Page 15 of The Dead Come to Stay

Monday morning with take-away coffee from Teresa’s mobile tea-and-cakes van. It wasn’t very good coffee. But at least she’d

given it to MacAdams for free after his generous “go away” tip from Saturday.

“It’s not a bad business model,” Green said. “Gridley says it’s better for her than university.”

“Life in a food trolley?” MacAdams asked.

“To start, why not? We’ve apparently got a butty van somewhere around; Gwilym said he and Jo saw one near the trail.”

MacAdams took their exit, chewing over this last remark.

“Isn’t that near where Roberta found the body?” he asked, but Green’s phone had just buzzed.

“Oi, that’s Gridley.” She picked up her mobile and listened intently. “Ah. Figures. The telephone number we lifted from the

Abington Arms call history? No trace; must be a burner phone.”

There were only so many reasons for a throw-away, untraceable number, and most of them were not aboveboard. It added a new element.

“Stanley Burnhope should have his regular mobile number; that might tell us something,” MacAdams suggested.

“As to Burnhope, since we missed him yesterday, Rachel and I had a good poke around the internet last night.”

“Everybody’s best boy,” MacAdams said. “What did you find?”

“Stanley Scott Burnhope, son of MacAlister Burnhope—diplomat. Mother was what you might call industry aristocrat.”

“Grew up with wealth, then.”

“They owned yachts,” said Green, in whose opinion yacht owners didn’t go to hell; they ran the administration. “Degrees from Eton College and Oxford, surprise, surprise. Started out in an old-school

architecture firm, then started his own commercial development company. They win awards for places no one would want to live.

That sort of thing.”

MacAdams thought of the Gherkin—formerly the Swiss Re Building—of pickle-shaped fame.

“No blemishes on the record anywhere?” he asked.

“If there are, they have been thoroughly swept under money rugs,” Green said, “though there was a discord at Eton, apparently.

Hang on...” She scrolled through her notes. “Right, so he never gets actually sent up for this, but there had been allegations

that he and four other pupils received leaked exam information. Only one of them punished. The scholarship kid.”

“The not-as-rich one.”

“So it seems. Anyway, everything against Burnhope was dropped. A quick look through his time at Oxford doesn’t turn up much,

but I am pretty sure money got him the initial job in the firm.”

“And money to set up Burnhope’s award-winning development company,” MacAdams said. “That also has no blemishes.”

“Or none we can find. Money makes problems go away.”

“You are deeply skeptical, Sheila Green,” MacAdams said, pulling into an immaculate but mostly empty car park.

Of course, MacAdams largely agreed. Entirely made of glass that seemed to ripple around the curved exterior, Hammersmith and Company certainly dripped with money.

The real impression was waiting for them, however, on the inside.

Something between rotunda and Parthenon, all offices faced inward to an open piazza. Within was a four-story waterfall, all

of it lit by a glass ceiling some fifteen floors above. Green craned her neck for the full view of the latter.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” she asked, then looked again at her notes. “Company supposedly has twenty thousand employees

all told.”

“Interesting. A lot of offices up there are dark.” MacAdams swept his eyes across the vast lobby. A café occupied the rear

wall, on-grounds service. The inverse of Teresa’s tea mobile, he couldn’t help but think. In the center, left of the waterfall,

was a proper reception desk—and a crisp-looking woman in lavender.

“Good morning, welcome to Hammersmith and Company. Can I direct you?” she asked. MacAdams read her bronze name pin.

“Ms. Simmons,” he said, producing his police ID. “We would like to speak with Stanley Burnhope, please.”

“Oh my, has something happened?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t alarmed necessarily, but no hint of expectation, either. Burnhope

no doubt knew of Foley’s death now, but perhaps it hadn’t made the rounds.

“If you could just point us in the right direction.”

“I’ll ring you up,” Ms. Simmons agreed, and MacAdams took the opportunity to brief Green quietly.

“Dig.” He nodded toward the knot of people forming in front of the café. “Find out who knew Foley and if anyone’s heard...

anything.”

“Boss,” Green said, using the title as an affirmative. Meanwhile, Ms. Simmons gestured to the far left.

“The lift is just past the fountain. Eleventh floor.”

