Page 16 of The Dead Come to Stay

“What I’m saying is that it takes different personalities to run a company.

Foley had single-minded focus. He was aggressive; he wasn’t afraid to push.

I used to call him the bulldog.” Burnhope’s expression grew serious.

“Foley could shout down a contractor; he could bully the toughest supervisors, he wouldn’t be crossed, denied or made a fool of.

But you can’t treat financ ers and governing bodies that way.

I gave him his six months to turn it around with a property in York.

It took him half that time to gravely irritate the Lord Mayor, in a way that gets the project shut down.

I’d made up my mind before the meeting that he simply wasn’t partner material. ”

And with that, they had circled back to Friday.

“Start from his arrival at four thirty,” MacAdams said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

Burnhope sighed and laced his fingers. “There isn’t much to tell. He arrived; we had a coffee. It started cordially enough,

but when I told him it wasn’t in our vision for him to make partner, he became angry.”

“And did things escalate?”

“He shouted a bit, then said he didn’t need Hammersmith.”

“He quit, you mean?”

“I don’t think he meant to, and it’s no way to tender resignation, anyway. I told him to have a cool off at the weekend; we’d

talk about it more later. He agreed, still heated, and left. That’s all.”

“What time did he go?” MacAdams asked.

“It wasn’t even five.”

“Anyone verify that?”

“Doubtful,” Burnhope said. “I let everyone leave at 4:00 p.m.; a number of them were invited to the charity ball.”

“For refugees,” MacAdams said. “I understand your nanny is one.”

“Maryam. Yes.” Burnhope’s brows darkened a moment. “You say that as though it’s an accusation, Detective.”

“Not to worry,” MacAdams said dryly. “Ms. Wagner has already given me a detailed report on why it’s aboveboard.”

“I see.” Burnhope stood up and adjusted his sport coat, a clear signal the meeting was coming to an end. “You’re one of those

who think charity begins at home, I suppose? No hiring of immigrants?”

MacAdams stood, though in other respects remained unmoved. “Did Ronan Foley ever take part in the charity?”

Burnhope’s hackles smoothed again. He led the way to the lift.

“Detective, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. But Foley was not the sort to do charity work. He worked like a dynamo,

was a good job lead. But I did not have a personal relationship with him.”

“And you clearly kept him away from your family,” MacAdams said.

“I suppose? Work-life separation. There wasn’t a reason for him to meet Ava.” He frowned again. “Has the obituary been printed?

I haven’t yet made an announcement to the staff. Our secretary should be told.”

“I think my DS may have taken care of that,” Macadams suggested when the lift announced itself. He held it with his foot and

pulled out his notepad again. “One more thing. This is the number we have for Foley. Did he have any others?”

Burnhope scanned the yellow pad.

“Not that I know of, I’m afraid. It’s the one I’ve got for him.”

“And it’s always been the same, has it?”

Burnhope’s hooded eyes narrowed. “Since he started with us, yes. Why ask?”

MacAdams declined to give a reason. Instead, he entered into the glass coffin and descended to the ground floor. Green had

migrated to the sitting area behind the fountain with Ms. Simmons, who appeared to be weeping openly. She looked up as they

approached, dabbing at her mascara with a handful of tissues.

“Oh it’s so awful,” she hiccupped.

“It’s a great shock,” he agreed as Green got to her feet.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Simmons,” Green said, though her eyebrows suggested a great deal more. “If you think of anything

else, you can call.”

“Trisha,” she said, taking Green’s card. “Thank you.”

***

Once outside, Green let out a long breath.

“That was a lot more emotional than I expected.”

MacAdams ears pricked. “Go on.”

“Well, most people I spoke to knew who he was; he definitely turned up here plenty, but I gather his was the away-game, on-site

sort of thing. But shite, when I asked Trisha Simmons, she just completely fell apart.”

“Enough to suggest they might have been more than colleagues?” he asked.

“You’re thinking of the earring.”

“Or the silk scarf.”

“I got there, too; especially if she is the assistant who may or may not have made the Abington Arms reservation. We could get a DNA swab, but if so, she wasn’t

wearing the perfume today.” Green got into the driver’s side. “Simmons is something of a personal assistant to all of the

upper-level folks, not just Burnhope. She’d also a single mum raising a daughter and having a struggle of it—especially since

the pandemic. Foley apparently brought her flowers on Mother’s Day, even picked up her kid from school on occasion. That sort

of thing.”

“Strange. According to Burnhope, Foley didn’t think of anyone but himself.”

“So not friends?”

“Honestly? He described Ronan Foley as a bully—a bull dog . And he didn’t want the man around his wife and kids.” MacAdams buckled himself in and Green started the engine.

“Descriptions don’t exactly square, do they?” she asked.

MacAdams made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“Could be work versus personal life,” he said. “Then again, if he and Trisha weren’t more intimately involved, then she ought

to fall on the work side. We need more input, someone else who knew Foley well.”

“Afraid most of what I picked up at the office was more or less neutral and distant. If he was a bully, it must have been leveled at outside contracts.”

“About that,” MacAdams said. “Burnhope said he received big complaints from a property in York.”

“So what’s our next move?” Green asked, picking up her mobile.

“ Your next move is to get that burner trace. I... need to make a phone call.”

MacAdams did not add that his call would be to Annie. Her new husband, Ashok, worked as a commercial architect; he might have a handle on

professional gossip about the York build. It meant doing pleasantries with his ex-wife’s partner in ways that MacAdams would

much rather avoid; then again, it also meant making inquiries in the quietest way possible. “I also want a list of attendees

to the charity ball.”

“You think Burnhope has a motive?” she asked.

MacAdams didn’t. Or, rather, he could see Foley having a motive to wish harm onto Burnhope more than the reverse. At the same

time, despite the coincidental timing, Foley’s demand for a promotion didn’t explain why he might sell his possessions so

quickly before his death. Was he in fiscal trouble? Nothing in his accounts suggested it, but if he was in trouble—if he owed

money to dangerous people—if he were involved in some sort of—

“Hey boss? It’s Jo Jones.”

“What? Where?”

He looked up to find, indeed, a Jo Jones. Here in Newcastle. With coffee. And two small dogs.