Page 51 of The Dead Come to Stay

It wasn’t possible for Burnhope to get from the charity ball to Abington and back if he had to hunt down and murder Foley.

But it was possible to dump a man he’d murdered and iced earlier that day. Much earlier, in fact. MacAdams had checked with Struthers first: the stomach

contents test had failed because the stomach was empty . Jo’s guest, on the other hand, ate a package of Jammie Dodgers.

Next came the trousers. The muddy ones were a size too small... because they belonged to Burnhope and not Foley. A side-by-side comparison on film proved it: he returned to the stage in trousers that

bagged off his more slender frame. Not counting on the mud, he’d ruined his and needed to take from the dead man. Then there

was the raincoat. They hadn’t found “Foley’s” because it wasn’t Foley’s at all. It was Burnhope’s, because Stanley, not Ronan,

“rented” a room in Jo’s cottage. Once that domino was set to fall, the others followed:

Why had Burnhope called the Abington Arms? To see if Foley was expected.

Why had he wanted to know if the hotel was busy? A busy hotel might not notice an impersonator, especially if he laid on the

Irish accent a bit thick. He was in for a surprise, however; staff had never heard of Ronan Foley; he’d been there under an

alias. Then Arianna, mistaking his question as a need for peace and quiet, suggested a cottage rental.

Why the ice? Because Foley died at four thirty in the afternoon and had to keep it from smelling for the rest of the night—which also kept him fresh enough to have died much later.

He packed him into his car, then used Foley’s phone and credit card to book Netherleigh Cottage.

He might have stopped there, but he didn’t—not Stanley Burnhope.

Too clever for his own good, he determined to collect a duffel of Foley’s clothes.

A random assortment, a hand-grab of toiletries.

First stop: dump the body where Foley’s connection in the butty van was sure to find him.

Then he drove to Jo’s cottage, intent on leaving the duffel as further proof that he was still alive while Stanley was at the charity ball.

He’d planned to be back well before the closing remarks—and if things had gone to plan, they’d never be the wiser.

But Burnhope hadn’t counted on torrential rains and muddy ditches—and he hadn’t counted on Jo Jones.

“Warrant granted!” Green shouted from across the room. “Uniform are ready to back us up.”

“Good.” MacAdams threw on his jacket and checked his watch. “Burnhope should be home by now; we’ll approach from the side

street.” The Burnhope residence was twelve minutes away—and they had a search warrant, too. All the soap and towels in the

world wouldn’t stand up to a forensic investigation.

“You realize this means he kept a dead body in his car for hours ,” Green said as they sped down the A167. “Damn cool headed.”

“That’s why he needed to scrub it out,” MacAdams said, thinking of Jo’s comment days earlier. “He’s married. He might even

share the car with Ava.”

MacAdams had to admit, Burnhope made one hell of a villain. Yet he’d lost his composure when they told him about the York

building. Why? Because he thought he didn’t know about it. MacAdams didn’t have all the pieces yet: he was sure now that Burnhope

and Foley were in the trafficking. But Foley must have been double-crossing, doing a side business. It made sense of the two

types of operation: professional and international, sloppy and local. No doubt Burnhope thought ending Foley fixed everything—but

the York business? One more of Foley’s messes he’d have to clean up, and it threatened everything else, too. Burnhope was

a man unused to paying for mistakes. How far would he go to cover his tracks?

The radio brayed to life: “We’re getting close—do you want to make first approach?”

MacAdams very much did. He switched to fog lights and coasted to a halt on the corner. They would walk up.

Once again, they found themselves on the well-trimmed drive. The lights were on downstairs. MacAdams rang the bell and waited.

No answer.

“Think he has the wind up?” Green asked as he rang again—but this time, they heard the slide of a lock. It was Ava.

“Oh. It’s you.” Her whalebone cheeks had color for the first time; they had been pinked with wine. She waved a half-empty

glass at them. “He’s not here. Not even a phone call.”

She took in the intensity of MacAdams’s and Green’s expressions, and fear flickered across her features. She could see something

was wrong, even through the cloud of Pinot Grigio, and backed away from the door. MacAdams walked right inside behind her.

“Could you give us your husband’s license plate number, please,” he asked.

“No need. Car’s in the garage.”

“Both vehicles are here?” Green asked.

Ava’s hair had been hastily pulled up, but a strand kept falling against sharp cheekbones. She tucked it clumsily behind her

ear before going on.

“We just have the one. His solicitor—or barrister, whatever you call the criminal defense—took him to the station and never

brought him back. And—” she took a long drink “— and he hasn’t called. I think I said.”

