Thursday, 10:30
The fourth floor of the Burnhope residence turned out to be a massive solarium with a ceiling of glass. MacAdams really should have predicted as much. The space, almost entirely open-plan, boasted an enormous meeting room, a casing with books and almost as many business trophies as the main office, as well as an extended conference room table. The rest of the house had preserved a kind of warmth, made possible by plants and music stands and the accoutrements of living. The fourth floor had none of this; sleek, modern, it might as well have been a suite of Hammersmith and Company. Burnhope sat at his desk, back to the door.
“Finished with your meeting, I take it,” MacAdams said.
Burnhope turned around in a hurry. It was the first time MacAdams had seen surprise there; it gave him a curious open-eyed look.
“I wasn’t aware you were here,” he said.
“Oh, I think you were,” MacAdams replied. He had to walk a line here; they had nothing—yet—to bring him in over. But for once he had an advantage, and he was going to make the most of it. “You surely know we would be coming to ask about York.”
“Yes. I already spoke to the Newcastle police about this, and I’ve made a statement for York Central, too,” Burnhope replied easily. “I told them, and I’m happy to tell you: I knew nothing about this.”
“One of your close colleagues imported millions in stolen goods under your nose, and you . . . just had no idea at all?” MacAdams asked. “You seem too smart for that kind of con.”
“There would be records of deliveries, shipments, documents to sign, distribution . . .” Green ticked them off on her long fingers. “Here you are, the boss of it all.”
Burnhope’s expression was cool, though still amiable.
“Have a seat, Detectives,” he said. “First of all, you don’t run a multinational company by being the one who checks every invoice and shipping receipt. I already told you that I’d given the York property to Foley to run.”
“And he ran it into the ground—and you didn’t check up.”
“I didn’t know I had to. Look at this from my perspective, why don’t you? A company and its employees depend on trust and reputation. I trusted Foley.” Burnhope folded his hands on the desk and sighed. “He betrayed that trust. He might well ruin our reputation, which means he betrayed all of Hammersmith.”
“I entirely agree,” MacAdams said, taking the seat he’d been offered. “A company with all these awards—” he gestured to the wall of glittering teardrops “—depends a lot on its reputation. The market isn’t easy . . . and everyone knows it’s slowed in the last decade. And now you’ve been betrayed by someone you trusted. One might almost say it was a motive.”
Burnhope placed both hands upon his desk. “I did not kill Ronan Foley.”
“Good, because he doesn’t exist,” Green said. She opened the file folder she’d been carrying and handed out several photographs.
“What am I looking at?” Burnhope sighed, though MacAdams could see it well enough: a young man and woman on their wedding day.
“Rhyan Flannery,” Green said. “Irish. From Belfast.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Look closer,” MacAdams encouraged. “You told me you were only in Ireland as a child. You must have gone back now and then, surely. Perhaps you met a man looking for a new start. A Fresh Start, let’s say.”
Burnhope put the photographs down and attempted to push them away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I take offence that you’d bring my charity work for rehoming refugees into this.”
“Stanley, this is Ronan Foley,” MacAdams said. And for the second time, he saw the look of shock. It didn’t appear to be faked. Burnhope snatched up of the photographs of Foley and Tula again.
“This? Is Foley? And that’s . . . his wife?”
“They are still married, in fact,” Green said. “Perhaps you knew that. She lives in Abington.”
“Look, I knew Foley had been married, once. He mentioned it in passing. I didn’t know where she lived, and I sure didn’t think they were still together.”
“Was it because he had another woman?” MacAdams asked. He’d been trying to catch Burnhope out, get him to admit to some knowledge previously repressed. But the man merely gave him a smile, salesman like.
“There had been women, off and on, through the years. Christmas party dates and the like, nothing serious.”
“You told me you weren’t friends. That he stayed out of your personal life. But he came to Christmas parties.”
“Company Christmas parties, Detective.”
“Yet he called your house. Your landline,” MacAdams pressed.
The hooded eyes remained slack. “Our landline is publicly available, not that anyone uses a phone book these days. If you say he called, he did. That doesn’t make us close companions.” The slight brogue had resurfaced, but it was proving difficult to get a real reaction out of Burnhope. Emotion, after all, led to more mistakes.
