Page 55 of The Dead Come to Stay

“To the tune of several million, according the Geordie,” Green added. “He’d been carting Lina around, a mobile hideout, and was supposed to get a percent for his time.”

This was all true. But still only part of the story. And here was where Foley really showed his colors.

“Let’s go back to that York shopping center,” he said. “A bad job. Stagnant. Behind schedule.”

“Right, because it was just a warehouse for his loot.”

“Would you actively court the ire of the Lord Mayor over a building you planned to store stolen goods in?” MacAdams asked.

Andrews had a chip halfway to his mouth. “Um, no, I suppose not. You would want to go under the radar.”

“Exactly. Instead, Ronan Foley fights with the city, causes problems, and ultimately the city halts the work and calls Burnhope.”

MacAdams shook his head; they had all underestimated Foley. “He wanted to cause problems. Because they were going to be Stanley’s problems. Give me two million pounds, cash, or I will ruin you. He just has to make a telephone call to the York police.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly,” Green agreed. “Stanley doesn’t have time to think about it. Foley’s standing there with his burner phone, saying

wire me cash right now or everything you love goes up in smoke. The York building might as well have been filled with dynamite. I’m kind of surprised

he didn’t pay up, to be honest.”

Gridley slapped the table with her napkin. “He couldn’t! We looked at all his finances, remember? It’s tied up in house and

business and the charity. No liquidity.”

“Unless you count Ava’s money,” Green added. “So the choices are—let Foley ruin you or take money from your wife, which will

still ruin you. Or you pick up the nearest heavy object and smash him over the head.”

“That, my friends, was the point. This was about money. But only partly. Foley has a soft spot for women, certainly for Lina, and a conscience well-haunted by Tula of all people. Burnhope got his nanny into the country by pulling strings but left Foley’s lover out to dry.

Getting Burnhope over his head and in trouble with Ava was the point.

” He could imagine him flaunting it, even.

Laughing when Burnhope said he wouldn’t pay, couldn’t pay. In the end, Burnhope had

more to lose than Foley.

That was, in fact, the only thing Foley hadn’t counted on: he’d pushed a rich man too close to losing it all, and Burnhope

wasn’t going quietly.

MacAdams knew what his defense lawyers would say; heat of the moment, unintentional manslaughter. But there was no doubt Burnhope

could be cold and calculating. Once the deed was done, he planned his next moves like an expert villain: He would make it

seem a living Ronan Foley was in Abington well after their meeting, at a time when Burnhope would have an alibi. They didn’t

look alike, but they shared an accent, were of similar height, and both had dark hair. In most cases, a witness wouldn’t recall

much else on first meeting.

But most witnesses were not Jo Jones.

That was the loose end he hadn’t counted on. In other respects, luck continued to smile on Burnhope. Bowes’s last duty was

to take Lina to the Abington Arms. There, she and Foley would assume the identities they had been building up, change into

new clothes and then leave with faked IDs for the continent. Bowes parked with Lina on the hiking trail, waiting for a call

that never came. He turned up again the next day, and the next. That’s where Jo and Gwilym saw him—and Lina, too, at least

for a moment. Spooked, Bowes returned to Newcastle, only to hear that Foley was dead. Panic set in, and Bowes sought help

from Burnhope, who conscripted him to clean out the York property with the East London Cockneys.

Stanley Burnhope must have slept better, thinking this last mistake was tidied over—only to be surprised by police inquiries the next day. He’d killed Foley already; now he murdered him in public opinion, claiming no knowledge of his crimes... and the papers, at least, believed him.

But of course, there was Lina. And, as MacAdams and Green told him, Lina was pregnant. Bowes had gone to ground after the

York bust, leaving Lina on her own in Abington. Burnhope coaxed him back with a promise of cash—if he could bring the girl

back. It wasn’t hard. Far from helpless, she had managed to return to Newcastle on her own. Bowes texted her the coordinates

to the parking ramp.

“What was his plan with Lina, anyway?” Andrews asked. “He wasn’t gonna cosh her over the head, too, was he?”

“I don’t think so. I suspect he planned to bribe her with the promise of papers. She had the baby to think of—and like Maryam,

Lina doesn’t trust police. Not much of a loose end.”

But MacAdams could imagine the shock—the utter dismay—seeing Jo again in Newcastle must have caused. Stanley could have denied

being Ronan Foley right then, told her she was mistaken. But Jo caught him out. Lina may have had nowhere else to go, but

an American with connections whose face he’d seen in the local papers? Burnhope couldn’t buy his way out of that .

The waiter had returned. MacAdams paid for their current fare (and another round, just in case). Then he stood to go.

“Hang on, you didn’t even finish a single pint!” Andrews said.

Green slapped his shoulder. “Got better places to be?” she asked, pointing to MacAdams... who was wearing the Jekyll Gardens

tie. He didn’t reply. He did tip his hat, fold his jacket over one arm and head to his car.

***

Sunlight streamed through the larch trees, leaving dappled shade across the garden path. Jo had traded Doc Martens for light

walking shoes, even if that made her even shorter. She had never quite mastered the art of sundress; too many fussy attributes,

so had settled for a light gray T-shirt dress. The afternoon had agreed to play nice, and in almost every respect, was a perfect

twin of the previous Saturday. Minus a murder. So far.

“Welcome to the Jekyll Gardens opening, take two,” she said as MacAdams approached the gate.

“Better late than never.”

He was in shirtsleeves again. Jo wondered if she was ever going to get used to that. He also carried a basket.

“Lunch,” he said, handing it over. Jo peered at cheese and olives, a half loaf of bread—and a bottle of white wine.

“That’s not the clowslip kind, right?”