***

Like everything else at Hammersmith, the lift was a glassed-in affair, a music box on pulleys offering visitors a near 360-degree

view of the rotunda and several floors of sudden death, should a cable snap. MacAdams wasn’t afraid of heights, but he didn’t

care to see the mechanisms by which mankind evaded gravity, in the same way he didn’t want to see the interior workings of a jumbo jet.

MacAdams expected to step off into a reception area with secretary gatekeeper, as below. Instead, the doors opened into a

sunken floor plan with two steps down to short-backed, shiny sofas with an obelisk coffee table. The raised terrace around

it boasted architectural drawings and shelves with best-in-the-business awards. MacAdams investigated the first; shaped like

a pyramid, it offered commendation for architectural design.

“Good morning, Detective.”

MacAdams turned to see a man in his fifties, dark hair a bit longer than his online photo and inclined to wave. Slim build

in a tailored suit, wearing an expensive watch. Well turned out, but not ostentatious—with a face that married the reserve

of Gridley with the affability of Struthers.

“A pleasure,” MacAdams said briskly. He pointed to the framed drawings. “So Hammersmith is both architecture and real estate?”

“Yes, more control of the process. As you can see, it’s paid off. Our design team is a hundred strong now, award winning.

Have you seen our builds?”

“I’ve seen this one. And the country club. And your house.”

“Ah.” Burnhope’s hooded eyes closed a moment, his smile regressing. “Yes. Ava told me—and I spoke to Sophie. About Foley.”

“Your wife didn’t seem to know him,” MacAdams said. “Or even really much about your work at all.”

“She knows we build stunning buildings,” Burnhope said. “That’s enough, don’t you think?”

“Do you?”

“Certainly. I know Ava is a celebrated concert pianist. I don’t have to know the difference between a B-flat and an F-sharp. I respect her work, she respects mine. Separate spheres.”

“So I see.” MacAdams did not see, but all the same. “Back to Foley, then. His last email to you called for a partners’ meeting. On Friday, the day he was killed. Can you elaborate?”

Burnhope nodded, then backed toward the farther glass wall. “Would you step into my office? I have something to show you.”

MacAdams obliged, taking a seat in the chair opposite Burnhope’s credenza. “You aren’t from Newcastle yourself, I take it.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“You don’t have the accent. Your wife does, but we know she’s local.” MacAdams watched his smile reappear.

“Daughter to city CEO Thompson, yes, Newcastle born and bred. I come from London.”

“Not Ireland?” MacAdams asked, referring to his very slight brogue. Honest surprise dawned on Burnhope’s face.

“I’m not, but well spotted, Detective. Are you a linguist?”

“Detective Chief Inspector. And I’m not, but I’m familiar with the Irish accent. Yours is faint, but I can hear it.” In all

honesty, he’d guessed—and only because Burnhope pronounced the word cannot the same way Tula Byrne did: cannae . Burnhope rested his hands upon his desk.

“You’ll be surprised to know I only spent a year there, but it was a formative one. I was three. Do you have children?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you would be shocked what a toddler picks up and can’t let go.

I learned to speak there, and retain a bit of those linguistic leanings.

” Burnhope turned on his laptop and appeared to be scrolling.

“I did receive that email from Foley, as you said, and we met up. I don’t know why he called it a partners’ meeting, except that he had been angling for a promotion. Been asking for at least six months.”

The half year seemed to be increasingly important.

“You weren’t keen on the idea?” MacAdams asked.

Burnhope’s eyes had returned to their usual demure hoods, and he frowned slightly.

“I’m afraid not, no. Don’t mistake me—Foley had a certain set of very important skills. But he wasn’t right for partnership.”

MacAdams tapped his pencil against the notepad. He wanted to talk about the meeting on Friday, but this seemed important.

“What does it take, Mr. Burnhope? Why wasn’t he the right sort?”

Burnhope looked out the window and away from MacAdams before he replied.

“I started this company in 1993,” he said. “Now we’re international. We employ thousands of people; we do a build from design

to finish. It’s better for Newcastle, better for everyone. We have a public face and a debt to the community.”

“I believe you are the public face,” MacAdams countered. “The golden boy of industry, or so says the Chronicle .”

Burnhope laughed. “I wouldn’t put it that way myself. I’m a businessman, and we all want fiscal success; I’m not denying it.

I just also want something good to come of it. It sounds cliché, but I want the world to be a better place for my children. Sophie Wagner

wants that—Ava wants that. It’s our focus.”

“You haven’t really answered the question,” MacAdams reminded him.