Page 32 of The Dead Come to Stay
“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 thatseemed 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 toseethe 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?”
