Page 40 of The Dead Come to Stay

“You wouldn’t. We don’t tart them up and trot them about; we work hard to keep them out of the press.

They’re children , Detective.” Burnhope presently had the high ground and MacAdams knew it.

“I don’t care about your ‘coincidence’ theory.

And I don’t care for your tone. Do your best to find Foley’s murderer, but leave my family out of it.

We’ve done nothing wrong. And if you want to speak to me again, it will be with my lawyer. ”

“I’m sorry, but we’re not quite finished,” MacAdams said, without moving to stand. He took the folded police sketch from his

pocket. “This is a rough drawing of Foley’s girlfriend—possibly fiancée. Ava didn’t recognize her, but suggested she might

be a refugee. Did she come through Fresh Start?”

Burnhope hesitated. “Ava said?” he asked.

“Yes. She doesn’t know much about your business. But you both work in the charity; is that right?” MacAdams asked. He handed

him the drawing, and Burnhope took it.

“Yes, we... share. Ava cares deeply about refugees.” He looked over the image with interest.

“You recognize her, don’t you,” MacAdams said flatly. But Burnhope didn’t bend.

“No. I’ve never seen her before.”

“You sure? We have a witness at a hotel in Abington. She and Foley had been seeing one another for at least six months,” Green

said.

Burnhope’s eyes roved the image, and in the silence, MacAdams pushed their advantage.

“She may be carrying his child,” he added. “And she—and the child—might be in danger.”

Burnhope’s eyes flitted up and back down. “I don’t know her. She wasn’t sponsored through Fresh Start.”

“You’re sure? Would Ms. Wagner say differently?”

Burnhope pushed the drawing back at him. “I’m sure. And for the record, Sophie Wagner is above reproach. A model citizen.”

“Is that why you are such a big donor for her charity?” Green asked with affected disinterest. Over the past few years, his

contributions had amounted to more than seventy thousand.

Burnhope’s face closed like a book, personal emotional register snuffed out. He gave them a benign smile.

“You just can’t bear the idea that we’re the good guys, can you?” he asked. Then he stood and pointed toward the door. “Leave.

Now.”

“We will. Until we have more questions,” MacAdams said. He opened the door for Green and ushered them both down the grand

stairs. They hadn’t quite got to the bottom when they spotted Maryam coming from the kitchen.

“So sorry. Excuse me,” she said, bowing her head over a tray of sandwiches. “For the children.”

“We’ll be out of your way,” MacAdams said. “But maybe you can help me with something?” He began to unfold the image once again,

but Green poked him solidly in the ribs.

“Incoming,” she whispered.

Maryam curtsied, then hurried past and up the stairs behind them.

Ava suddenly reappeared, her eyes narrowed, and pointed a switchblade index finger. “You have bothered us enough! I told you

before, Maryam has been through a great deal. She doesn’t like police or government officials. You wouldn’t, either, in her

shoes. I want you to leave.”

Hospitality had its limits, MacAdams supposed.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Burnhope,” he said, tipping a hat he wasn’t wearing but force of habit. “We’ll be in touch.”

She followed them to the door and was sure to close—and lock—it after them.

“What now?” Green asked once they were a good distance away.

“Now, we pressure Ms. Wagner.”

“About Burnhope? The charity?”

“All that,” he agreed. But he was thinking about the list of donors from the gala, including Gerald Standish; the big “giver”

was also an art collector. He wasn’t willing to let that go just yet.

***

MacAdams parked the car under the lime trees. Green wagged a finger at him.

“You’ll have a sticky mess.” He’d forgotten about that; Common Lime—for some reason always planted on estates and along streets,

despite the fact that they attracted aphids—dropped syrupy sap, and did not actually produce any citrus fruits. They were

linden trees, really, “noble stands” of them in older novels he’d read as a kid. He reparked the car, thinking about what

a terrible choice it was for an actual golf course; of course, the trees, like the original stone structure, predated its

current incarnation. An awful lot—about an awful lot—was a nod to aristocratic tradition and bygone days and nothing more.

