Page 99 of The Dead Come to Stay
Burnhope’s voice had elevated slightly. MacAdams watched his pulse tick at the vein in his neck.
“Is that why you killed Foley?” he asked.
“Mr. MacAdams,”shouted his legal counsel, but Burnhope held up a placating hand.
“HeknowsI didn’t kill Foley. I was at the charity ball on Friday night, with more than a hundred witnesses.” Then he fixed his gaze on MacAdams again. “You asked me why I didn’t report Foley—why I didn’t reveal this to you even after his death. It’s because if I did, it would endanger Dmytro. And I was right.”
***
Every detective was a cynic. It couldn’t be helped. Humans, even when best intentioned,lied constantly. They lied to others; they lied to themselves. Three eyewitnesses couldn’t tell you the same story standing next to each other. There were biases and vested interests; a witness to a vicious attack suddenly remembered that hetriedto help; of course he did. A witness to the regular beatings of a wife by her husband would claim there was nothing to suggest he might one day murder her. People made up endings and filled gaps always with a view to present themselves in the best light; truth was relative and up for revision.
MacAdams walked away from the interview room where a charitable businessman with a supposedly impeccable record claimed his worst fault was in service to a vulnerable teenageron the cusp of adulthood. Even if he wanted to believe him, MacAdams couldn’t afford to take his word. But Burnhope did have an ace; hewasat the charity ball. And Green was presently checking the footage.
He found Green surrounded by a cluster of young officers and detectives. Heads down, they were watching Sophie’s footage, with Green offering commentary to eager listeners. It was rare he caught her so candid, and not for the first time he thought she ought to be running a department somewhere.
“What news?” he asked.
“It’s not favorable,” she said, eyes still locked on the time stamp. “Not to us, anyway.” She motioned to the picture, which was surprisingly clear and focused. Sophie—and Burnhope—stood on the stage welcoming guests and announcing the silent auction. “I haven’t gone over it minute by minute yet. But he gives the farewell, too, just like he said.”
“And Sophie Wagner?”
“Yup, she’s there the whole time.”
“Not our murderers?” MacAdams sat on the edge of the desk, chewing pride and indignation—and his lower lip. It didn’t mean they were clear of involvement, but they had just been bumped back to square one. Who dealt the killing blow?
“We’ve got other problems,” Green said. “The Lord Mayor’s office called. They want to know why we’re holding Stanley Burnhope.”
“We’re not,” MacAdams said, aware that it came out a bit like a growl.
“Well, thank God you’ve preserved your good humor,” Green replied, but she wasn’t happy, either, he knew.
Theyhadto let Burnhope go. But of course, he wouldn’t go far. He was Newcastle’s golden boy, after all. There was an empty desk nearby; MacAdams threw himself into the chair with enough force to make the springs squeal. What did theyhave? A terrified kid who had seen too much but somehow not enough to help them, and who was now in danger of prison time or deportation.
“Gerald Standish. I’m sure he’s our receiver,” he muttered.
“Can we prove it?” Green asked.
“No. Not yet.”Maybe not ever,he added silently. “But there’s more that bothers me. He seemed utterly shocked that we’d picked up Dmytro.”
“As in, surprised the kid got caught?”
“As in, that he was involved. Apparently, he and Burnhope are sort of sponsoring him. And to be honest, I don’t think either of them would risk involving the charity.”
“Foley working alone somehow?” Green considered it a moment. “There’s no way, right?”
A golden rule of policing: big jobs are never lonely jobs. The one thread they could follow was that Foley must have plenty of connections. He must have somehow used Fresh Start to make contacts in Syria; that was at least somewhere to begin. Sophie admitted Foley had been involved in the early days; he’d ask Newcastle to call Home Office and have every record checked. Sophie would be brought in for questioning, too, and Burnhope was right—they may very well lose whatever license permitted them to sponsor incoming refugees.
“He’s got people. For one, he has the Geordie—whoever he is.” They didn’t know the van driver, not even with cooperation from Dmytro, and theystilldidn’t know who killed Foley. At present it seemed their excursion to Newcastle had done more harm than good. MacAdams looked at his palms; he’d been reduced to, literally, going home to lick his wounds.
“Boss?”
MacAdams looked up to see Green. She’d removed her suit jacket, too, and was presently stretching her left shoulder.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Hell of a wrench, but I’ll live,” she said. It occurred to MacAdams that if it wasn’t for Green and Jo, he might be in hospital. Things could certainly be worse.
“Let’s get back to Abington. I want to go over that video frame by frame,” he said—or tried to. A local DS had just started shouting at them.
