Page 82 of The Dead Come to Stay
“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 youclaimyou 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 bothata charity event when all this happened.”
“Byallthisyou 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 tomenow. 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, Itrustmywife.”
“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 waslaughing.
“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.Whyare you targeting the very people trying to make a difference inthe 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.Youhave 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,ourchildren, 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’rechildren, Detective.” Burnhope presently had the high ground and MacAdamsknew 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.