“New Zealand Pinot Grigio,” he said, smiling. “I even brought glasses.” Which was excellent because plastic cups and drinking...

anything... was a stretch for Jo. Lip plastic was almost as bad as lip Styrofoam. Shudder. “Did you want to visit the violets?”

“Actually, no. There’s a gazebo in the center now.” She led the way along bright cornflower, bluebell and columbine. The May

flowers were starting to fade, but the roses would soon be blooming everywhere. “It’s the one thing that wasn’t original,

but what’s a garden without a gazebo?”

“Perish the thought,” MacAdams said as they entered the shaded structure. He’d already filled her in on most of the case details.

Dmytro would be treated with leniency. The charity might yet escape being shut down. Stanley would live, even if that also

meant standing trial.

“That part is all down to you,” MacAdams had told her. And she’d replied with the date and page count of the book on first aid she’d edited once. Because she couldn’t seem to stop doing that.

“What about all the artifacts?” Jo asked. Partly because Gwilym was dying to know.

“Interpol will be handling that; hopefully most will returned to Syria. They may follow up on the drop-off locations Dmytro

provided, but I have my doubts about whether it will ever lead to arrests. It so rarely does.”

“Right. Because the buyers can claim they didn’t know, or that the seller lied to them about provenance. Actually plenty of

them really don’t know what they’re looking at. Which reminds me...” Jo took out her phone and called up the photo of the Arabesque work.

“Your earring isn’t an earring. It’s a nose ring.”

MacAdams gave her an open-eyed stare. “A very old nose ring?”

“Oh yeah. From Kush, between three thousand and two thousand years BC—” Jo stopped talking. Because MacAdams was... laughing.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh Gerald, you just couldn’t shut up,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. “Jo, you are a miracle.”

“It was Gwilym this time, actually.”

“Both of you, then. And I change my previous answer. I think, in fact, we might just get a conviction or two,” he said, smiling.

Actually smiling. Jo smiled back and wondered if she was blushing again.

They hadn’t talked about Thursday night, or the fact MacAdams obediently held her close until paramedics arrived. And then,

that he’d carried her to the elevator and out to the waiting ambulance to be looked over. He’d had to leave her right after

that, and spent the night and next day processing things in Newcastle—so Gwilym had driven her home on Friday in her own car.

Now, they had time to spare and plenty to say. And she couldn’t think of anything.

“We are going to do all we can for Lina,” MacAdams said as he poured wine. “Her actions will be considered as under duress, a bit like self-defense. Ava will be a good advocate. She’s already remunerated Maryam, who at least has a visa now.”

“And Lina’s baby will be born here, in the UK,” Jo said, a little wistfully. MacAdams leaned forward to chime his glass against

hers.

“Yes. I have been meaning to ask you about that.”

“About Lina’s baby?”

“About Evelyn’s.”

Jo drank the wine. She wasn’t very knowledgeable about vintages, which suddenly bothered her. Make a note. But it was crisp and dry and smelled of pears.

“Violet. Later Viola .” Jo had built a picture in her mind’s eye, though they only had the one image, blurry in newsprint from her wedding day. Tall,

willowy, but with eyes like Evelyn’s. “She lived most of her life in Canada, believe it or not. Montreal. I was within striking

distance when I lived in New York and never knew it.”

“You have family there, then?” MacAdams asked, and the question sent a sudden shiver through Jo. He noticed it, too. “I’m

sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s not an ugly shiver. It’s more like turning on a light. A little bit of current. I’m just not used to thinking about

having family. That kind of family. Instead of all of you, I mean.” Jo stopped and frowned. “Um, none of that came out right; can

I start over?”

“Please do.” MacAdams refilled her glass.

Jo took a breath. “Aiden didn’t get as far as living relatives. But two of Violet’s children married. One of them actually

returned to the UK in the 1960s, but I lost track after that. I don’t know if they are still living, or if they had children

who might be. It’s exciting and scary at the same time, but it feels different now.”

It was partly what Gwilym had said (and what Aiden and Arthur and Chen proved): family and blood weren’t the same thing. It was partly knowing that Evelyn’s kin had treated her so evilly, sent away by the father, seduced

by her brother-in-law and refused medical help by a jealous sister who later gave her baby away. But most of all, it was the

realization that Jo herself didn’t feel alone anymore.

“I want to find them. I plan to,” she said. “But I don’t need to. Aiden spent so much time hunting for our family that he missed out making his own with Arthur. My mother never learned

to let go of anything, and ended up bitter and alone. I don’t want to be like that.”

MacAdams had been listening attentively. Something he was very good at, she decided. Now he looked over her head to the garden

and the open sky where Ardemore House used to be.

“Yes, I think I’ve had similar revelations,” he said. “I stayed married a long time after I wasn’t married anymore. So to

speak.”

“I still haven’t met Annie,” Jo said.

MacAdams finished his glass. “You will,” he said. It wasn’t a speech or anything. It wasn’t particularly poignant. But Jo

was blushing suddenly and her fingers felt tingly.

“Oh. Good.” Jo cleared her throat and decided to eat cheese before putting any more wine on her oddly buoyant spirits. She

made double portions. “I do have something planned. Sort of.”

“A party?” MacAdams asked.

“More like a funeral,” Jo said, and MacAdams choked wine.

“Sorry?” he asked after a minor coughing fit.

“Check, I won’t call it that,” Jo said, nibbling Brie. “It’s just that we haven’t buried Evelyn yet. And I also want to celebrate

Violet, her daughter. And introduce Arthur. Maybe I should call it a baby shower?”

“That might likewise confuse people,” MacAdams said. He stood up and walked about the gazebo. “You’re bringing Evelyn home. You could call it a homecoming .”

He’d completed a circuit and now stood just in front of her chair. His tie had fluttered to one side. Jo stood up and straightened

it.

“James?” she asked. “That’s perfect.”