“Detective Chief Inspector James MacAdams, Detective Sergeant Green,” he introduced them to the greeter, presenting credentials.

“We’re here to see Sophie Wagner.” They hadn’t yet been pointed to a seat when the charming barkeep spotted them.

“Back again!” Simon said. Today, however, he was wearing golf gear.

“Not pouring drinks, I take it?” Green asked.

“Golf lessons. I give them on Thursdays.” He winked above a broad smile. “Usually to elder ladies, I fear.”

Well-monied ones , MacAdams thought privately. Sophie employed refugees and made ample use of her jack-of-all-trades son. Shrewd business dealing?

Or a sign of trouble in the pocketbook? Simon waved a gloved hand and trotted off before MacAdams could ask him to identify

the missing woman.

“We’ll catch him later,” he said to Green. “I’d rather show it round the current Fresh Start staff.” In fact, he intended

to while waiting on Sophie to find them.

“So, still think Ava and Foley are a thing?” Green asked him.

He had to admit, it was looking less and less likely.

“Gold star to you,” he said. “Not a jilted lover.”

“Not one who gets revenge on refugee women,” Green said. “Particularly not pregnant ones.”

“Agreed.”

“You fancy Sophie might be?” she asked as they wandered down another corridor. It was a question worth answering. But best

answered, perhaps, in her absence. If, that is, they could get any of her many supposedly thankful employees to talk about

her.

Finding their way around the club provided some exercise. A sprawling set of interconnected buildings and extensive grounds—kitchens,

banquet hall, private rooms. The land Lime Tree occupied made up part of an estate long ago, but was converted to a golf club

in the 1890s. Harold Wagner purchased it in 1999, and his wife, Sophie, succeeded him at his passing, raising up young Simon

and turning the club—somehow—into the platform for Fresh Start in 2002. The charity grew faster than the club memberships.

Then again, this seemed to be an overall trend nationally.

“It’s generational,” Green said as they peered into a busy kitchen prep room. “Young people don’t do clubs and golf.”

“Rebellion against their parents?” MacAdams asked.

“Maybe. Or, you know. The world is on fire and hitting a ball with sticks feels a bit silly.”

MacAdams shrugged. “It’s about rubbing shoulders, though, isn’t it?” he asked, hunting the kitchen’s flushed faces for recent

sponsored refugees. “Business types doing deals on the green.”

“People don’t have to rub shoulders anymore, boss. It’s what Zoom is for. Over there—is that one of them?” MacAdams had just

glimpsed Anje, the woman they met on their last visit to the country club. She was headed out through the rear door, toward

the patio.

“You take the left; I’ll take the right,” MacAdams said.

Would she actively avoid them? Probably not. But he wasn’t taking chances, and meeting outside would be less threatening. He’d found the side door, but by the time he crossed the grass, Green had already intercepted Anje.

“And this is Detective MacAdams,” Green said, giving him a nod. “We were wondering if you could look at a picture for us,

tell us if you recognize the person in it?”

MacAdams held it up, but Anje looked away. “I can’t. I have to collect the herbs for tonight.”

“Just look, please?” Green asked; she barely gave it a glance.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so. I have to go.”

It was deeply suspicious... or was it? MacAdams noted that none of the sponsored refugees wanted to look police in the

face. And perhaps that made sense. This did not bode well.

“You could really help us if you took a closer look,” he said, but his phone had begun to buzz. The number wasn’t familiar;

he handed the sketch over to Green.

“MacAdams here,” he said.

“Oh! Detective? I—I didn’t really expect you to answer.” The voice was excited, breathy, and not wholly unfamiliar.

“This is?”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m Emma. Rosalind’s foster mother. You said if there was anything else, I should call—” she began, and MacAdams

nearly dropped the damn phone trying to fish out his notepad. He wedged the mobile between ear and shoulder.

“Yes! Go on,” he said, nodding that Green should continue. Anje was already shaking her head negative; she didn’t know the

girl in the drawing. If Green was asking her about Sophie, he didn’t hear over Emma’s rapid-fire speech.

