help if we knew who she was—even where she was from,” he said.

Green buckled in. “I think I know,” she said. “I at least know who to ask. Ava Burnhope. I’ve been chewing over something

she said.”

“I believe we’ve been kicked out of her house,” MacAdams reminded her.

Green merely gave him a sly smile.

“Just let me do the talking on this one,” she said.

***

The day was getting late when Green rang the bell—and this time, Ava answered it herself.

“No. You don’t get to come in and you don’t get to ask questions. My husband has been down at the station for hours and—”

“He’s been released,” Green interrupted.

“Well, he’s not home. And you aren’t welcome.” Ava moved to shut the door. Green wedged her foot and shoulder into the crack

before she could manage it.

“You cannot do that!” Ava exclaimed. “Unlawful entry—”

“Do you want me to get a warrant? Because I can. And I won’t be quiet about it, either, Ms. Thompson.”

“It’s Burnhope ,” Ava corrected. Green didn’t retreat.

“It was Thompson first. And you might be glad of that, eventually. I saw you perform—everyone here knows you’re brilliant.

You’re above him.”

MacAdams hung back, a spectator. And so far, he’d not anticipated a single one of Green’s moves. Apparently, neither had Ava.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

Green pushed the police sketch through the door.

“This woman. She was trafficked by Foley into this country. The van they kept her in was torched at the dump. We know because

her shoes were in there. She’s still missing and in trouble. Now... you said you cared, and I’m asking you to prove it.”

Ava didn’t say anything for a moment, as though each of Green’s sentences had to make an emergency landing in her mind.

“Her shoes,” she said finally, and opened the door. “God.”

Ava was wearing the same shimmering duster from earlier in the day, but her gait was no longer ethereal. She walked, heavy

soled, on the earth the same as anyone, stopping when she reached the kitchen.

“Do you want tea?” she asked, and MacAdams had the distinct impression she was speaking only to Green.

“No, thank you.”

“You won’t mind if I have some,” Ava said, pouring from a carafe into a nearby mug. She wrapped her fingers around it, held

on without drinking. A talisman, or something for her hands to do. “What do you want, Detective?”

“The truth,” Green said. And Ava... laughed. It was an empty, sad sound. The only sound. MacAdams realized he could hear

no children.

“Doesn’t everyone,” she said. “They aren’t here, if you’re wondering. I sent the children to my mother’s. And Maryam, too.”

Green walked farther into the kitchen and leaned against marble countertops.

“You’re angry, aren’t you?” she said quietly to Ava. “But not at us. I’m guessing you didn’t know about Dmytro and Foley.”

“Stanley told me this morning, after you left.” The pale lashes closed slowly before opening again. “Because he knew I’d find

out eventually.”

“Foley wasn’t just bringing artifacts into the country. He was bringing people. A person, anyway. And she’s carrying his baby.”

The mug hit the counter hard enough to spill tea over the lip.

“Everything I’ve worked for is wrapped up in refugee work,” Ava said, turning away. She delivered the rest while staring at

the cupboards. “I gave up my career for this—for my children and people like them. For Maryam. For the charity.”

“When news of this gets out, it’s going to play hell with reputation,” Green said. “Stanley lied. Sophie lied.”

“To protect Dmytro!” Ava said, snapping back around.

“Yeah?” Green asked. “Why him? Why not think about all the others? He’s put everyone in jeopardy, and not just at Fresh Start.

What about Maryam? What about your kids?”

Ava made a noise of disgust, almost a bark.

“I asked him that, myself,” she said, finally drinking the tea—possibly to hide a look of white-hot anger. It reflected in

her eyes, anyway.

“Did he give you an answer? He didn’t, did he? He didn’t give us much of one, either.” Green unfolded the sketch again. “You

know what I think? I think this woman is key to a whole lot about a whole lot. I want to know who she is, and I want you to

tell me.”

MacAdams braced himself, but Ava didn’t erupt. She looked honestly confused.

“I told you, I don’t recognize her,” she said.

Green nodded. “I know. And I believe you meant it. I just don’t think it’s true .” She held up the page to the light. A rounded face, strong jaw but pointed chin, broad nose and almond eyes beneath dark brows. “Do you remember what you said? You asked if she was a refugee. Why?”

“It was a guess—she had dark hair, dark eyes—”

Green bucked her chin. “You said it because you do recognize her, unconsciously, at least. She reminds you of Maryam.”

Ava bristled. “Because she’s Syrian? So what, you’re saying I think all Syrians look the same?”

“Ava, listen to yourself. I didn’t say this woman was Syrian. But you just did.”

“It’s where the artifacts came from, the papers said. I just—It’s coincidence,” Ava remonstrated.

“Is it?” MacAdams asked. “Or are these matters all connected? You saw that face and you thought of Maryam. We told you this

girl is in trouble; you said all refugees are in trouble. So maybe you should tell us why Maryam remains frightened of the

police?”

“It was just a filing error—it’s been sorted—she has a passport and everything!” Ava said, which told MacAdams at least half

of what he wanted to know.

“Her entry into this country was complicated, is that it?”

“But not illegal!” Ava said, though without the firm conviction she’d used a few days before.

Green nodded in her direction. “Well, something illegal is happening here. And meanwhile, we have a missing person on our hands. If I were you, Ms. Burnhope, I’d get a solicitor.

For yourself, the kids and Maryam, too.”

Ava’s glassy eyes held unfallen tears, but the line of her mouth was surprisingly resolute.

“Call me Ms. Thompson , please.”