by Tim Hoy
Interestingly, Jabirah then asked if Jonathan remembered his father. I hadn’t heard that question from any of the other applicants for the position. It struck me as insightful, an important quality in a caretaker. Whoever minded Jonathan should want to understand my son’s perspective on his young life.
Alec loved Jonathan so; that may be the only thing about my husband of which I’m certain. After the trial, after discovering the awful truth, I offered Alec a bargain: his freedom for my silence, so long as he left us for good. My son was not going to be raised by a murderer. So Alec jumped ship. Faced with exile, he took his beloved sailboat to sea. Two days later, it was found nine miles off the Sussex coast. Alec wasn’t aboard. It had been stormy the night he set sail but not severely so, not with a force to sweep away sailors or fools. I assumed Alec was dead. Why wouldn’t I? My husband was a strong man, a good swimmer. Still, none of the boat’s life preservers was missing. Did he slip? Did he throw himself overboard intending to drown? Did he flee his craft in a dingy? Who knew? Not I. What I did know was this: I needed him gone. To get on with life, to free myself from the dilemma of what to do with him and about him, I needed Alec Hanay out of my life, out of my family.
As my mother often said, bless her hardened heart: Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Single motherhood had its challenges, but I was in a position to meet them. For example, I could afford to pay Mazarine and later Jabirah a decent wage. I’d kept my job with the Met, Scotland Yard, where I held the title Detective Inspector. Alec had left me—us—with two homes, each fully and finely furnished, as well as more than enough money to keep them and us going. Had I wanted to, I could have quit work for the stay-at-home life, but that was a move I never seriously considered. I needed my job, not for the modest salary it paid, but more for my sanity, my completeness. I admire, even envy, mothers and fathers who do the full-time-parent thing. I, admittedly, don’t have it in me.
After Alec left I let our home on the Sussex coast to some techie. It was in my name. I also let Alec’s Chelsea flat furnished. The money from that rental went into an account and remained there to be claimed by my husband in the unlikely event he ever again surfaced, alive or not. Alec’s substantial estate would be settled only when he was officially declared dead. That would happen in time—seven years I’ve been told—or with proof he was indeed no longer alive, meaning a body. I had no intention of looking for him or his remains. I wanted only to learn how best to live without him. I had no extended family, not anymore—just Jonathan in a city of millions. No fallback, should the need ever arise. That worried me. So I foraged through London for a new address, with an idea of sociability in mind, of having others nearby. Creating, ideally, an alternative, extended sort of family for my son and me. The easy proximity of bright pennies, good souls. Good neighbors.
When I first saw a certain tired Victorian row house near Lord’s Cricket Ground, the thought of multi-family housing came to me. The house was clearly too big for the two of us, but the upper floors had long ago been converted to flats. So what if our new home could be home for others as well? A company of strangers who became friends, who brought pleasure in whatever conversation or existence ensued. It also had to do with me wanting to see how others lived, which might help me do a better job with my own. There’s a tendency to solitude in me. Mostly that’s fine, often healthy, but I wanted my son properly socialized, comfortable with others. So I made an offer on that shabby three-story stack, for I saw potential in it. Mine being the only offer, it was quickly accepted. Then the renovations began. The bright brass plaque I affixed by the front door read “Potential House.”
The ground and first floors became the Grantley/Hanay residence. The large sunny room fronting the ground floor got a slap of paint, some new chairs, and an overpriced but ever-so-comfy sofa. It became our living room, a place for hosting friends, reading, relaxing. Books, in considerable part, furnished the room, lining one wall entirely. Immediately down the hall was the gadget room, with flat-screen, game consoles, and a sound system. The kitchen was in the back of the house and included a portly round table where we ate breakfast and most other meals. That table became our meeting point; notes got left on its scuffed surface, and cups of tea, coffee, or something stronger met their end. Above and around it came plenty of laughter as well as some tears. Double glass doors led from the kitchen to the garden. Our patch of green was smallish but enviable by central London standards. A stately beech tree called a back corner home. Birds regularly nested in it, greeting us mornings and throughout the day. The garden was fenced on both sides and partially walled in the back by a property the next street over. It seemed such a privilege to have this private, quiet, verdant plot. I knew I would come to cherish the serenity it offered, even if only by looking upon it. It would also be a safe place for Jonathan to play at boisterous boyhood.