“Maybe he wasn’t calling you,” MacAdams said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Burnhope,” Green said, still standing at his elbow with the folder. “I have here a list of times he called your house using a burner phone. Can you verify that this is your home number?”
“It is . . . but that doesn’t signify—”
“A burner phone, Stanley,” MacAdams repeated. “A person only uses one of those if they don’t want to be traced. A person who has changed their name, who is a devious criminal and who—for instance—doesn’t want his boss to know he’s calling his wife.”
The expression on Burnhope’s face wasn’t one of surprise, not this time. It was stone-cold anger.
“I should kick you out of my house for even suggesting something like that.”
“We are not making accusations,” Green said, throwing MacAdams a rather pointed glance. “We’re just trying to understand why he phoned you eight times when you claim you weren’t on personal terms.”
“I’ve had just about enough of this,” Stanley said. “What is it that you have against me? I run a successful business, I help organize a charity, Ava and I were both at a charity event when all this happened.”
“By all this you mean Ronan Foley’s murder,” MacAdams clarified.
Burnhope nodded grudgingly. “Yes. Look, the man worked for me for years. Over a decade, you understand. I investigated his references, and they checked out. I didn’t know he’d been lying about himself then—and I didn’t know he was lying to me now. I don’t even know when it all started.” He drew himself up a little, a man getting his composure back. “Did he call the house? Maybe. People do. Should I have been suspicious? Maybe. But unlike some people, I trust my wife.”
“You don’t believe she was having an affair with Foley,” MacAdams asked, delivering a poke he hoped might reignite his passions. It didn’t work.
“I do not. The two of them wouldn’t even have anything to talk about.”
Green had never bought MacAdams’s theory about Ava. Which was why her next comment surprised MacAdams.
“Actually, they might have plenty to talk about,” she said. “Like two million or more in black market antiquities stolen from Syria and on their way to collectors. Rich men, like yourself.”
Burnhope got out of his chair so fast that it nearly triggered MacAdams’s reflexes. But he was laughing.
“Please do look around yourself,” he said. “I collect art, yes—modern art. I have no interest in antiquities. And have a look at Ava’s music room, if you like. Modern. Regional and local. Now you are grasping at straws.”
“Maybe you don’t collect,” MacAdams said, not willing to let the line of inquiry die out. “But someone does. Someone with ties to you, to the charity, to Abington. Come on, Burnhope. You play golf with these people, you go to balls with them. Black-tie people.”
“People like Gerald Standish,” Green added.
An indistinguishable sound escaped him Burnhope and he scrubbed fingers through his hair.
“Dr. Standish has sponsored more refugees than anyone—hundreds of thousands of pounds spent, lives made better, people changed. He’s opened his own home as a halfway station. He serves on two committees for the refugee council. Why are you targeting the very people trying to make a difference in the world? Foley was the bad apple. Can’t you see that? Let the blame fall on him.”
“The consequences certainly did,” Green said.
Burnhope’s hands had found pockets, probably to keep them still, but his anger was growing palpable.
“Sit down, Mr. Burnhope,” MacAdams said. “You told it from your perspective; now I’ll give you mine. This isn’t some one-off operation. Foley couldn’t get the pieces here on his own; he must have connections—a network—in Syria. You have connections to Syria. Your charity does, too. And Hammersmith is an international company with its own network, buying power and access to tax havens. At the same time, both you and your wife collect art and know the art world. And then you have friends like Standish, who collect art and antiquities—from Syria. I’m sure you’ll agree, that’s expecting a lot from coincidence.”
“Syria is not a coincidence,” Burnhope said. He’d resumed his seat, and simultaneously seemed to deflate. He reached for a framed photo near his laptop.
“Do you want to know why I care about Syria? Why Ava does? Why we both work so damn hard?” he asked. “My children, our children, are from Syria. We adopted them five years ago. Look at them.”
They stared up at MacAdams with laughing expressions. Dark hair, olive skin. One of them had pale blue eyes. He guessed one to be eight, the other six.
Burnhope was still speaking. “Their village was destroyed. Their families were probably murdered.”
“I didn’t know that,” MacAdams admitted, though it explained Ava’s earlier emotional response. It was also chewing a few holes in a few theories.
“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.