Page 70 of The Dead Come to Stay

Jo wasn’t sure she’d promised, in fact. She got to her feet instead of answering and pointed to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Yes. No—actually. I brought you something.” He held up a paper bag. “In thanks. For yesterday.”

Jo peered inside. A whiskey bottle. Caol Ila, it said. Shewanted to say thank you. Did you thank you for a thank you? She blinked her eyes a few more times and decided she, at least, needed caffeine.

“How about coffee?” she asked, putting the whiskey on the kitchen counter. “How’s your head?”

“Fuzzy and tired,” he admitted, taking his usual seat in the wicker rocking chair.

“Mine, too.”

“Adrenaline leaving the system,” he suggested.

Jo ground beans and put the kettle on before trying to talk again. For some reason she was struggling with her mouth-words—so much so that MacAdams, of all people, took the lead.

“We are still looking for the Geordie van driver and his associates,” he said over the gentle creak of the rocker. “But I think we’ve sorted the vanishing hiker for you.”

“Really?” Jo wondered if she should tell him about the semihallucinated version, but decided to keep mum for the minute.

“Not hill-walkers at all,” he said. “Foley seems to have been selling stolen artifacts out of the vans. Using kids as couriers.”

Jo absorbed this while watching the French press timer, a minihourglass she’d bought at a curio shop. “If he had a van, why did he need couriers?”

“Small, local deliveries, we think,” MacAdams went on. “We picked up a youth, about sixteen. Blond, around your height.”

“That one’s notmyhiker. Mine had dark hair. And a yellow raincoat. And she wasn’t carrying a pack or anything.”

“Well, we gather they used quite a lot of different people,” MacAdams assured her. She brought him a mug. No biscuits. After Foley, those felt like bad luck.

“So what’s next?” she asked, settling into the peacock-blue chaise.

“For the investigation? Going back to Newcastle tomorrow to follow some leads.” MacAdams tilted his head as though looking at her stairs. “Back to Hammersmith—see if the CEO recognizes a drawing of... Jo? Did you tell me that Foley took towels and soap?”

“Hand towels, a bath towel andallthe soap. Why?”

MacAdams hovered the coffee halfway to his lips but was still looking up at the ceiling. Thinking of her “murder room,” she guessed.

“Have you used the sink up there since all this started?” he asked.

“No.” Jo already put her cup down, because she could see where this was going. “You want to check something?”

MacAdams was on his feet already. Jo led the way into the vaulted attic with its lovely afternoon light (watery light, given the weather). First, he investigated the little WC sink, then hovered over the roll-top bath, sliding a finger along the porcelain. Jo was suddenly grateful that her method of dealing with stress involved serious housekeeping.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” she asked. MacAdams sat down on the tub edge and leaned his arms upon his knees. After a moment, he gave an inward sort of chuckle.

“Ignore me. I just can’t turn it off, sometimes.”

“Oh God, I get it.”

“I came here to thank you, not chase up loose ends.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This case is a million tiny details that don’t add up, and I can’t tell which are important.”

“Such as?” Jo asked, pulling up the nearby chair.

“Soap residue. There isn’t any. Foley took soap and towels, but he didn’t wash up. What did he want them for? Where did they go?”

“Like the missing raincoat and towels and the question of the car,” Jo added. MacAdams gave her a weary smile.

“Exactly. Could add you to the CID. This case is all shoes and ice burn.” He’d started to get up, but Jo waved her hands at him.