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.
“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 financers 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.