MacAdams exchanged a glance with Green. Ava was more than a little tipsy, and if they didn’t get her to a sofa soon she might

well be on the floor.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

She laughed. “How kind. You’d think you lived here.

You’ve probably been here enough.” She made a gesture toward the adjacent sitting room, then a reasonable attempt at leading him there.

Green provided a little support, and at last she was resituated on the white leather camelback.

A laptop was open on the coffee table. She’d been looking up “family law”—divorce lawyers.

“Ms. Burnhope—” he began.

“No.”

“Ava,” MacAdams corrected. “We have a warrant to search the house and vehicle for evidence. We also have a warrant for Stanley’s

arrest. If you have any idea—”

“I’ve lots of ideas. But I already tried the club. And his mother. And my father. And all of our friends.”

“His solicitor?”

“Oh, I definitely called her.”

“What about a confidant—someone from work?” Green asked.

“If you mean Trisha, you’re wrong. And you still have Sophie at the station. And frankly—” Ava’s eyes wandered till they found

Green’s “—if he had a lover, I wouldn’t be likely to know, would I?”

MacAdams had messaged the officers; they’d start the search soon, and that would likely put Ava off. He knelt to be nearer

her level.

“Do you think he might have?” he asked.

“No. But until this morning I didn’t know about Dmytro’s theft, or that this Foley person was—doing whatever he does. Or that

Maryam’s papers only got authenticated a month ago.”

“Wait...” Now Green was kneeling, too. “Maryam’s papers. You mean she wasn’t legally here?”

“Oh. She is now . Funny, I thought bureaucracy was to blame. That’s what Stanley told me; just messy paperwork. But no.”

“She wasn’t sponsored by Fresh Start?” Green asked.

Ava shook her head. “She applied for azslm—excuse me, asylum —instead. It’s—It takes a long time.” She swallowed wine in a gulp. “And s’not guaranteed. But we could have appealed, for

fuck’s sake.”

MacAdams had missed something. He backtracked.

“Are you saying her asylum status was rejected?”

“Yes—no. I don’t know.” She rifled through the papers on the coffee table. “I just know this is new.” She handed him a document MacAdams didn’t understand, but the date was clear enough. Maryam might be legal now, but

Burnhope had done it through the back doors. Had he greased the wheels?

“Why would he lie to you about her status?” he asked instead.

“Apparently, that’s what he does,” Ava muttered bitterly. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Not to worry her. Not to

worry me. Or—he knew I wouldn’t let him take a shortcut. Pisser. ”

“Ava,” MacAdams interrupted. “I know this is a lot all at once. But please think back. How often did Stanley travel for Hammersmith?”

Ava picked up the glass, saw that it was empty and put it down again. “He didn’t. Practically lived in his office downtown,”

she said... and MacAdams felt another puzzle piece click into place.

“Ava, have you ever been to the Hammersmith building?” he asked.

“Not—not since the kids,” she said.

“Not for five years. Why might that be?” he asked.

Ava clasped her hands in front of her, forearms leaning on her knees.

“If you’d asked me yesterday, I would have told you I wasn’t interested in architecture—or that I was busy with the kids and

the charity work. Just separate spheres and all that. I’d have said it, and I’d have believed it, too.”

“And what’s your answer today?” Green asked.

“I just don’t think he wanted me there. And I can only think of terrible reasons why not.”

MacAdams could hear the officers as they made their way through the house: footfalls upon the stairs and in and out of rooms above them. But they were in the wrong place.

“Green, back to the car. We need to get to Hammersmith— now .” He’d already run for the door, nearly colliding with forensics coming through.

“Why there?” Green asked as they made it outside. “You don’t think it’s the scene of the crime, do you?”

“Both crimes,” MacAdams said. “That’s why I asked if he traveled.”

“I don’t follow,” Green said. They’d made it back to the car and MacAdams belted in and started the engine in a single motion.

“Burnhope never gets his hands dirty. Foley is the one who does the deals—he’s a liability. But there’s a paper trail somewhere,

and Burnhope must know we’re getting close to a warrant.”

“He’s going to destroy the evidence,” Green said, smacking her thigh. “Shite.”

MacAdams couldn’t agree more. He’d largely retraced their earlier route, though they needn’t go as far as the station. He

could already see the round glass sides of Hammersmith’s tower above tree-lined street. There were lights on up there, glowing

sodium yellow against the haze of rain.

“Gotcha,” he said, pulling into the car park. Beside him, Green gripped the dash.

“Boss? We better call for backup,” she said. Parked to one side, not far from the entrance, was a large, black SUV.