Page 46 of The Dead Come to Stay

about the risk of it—at least she thought he did; the world had just fuzzed out. It happened in moments of hyperfocus: the

hi-fi rush of pinpoint attention as everything else desaturated. A taxi stopped to let the crosswalker go by, everything in

slow motion. When it all snapped forward again, Jo didn’t think, she just reacted: follow. Across the road, amid honks and shouts and Gwilym cursing in Welsh she went—because out in front was the woman in yellow,

the one who had vanished on the moor.

***

Stanley Burnhope wore a pale blue sport coat of linen which nearly matched the walls of Newcastle’s interview room. His lawyer,

a woman in deep black whose lapels, heels and facial expressions were all equally sharp, looked like she might spit venom.

MacAdams took a seat, though Burnhope was first to speak.

“I’m here as a free agent and of my own volition,” he said. “I want to help Dmytro.”

MacAdams made him repeat it for the tape. Then he opened the file, the one with blunt trauma images of Foley.

“Good. You can start by telling the truth,” MacAdams said. “This morning you pretended to be shocked about the seizure of

artifacts. But you knew Foley was dealing in stolen goods, and you knew Dmytro helped him. For all I know, all of Hammersmith

is in on the deal and those were your goons clearing away the evidence in York.”

“You have just accused my client of a crime. Do you wish to retract?” asked the legal.

MacAdams leaned toward the recording device. “No, I don’t wish to retract.”

“My client does not have goons, as you put it,” she said.

MacAdams ignored her and looked instead at Burnhope. “Sophie caught Dmytro Friday morning. But she wasn’t alone, was she?

You and Gerald were there, too. How convenient. But you promise to keep Dmytro out of trouble. Why would you do that? Worried

we might trace all of this back to you?”

Burnhope settled his gaze on MacAdams. It was hard to read what might be going on there; when not surprised, he was very good

at hiding emotion. Almost as good as MacAdams.

“Foley’s crimes have nothing to do with me, except that I’m Dmytro’s only protection. He is vulnerable,” he said, smoothing a curl behind his ear. “Artem is older; he’s a solid lad. And he’s engaged to Anje. Dmytro—he’s much more alone. I took him under wing; he needed a father figure.”

MacAdams noted that none of this answered his question, but he was willing to be patient. Just not very patient.

“Go on,” he said flatly.

“He struggled. And his behavior had changed in the last few months.” Burnhope’s hands had been folded on the table; now they

wandered, restless. “Sophie cornered him, and after he told her, they both came to tell me, his sponsor.”

“On Friday,” MacAdams repeated for the tape.

“That’s right. He admitted he’d been doing work on the side for Foley, a courier service .” Burnhope cleared his throat. “He’s not a stupid boy. He knew it was wrong, but Foley promised to get his family out of

the war zone.”

“How would he do that?”

“How would I know? They were lies.”

“You have been telling lies, too,” MacAdams countered. “The meeting with Foley last Friday, that wasn’t about a promotion.

You already knew what Foley was hiding in York.”

“No, I didn’t know about York,” Burnhope said, his brow twitching in annoyance. “I didn’t have the first clue—how would I?”

“There is a stolen artifact in Dmytro’s locker,” MacAdams said flatly. “You could have reported it. You could have had Foley

arrested and put away. But you didn’t.” MacAdams tapped the tabletop, then slid forward the more gruesome of the photos. “Almost

as though you knew Foley wouldn’t be a problem anymore, regardless.”

Predictably, Burnhope’s lawyer was ready to interrupt.

“You are insinuating a crime,” she said.

“No,” MacAdams countered. “I’m solving one. Tell me, Mr. Burnhope. Why the lies?”

Burnhope released his grip on the table and forced his hands back to a neutral clasp. Possibly, this was to make him appear more at ease. It had the opposite effect of highlighting contents under pressure.

“Do you know how difficult it is to bring refugees into this country?” he demanded. “There’s already a stigma. People are against anyone

who wasn’t born here, and you know it. Dmytro will be lucky if he’s not sent back to Ukraine. Fresh Start will be lucky if

we don’t lose our certifications—”

“So you were willing to ignore felonies to save face?” MacAdams interrupted.

Burnhope did not relish being interrupted. “To save lives !” he half shouted. “To bring these people out of war—that’s what we do .”

MacAdams let a few seconds of silence fall between them and this last exclamation. Then he leaned forward on the metal table.

“Let’s try this again. Friday. What happened at that meeting?”

