Page 26 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Can you take us through the day’s events, please?” he asked. Sophie was companionable and far more willing to bend than Burnhope’s wife, Ava, but he could see that she was growing tired of the game.
“There’s a brochure I can fetch you,” she said, leading them back through the corridor. “Open house at seven-thirty, silent auction, performance, dancing, etc. Why does it matter?”
“Because, Ms. Wagner, it provides an alibi.”
Sophie stopped so abruptly, he nearly tread upon the kaftan.
“An alibi? Forwhat?”
“Murder,” Green said, coming up abreast of them. “Of Mr. Burnhope’s business... associate... Ronan Foley.”
Was that a flicker of recognition that passed through her wide-eyed stare?
“Foley,” she said slowly. “Murdered? Does Stanley know?”
“You knew him, then,” Macadams followed up, but she shook her head.
“Knew of; he works at Hammersmith. A sort of deal closer or something. That’s awful—but Stanley wouldn’t have anything to do with... Is that what you’re suggesting? That he needs an alibi for murder?”
“We’re just trying to log everyone’s movements,” MacAdams said by rote. “And to discover who was last to see him.”
Technically that wasn’t true, MacAdams couldn’t help but think. Apart from his murderer, the last to see him was Jo Jones.
***
“Christ, that place is all about the white man’s burden.” Green shook her head. “Imagine failing to see the problem of hiring the people you’re sponsoring.”
“Not very likely to report any bad dealings, are they?” MacAdams agreed.
“Or abuse, or extralong hours, or missing paychecks. But they must have good PR. Look at the headlines: ‘Local Businessman Is a Leading Light for Change.’ Oh God, they call him athought leader.”
“Meaning others turn to him for business guidance?” MacAdams asked from the driver’s seat. It was technically Green’s turn to drive, but he hated reading on a tablet screen.
“Meaning he paid somebody to write the article, probably.” Green scrolled on. “Ava has done quite a bit in the way of charity, too; lots of events among the great and the good to drum up fiscals. Golden boy, blah blah. Sophie Wagner is more interesting.”
MacAdams reached for the toasty he’d picked up at Tesco. “She’s the charity’s originator, I take it.”
“Established in 2011. Been sponsoring refugees from Somalia, Sudan, Afghanistan. Lately from Ukraine. Get this, though; she wasn’t lying about the job placement. It’s not just her golf club. They’re employing people all over the north, around ninety-five percent placement. That’s better than you get among local graduates, these days.”
“So the four people working for her—”
“Are a tiny fraction of the whole.”
“And Burnhope’s involvement?”
“That’s a little harder to parse, but to be honest? I’m guessing he’s just dollars. And according to Sophie, Foley never even made an appearance on that end of things.”
MacAdams took the exit for Abington. They could investigate all of this further on Monday—tomorrow, MacAdams reminded himself. They still had frustratingly little to go on, and despite establishing an alibi via Sophie Wagner, they hadn’t managed to actually meet Stanley Burnhope himself. Yes, he’d “golfed.” No, he wasn’t on the green when they arrived. Convenient, if coincidental; it also meant they lost the element of surprise. News of Foley’s death would be in the papers by morning, and of course, he and Green had played their cards already.
What happened between that four-thirty meeting and Foley’s trip to Abington? Why had he sold his house—and what did the oddly vacant flat tell them about the man’s future plans? There was an awful lot riding on the scarf, shoes and Foley’s inquiry at the Abington Arms. He hoped Andrews had more luck with CCTV.
“Not going to the station?” Green asked when he turned onto the High Street.
“Red Lion,” MacAdams said, patting his shirt pocket. “Jo said Foley seemed to recognize Tula’s name; I want her to see the photograph.”
The pub room was busy, boisterous and loud. A dozen people were gathered around the television and rooting for Man City, the partridge pie special was making rounds to crowded tables in the front room and a full line stood at the bar.
“I could eat,” Green told him as the smell of warm pastry and sizzling drippings drifted overhead.