“Well, I took her phone away. Rosalind’s. That’s how they all communicate these days, and I never know what’s what.”

“Ma’am,” MacAdams said, hoping to hurry things up. Several of the staff had just come out to the patio, too. Maybe for a smoke.

Maybe looking for Anje.

“I want what’s best for her. You understand. And she shouldn’t be hanging out with that boyfriend of hers. They get into trouble together.”

MacAdams suppressed a sigh and rehomed the notepad. This was going to be an angry parent’s witch hunt, no doubt.

“But he has been texting her. I don’t know the passcode, but you can see who it is. Keeps wanted to know ‘what happened.’ I thought you should know, because that’s how she got mixed up. If it weren’t

for Domino, or whatever he calls himself, she’d be fine—”

“I’m sorry, what was the name?”

“I don’t know how to pronounce it; the texts say D-m-y-t-r-o .”

“Thank you for your time,” MacAdams said, the phone sliding down the stubble of his chin. Dmytro and Artem, those were the

names of the other refugee employees he had met on their last visit.

And at the moment, they were both standing right in front of him. He locked eyes upon Dmytro; blond hair, blue eyes, the handsome

adolescent most likely to be attractive to young people of either sex.

“Hello there; you’re one of Sophie’s recent hires—from Ukraine, am I right?” he asked.

Dmytro nodded.

“I’d like to ask you a question about your girlfriend, Rose,” MacAdams said.

Dmytro nodded again—he seemed willing to cooperate, to his surprise. Maybe this won’t be so hard after all , MacAdams thought. And then, before any of them could react, he bolted .

***

There wasn’t time to explain the phone call to Green; there wasn’t time for much of anything.

MacAdams shed his jacket in a single swift motion and dashed after Dmytro in full pursuit.

He didn’t know the grounds, and he wasn’t at all dressed for a hotfooted chase, but a year off cigarettes made a hell of a difference.

MacAdams had height to beat him stride for stride; what he didn’t have was Dmytro’s youth and stamina.

He needed to catch him now , or at least hope Green could intercept before his knees gave out.

Dmytro headed for the golf course greens. MacAdams watched him leap a drystone wall and dash eastward. In a moment, he’d lose

him to the topography. Dammit ; he wasn’t hurdling a three-foot wall without breaking something. He slowed on the penultimate and used both hands to vault

over, ignoring the grating of palms against stone. Below, he just glimpsed a flash of white disappear among two outbuildings

near the water hazard. Did he think to hide there? MacAdams slid down the decline toward the pond and banked right, breathing

hard. Good. Stay there , he thought. They could flush him out later. Then he heard the interrupted rumble of a motorcycle kick start.

It came from the largest of the buildings; metal sides, a small garage for equipment. The attempted kick start sounded again;

the engine hadn’t yet turned over. MacAdams held his breath and hoped it wouldn’t —then he shoved open the unlocked door.

“Dmytro, stop!” he shouted, holding up his badge. “Get off the motorbike!”

Dmytro gave him a wild, panicked stare and gave a heavy kick. The engine sprang to life and a 74 R90/6 BMW lurched forward—directly

at MacAdams. There wasn’t much time to dodge aside; he spun left and Dmytro stuttered past, almost losing balance but ultimately

skidding across the concrete floor and out the door. Right into a broom handle.

MacAdams blinked dust. Dmytro had just been clotheslined off the motorbike, which sputtered forward, died and fell onto its

side for lack of momentum.

“Don’t even think about it!” Green shouted, getting a knee onto a coughing and nose-bloodied Dmytro.

“Is he all right?” MacAdams asked, getting up from where he’d fallen against old tarpaulins.

“Are you ?” Green asked, getting the handcuffs out. “Am I, for that matter? Wrenched my shoulder clean out.”

It was a blessing he wasn’t going any faster. Dmytro didn’t struggle; he seemed suddenly spent—though being hit in the chest

with a broom handle may have had something to do with it. Green got him to his feet and read him the rights, and MacAdams

called for backup. They were going to need an interview room at Newcastle station.