The first floor held three bedrooms and two full bathrooms. My room was at the front of the house, looking down to the street. Jonathan’s and the spare had views of the back garden. Our street branched off from a thoroughfare and was thankfully not busy. After dark most nights, things stilled.
The second and third floors I’d converted into flats with kitchens, bathrooms, and the requisite mod cons. Originally, the top floor had been servants’ quarters. Cramped, dank rooms, that is. Hot in summer, cold in winter. The roof sloped, so the floor space of the third-floor front bedroom and sole bathroom was deceptive. In nearly a quarter of each room, the ceilings were barely four feet high.
Choosing tenants took time. I wanted to make sure I found the right housemates.
Thankfully, it all worked. Life for Jonathan and me was well served. It came in warm, generous helpings.
All was good. Until, in time, another loss shook our world.
On a day in early spring, well after Jabirah had come to us, I left home and headed to Freddy Hayworth’s flat, where I walked in on a pair from forensics. One was clearing out what was left in Freddy’s American-sized refrigerator, bagging and tagging items for analysis. Soured organic milk, limp lettuce, bottles of Badoit. Some cleaning up had already been undertaken; the body had been removed the first day. Photos of the corpse from when the police arrived were stored on my iPad.
Peter emerged from a side room as I entered the flat.
“Welcome,” he said.
“Not much to see anymore, is there?” I asked, looking about.
“I wouldn’t get tired of the view.” Peter had turned toward the river. So did I and saw how right he was. In the main room, the only photo to be seen was a silver-framed glossy of Mr. Hayworth himself.
“Not bad looking,” I said.
“That seems to be the consensus,” Peter said. “Dated some actress last year—there’s pics of the two of them online. Some Leicester Square film premiere.”
The media don’t ID a vic until they get the all clear from us, which we’d given some hours prior. We had no reason to hold back news of Hayworth’s demise, self-inflicted or not. Once informed, journos were all over the dead looker. His minor-film-star ex, now living in Los Angeles, offered no comment. No love lost, apparently. Photos shared with the media by friends and family made the papers and celebrity websites. The rule, simply put, is this: Pretty corpses sell more papers than plain ones. Even death cannot vanquish the tyranny of beauty.
Mr. Hayworth’s microwave held a dried-out bowl of instant oatmeal. A container of almond milk stood ready on the adjacent counter beside a packet of Stevia. One brown-spotted banana lay nearby, considered by a fly.
“Any sign of the poison?” I asked.
“Not so far,” Peter said.
The bathroom gleamed, the counter surrounding the sink pristine but for a sparkling silver razor, an ivory-stemmed brush, and a pot of shaving cream from one of those posh Jermyn Street gentlemen’s shops, the kind with royal warrants above the door. The medicine cabinet held two strips of
Boots’ paracetamol tablets, neither of which had been opened, and a box of Aspirine du Rhône, which had. The remaining shelf space was chockablock with vitamins, supplements, powders, and pills arranged ever so neatly by size, small to large.
“Fitness fanatic,” I said to anyone in earshot.
“Closet’s full of gym gear. Must have ten pairs of trainers, all spotless,” Peter said, entering the room.
“Add neat freak.”
The forensics guy working nearby held up a laptop. “Password protected.”
“Which you’ll unprotect, right?” I asked.
Mr. Forensics nodded. “In time. If needed. The last text on his mobile was from eleven-ish last night. A racy photo of some girl sent by her to the deceased. You can check her out in person.”
“Lucky me,” I said.
“Too early for wake-up texting when he kicked it,” said Peter.
Forensics raised a plastic bag holding a bottle of prescription pills. “Paxil,” he said.
“Depressed? Maybe OCD,” Peter said.
“Maybe both,” I said.