For a long moment, Burnhope said nothing. MacAdams thought he might not proceed at all, and that the interview would terminate,

intractable. He was already thinking through scenarios for keeping him in the interview room—even arrest, if that were possible—when

he spoke.

“I didn’t know what Dmytro had stolen. I didn’t know why, and the last thing I wanted was to bring suspicion on the poor kid.

I thought—maybe—there was some other explanation, and I already had a meeting with Foley.” He looked from MacAdams to the

tape recorder. “I didn’t lie about that; we were discussing his promotion.”

“The promotion he’d emailed you about. The one you didn’t plan to give him.”

“We never even got so far,” Burnhope explained. “I demanded answers. He didn’t have any. Instead, he said Dmytro was a liar

and a delinquent. He said they were all delinquents.”

“And then what? You argued? It got heated?”

“No. I was angry but could barely speak. He said he was leaving the country—with a woman. I told him good riddance.”

“Was she a refugee, like Dmytro?” MacAdams asked.

Burnhope shook his head. “I don’t know anything about her,” he insisted. “I got suspicious when you showed me the sketch. I hope to God she isn’t. I just wanted Foley gone,

out of the business, out of our lives—out of Dmytro’s life. Hasn’t it occurred to you that he is the one most likely to pay for Foley’s crimes? An outsider, barely an adult, a refugee?”

Burnhope’s voice had elevated slightly. MacAdams watched his pulse tick at the vein in his neck.

“Is that why you killed Foley?” he asked.

“Mr. MacAdams,” shouted his legal counsel, but Burnhope held up a placating hand.

“He knows I didn’t kill Foley. I was at the charity ball on Friday night, with more than a hundred witnesses.” Then he fixed his gaze

on MacAdams again. “You asked me why I didn’t report Foley—why I didn’t reveal this to you even after his death. It’s because

if I did, it would endanger Dmytro. And I was right.”

***

Every detective was a cynic. It couldn’t be helped. Humans, even when best intentioned, lied constantly . They lied to others; they lied to themselves. Three eyewitnesses couldn’t tell you the same story standing next to each

other. There were biases and vested interests; a witness to a vicious attack suddenly remembered that he tried to help; of course he did. A witness to the regular beatings of a wife by her husband would claim there was nothing to suggest

he might one day murder her. People made up endings and filled gaps always with a view to present themselves in the best light;

truth was relative and up for revision.

MacAdams walked away from the interview room where a charitable businessman with a supposedly impeccable record claimed his worst fault was in service to a vulnerable teenager on the cusp of adulthood.

Even if he wanted to believe him, MacAdams couldn’t afford to take his word.

But Burnhope did have an ace; he was at the charity ball.

And Green was presently checking the footage.

He found Green surrounded by a cluster of young officers and detectives. Heads down, they were watching Sophie’s footage,

with Green offering commentary to eager listeners. It was rare he caught her so candid, and not for the first time he thought

she ought to be running a department somewhere.

“What news?” he asked.

“It’s not favorable,” she said, eyes still locked on the time stamp. “Not to us, anyway.” She motioned to the picture, which

was surprisingly clear and focused. Sophie—and Burnhope—stood on the stage welcoming guests and announcing the silent auction.

“I haven’t gone over it minute by minute yet. But he gives the farewell, too, just like he said.”

“And Sophie Wagner?”

“Yup, she’s there the whole time.”

“Not our murderers?” MacAdams sat on the edge of the desk, chewing pride and indignation—and his lower lip. It didn’t mean

they were clear of involvement, but they had just been bumped back to square one. Who dealt the killing blow?

“We’ve got other problems,” Green said. “The Lord Mayor’s office called. They want to know why we’re holding Stanley Burnhope.”

“We’re not,” MacAdams said, aware that it came out a bit like a growl.

“Well, thank God you’ve preserved your good humor,” Green replied, but she wasn’t happy, either, he knew.

They had to let Burnhope go. But of course, he wouldn’t go far.

He was Newcastle’s golden boy, after all.

There was an empty desk nearby; MacAdams threw himself into the chair with enough force to make the springs squeal.

What did they have? A terrified kid who had seen too much but somehow not enough to help them, and who was now in danger of prison time or deportation.

“Gerald Standish. I’m sure he’s our receiver,” he muttered.

“Can we prove it?” Green asked.

“No. Not yet.” Maybe not ever , he added silently. “But there’s more that bothers me. He seemed utterly shocked that we’d picked up Dmytro.”

“As in, surprised the kid got caught?”

“As in, that he was involved. Apparently, he and Burnhope are sort of sponsoring him. And to be honest, I don’t think either

of them would risk involving the charity.”