Mr. Forensics (yes, I should remember his name) widened a rubbish bag and dropped every bottle and box into it.
“So while he was on the crapper he ate or drank something deadly,” Peter said.
I nodded.
Peter shook his head. “There was an open bottle of fizzy water near him. He couldn’t have drunk from it and returned it to the fridge, not if it had cyanide in it.”
“Easily checked, right?” I said.
The forensics guy nodded and held up a rubbish bag, fat with dead Fred’s detritus. “This has tedious written all over it,” he mumbled as he walked to the door with his stash.
Peter turned to me and said, “A very nice view,” which both of us took in again, for five seconds max, until he added, “but why the hell are we still here?”
Minutes later, we weren’t.
Six months after I purchased Potential House, Mazarine was gone and Jabirah was quickly proving herself to be a gem. Freddy Hayworth was still drawing breath then, and I was ready to take on tenants. Ben Obinna had a cousin in the Metropolitan Police, which is how and he and his wife Chika found me. I’d posted a flat-to-let advert on an internal Met website. The cousin, who I didn’t know, passed it on. Both Chika and Ben had come to London for graduate studies, each bearing first-class degrees from the University of Lagos in Nigeria. They had a young son, who remained in Nigeria for the time in the care of Ben’s parents. They had difficulty finding as much as a squat in London, which they ascribed to Chika being pregnant again and had ended up in a dump near the eastern terminus of the Central Line. I suspected the color of their skin played a larger role in their struggle, but I hoped I was wrong. Either way, they longed for a suitable flat closer to their school in central London. Sadly, Chika had lost the baby and was nearly frantic to have her surviving son, Ogueri back with her. For that to happen, a bigger flat was essential. Within minutes of meeting the Obinnas, I ended their search. I liked the idea of my son embracing another boy near his age. My ulterior motive was simple: Ben and Chika were extremely smart. I’ve never thought of myself as any genius, so I figured it couldn’t hurt my child to be around the best and brightest. Maybe he’d learn something. Maybe I would. And I had no issue with another wee one in the house. Ogueri and Jonathan were eleven months apart in age. They could be friends. Or not.
From the first day, the Obinnas were never less than a pleasure, starry-eyed at England, eager, happy, truly lovely. And cold! In their first winter they embraced central heating like a lifesaver on the Lusitania. Chika wore a coat even inside. The Obinnas took the two-bedroom unit on the second floor. The smaller, top-floor flat was suitable for a single tenant. It remained empty a while. Airbnb might have been an option, but it sounded to me like more trouble than it was worth.
The mix in Potential House blended so very well. I was a good landlord, so I was told, and so I believed. I came to know how lucky I was with my tenants. We weren’t in each other’s business day-in, day-out, but there was this ease amongst us. We lived our own lives, but they often crossed, and without dread. I let the Obinnas know they were welcome at the Grantley/Hanay Christmas dinner, if a better offer didn’t come. We remembered one another’s birthdays with cards or perhaps a bottle of something. After the tumult of the years prior to our arrival in Hamilton Gardens, NW8, I counted my blessings, never sheep.
Time passed with blessed normality. I’d finally let the top flat for a year to an American lawyer who kept his distance for months, until he didn’t. Jonathan, the Obinnas, and I thought Sam Lopez worked too much, but we knew it was not for us to say so. As his time with us came to an end, it seemed fitting to let Sam know he’d be missed.
Sam had a circle of friends, the few I’d met all pleasant. With the help of one, I’d sent out invitations for them to join us on Saturday evening to bid Sam a fond adieu. We did so simply, with food I’d prepared earlier that day, plus a savory stew from the Obinnas. I’d laid in two cases of wine Sam liked and one of champagne. It was a warm, memorable evening, in more ways than one.
As I made party food that Saturday, I went back and forth to the refrigerator countless times. Its door was plastered with notices, reminders, coupons, snaps of Jonathan, and one I especially loved of elfin Ogueri in the back garden, eyes and smile wide at his first snowfall. That photo always brought contentment to me each time I reached for something cold.
Save for us neighbors, the two dozen in attendance at Sam’s farewell fête practiced law with him, or accompanied someone who did. We got lucky with exceptionally fine mid-May weather and kept mostly to the back garden. Getting to the garden, however, required a walk through the ground floor, front to back. A festive spillover congregated in the kitchen. Sam always had good things to say about Jermaine Franson, an associate in Sam’s firm, so I’d asked him to come. Jermaine made a great first impression, as did his fiancée, Odile, who was doing an ophthalmology residency at Moorfields Eye Hospital.
Guests stood in front of the refrigerator with flutes of champagne, energetically debating Labour vs. Tory vs. None of the Above. I’d just walked in from the garden when Odile stopped in mid-sentence, her attention focused on the refrigerator door. As I approached, the others waited for Odile to speak.
“Who is this child?” Odile pointed at Ogueri’s photo.
“That’s Ogueri,” I said. “He lives upstairs. Total sweetheart.”
“He needs to see a doctor.”
“Sorry?” I asked, dead in my tracks.
“Do you see the white spots in his eyes?”
“I’m not the best photographer,” I confessed.
“No, no, I’m quite sure those are tumors.”
Hayworth’s funeral took place in Borhamwood. I hadn’t planned to attend, but several factors conspired to get me there.
Factor number one: The Obinnas had offered to take Jonathan with them to a children’s museum that Sunday. Son safely occupied, I planned to get some long-delayed chores accomplished. Potential House needed new greenery, so I Googled garden centers, intending to hit one or more. Working on the assumption I’d find suitable foliage somewhere, I planned to take the car. Maybe I’d stop for a pub lunch somewhere and read more of the racy novel I’d slipped into my bag. I drove west out of London. On the way, one of the radio news tidbits was a line on Freddy Hayworth’s funeral, which was planned for that afternoon.
Factor number two: Said item happened to be read out as I neared the M25 interchange, greater London’s ring road. I don’t even recall making the decision to drive onto it and eventually head east, but clearly I did. Traffic was relatively light—it was Sunday—so nothing prevented me from venturing into Essex. There had to be garden centers in Essex, right?
Factor number three: Timing. The funeral service, in an R.C. church that Waze had no trouble gui
ding me to, had started not more than five minutes prior to my arrival. Where there’s a will, there’s Waze.
Finally, although I wasn’t wearing black, neither was I grungy. So I parked not far down the street and walked to the church under a cloudless sky. I entered quietly and took a seat in a back pew. All of this, of course, didn’t explain why I was there. Maybe I wondered if Hayworth’s surviving brother would be comely too, not to mention single. That sounds flip. Mark it down to curiosity. I went because I could. In hindsight, I’m glad I did. Even if it ended up shaking a few family trees.
And what falls from trees? Leaves, nuts—and the occasional bad apple.
Hayworth’s last rites were well attended, in large part because of the media attention his death had stirred. “Handsome Executive, 31, Found Dead” exclaimed the Daily Telegraph. Freddy Hayworth was also front-page fodder for the “non-quality” rags, always with a pic of the deceased and his former celebrity girlfriend, who still hadn’t issued a condolence statement. Reporters and camera crews staked out the church. The parents, brother, and sister had arrived together in a limo. The crowd included a multitude of young females, many in those vestigial hats English women pull from mothballs for weddings, funerals, and not much else.
The family of the departed looked suitably sullen, save for the mother, who wasn’t having any of it. The grief in her stepped out with ire. At the end of the service, when the father attempted to take her by the elbow and escort her out, she yanked away. As they passed, I heard the mother hiss—under her breath, but not by much—“This isn’t fucking happening.” She had an accent, which I couldn’t place. She also had the looks in the family. They’d translated well to Freddy. I waited an appropriate length of time and exited the church. The Hayworths were still out front, standing by their hired car. The mum hadn’t let up. I inched closer, but not too close. Others looked to be avoiding them, which seemed sad given what they’d been through. Still, they didn’t exactly invite sympathy.