Honor Role

by Tim Hoy

  One weekend Jabirah arrived—on a day off—holding the hand of a younger woman in her teens, also in a headscarf. This was Benazir, her sister. Benazir may not have had the privilege of sight, but her insight was sharp. She knew from the sounds and smells of our leafy, quiet street that this was a part of London unknown to her. The street was “so clean,” she said. The odors were not those of a cramped, dingy place. And compared to home our neighborhood was quiet, “so very calm.” Benazir ran her hands over things: a chair, our kitchen table.

  “It must be a lovely house and so big!” she exclaimed as she took things in.

  “Thank you. We like it,” I said. “Please come in and meet everyone.”

  “You live here alone?” asked Benazir.

  “No, I have my son, Jonathan; he’s looking forward to meeting you.” I wasn’t rising to the bait, not this time.

  “Jabirah says you’re a widow,” Benazir commented.

  “Yes.” I smiled.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. You have no brothers or a father?” she asked. I knew where this was headed.

  “No brothers. My father died a while back. Would you like something to drink? We have juice, Coca-Cola, tea.”

  “Yes, please, tea. It’s just…”

  “Benazir,” I said, cutting her off. “We’re glad you’re here. Did your sister tell you what my job is?”

  “Yes!” she replied excitedly. “It sounds so interesting! A police detective!”

  “It can be. My job involves protecting the community. So on a personal level, I don’t need a man to do that for me.”

  Jabirah laughed. “Exactly! Benazir, enough of this. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  “I’m being old-fashioned, aren’t I?” Benazir said. “Silly.”

  “Yes!” her sister said.

  I smiled and handed Benazir a cup of tea. “Your brother said a few things as well when he was here, but he wasn’t as diplomatic about it as you.”

  “Oh, you would drive Ahmed absolutely nuts,” Benazir said. “He’s probably praying for you now!” She laughed as if relishing the thought.

  The magic sparked when Chika and Ben came downstairs with their son. I stood back while Jabirah introduced her sister to Ogueri.

  “Benazir is blind, Ogueri,” Jabirah said.

  I noticed she didn’t add the word “too”; she knew better. She wouldn’t put a label on him.

  Ogueri stood in front of Benazir and paused. He then slowly brought his fingers over Benazir’s face. He felt her lips, her nose. She did the same to him. Neither said a word. Ogueri took Benazir’s hand and held it. He only let go to climb into Benazir’s lap. Watching gave me goose bumps. Chika and Jabirah squeezed each other’s hand, tears in their eyes.

  “Why doesn’t Benazir read you a story?” Jabirah asked.

  “How?” Ogueri asked.

  “She can read books that are printed a special way. She feels the letters on the page with her fingers. In fact, she brought a book with her today.”

  Jabirah pulled four oversized volumes from a canvas bag she’d brought. She joined us at the table while Benazir read an age-appropriate story to Ogueri. He ran his hand across the page occasionally but remained snuggled against Benazir, who knew how to tell a tale.

  “Thank you for bringing your sister,” Chika said softly to Jabirah while Benazir read.

  “She wanted to meet all of you,” Jabirah replied.

  “How difficult was it for her to learn to read that way?” Chika asked.

  “Braille? I learned too; she and I did it together. It wasn’t too hard.”

  “Pretty wonderful,” I said, which it was. “Does she listen to audio books?”

  Jabirah nodded. “They’re great. And these days there’s pretty reliable dictation software, but we wanted her to have the quiet gift of reading.”

  Jabirah showed Ben and Chika that their son could lead a productive life. It turned out Benazir was near the top of her secondary school class. She proved to be a lifeline for the Obinnas. She visited regularly and gladly.

  “I could teach Ogueri to read Braille,” Jabirah suggested to Chika one day.

  “Oh no, Jabirah,” said Chika, “I should do this. Could you maybe show me where you found the information?”

  Jabirah told Chika about a braille self-teaching program, Dot-to-dot, which could be obtained free of charge from the Royal National Institute for the Blind. Chika and Ogueri learned to read together.

  We developed a sort of family. My life was kind and fulfilling, even without any romantic prospects. I looked forward to going home at night. And I knew that when I was not there, my son was happy and safe.

  After Sam Lopez left, I’d put off filling the top-floor vacancy at Potential House. Something always got in the way of me polishing a few lines to advertise for a new tenant and posting them somewhere. It wasn’t only that I had no pressing need to put someone upstairs. More so, the notion of picking the right person seemed daunting. The mix we had was precious to me. I thought of offering the flat to Jabirah. She rarely spoke of her home life, but often, as the day slipped by, she slowly tensed, as if girding herself for the evening to come. Then again, maybe I was imagining things, seeing what I wanted to see. She was family to me.

  One Saturday, I was reading in the front room as Jabirah entered the house with Jonathan, a satchel of children’s books from the library dangling from her free hand.

  “The notice board at the library had five cards from people seeking housing,” Jabirah said. She’d taken a picture with her phone’s camera, which she held out to me.

  I looked up from my book but wasn’t following.

  “The upstairs flat,” she added. “Don’t you ever want to let it?”

  Jonathan sat on the sofa next to me and leaned into my side. I put my arm around him. What part of this wasn’t perfect already? “Oh, right,” I said. “I was thinking of giving it to you.”

  Jabirah laughed. “Thanks, Tessa, but think again.”

  “It’s yours if you want it, although you might get sick of being around us all the time.”

  Jabirah abruptly scurried into the kitchen. Jonathan looked at me, eyes wide. Both of us followed her. Jabirah fussed by the sink, filling the kettle, turning it on. Jonathan reached to give her a hug, which meant he enveloped her thigh.

  “It was just a silly thought,” I said.

  “You know I wouldn’t get sick of you,” she said. “You know that, right?” Her eyes were anguished. I walked to her and joined the hug. “It’s impossible, Tessa. A single woman leaving her family and living alone? What could you be thinking?” Jabirah said it as if it was a joke. It wasn’t at all funny.

  “We’d love having you,” I said.

  “Yeah!” added Jonathan.

  Jabirah composed herself as she made tea for the three of us. Jonathan’s was mostly milk. “Thank you for that,” she said. “Now we’re going to drink our tea and if your mum agrees, you may have a biscuit with yours, Jonathan. “A, as in one, young man; singular, not plural.”

  My son smiled and looked to me.

  “She is in complete agreement,” I said.

  That ended the discussion of our vacant apartment. Again, I pushed it to the back of my mind. Briefly.

  Derrick Daniels worked in the deputy commissioner’s office. I knew Derrick slightly and liked him in equal measure. He’d hit on me once at an office Christmas bash, back when I’d first joined the force. He wasn’t happy with “no,” no matter how politely I said it. So when his email hit my inbox, it took me a moment to place him. The subject line read “Flat to let?”

  I opened Derrick’s email. “By any chance are you still looking for a tenant? Not to worry, it’s for a friend, not me.” It had been nearly a year since Sam Lopez vacated the top floor of Potential House. Not only had I left the flat va
cant, I long ago had stopped even pretending to look for a replacement.

  I nearly pressed Delete, but hesitated. Maybe I was looking. And it wasn’t for Derrick himself. I replied tersely: “Assuming your friend is not a psycho, smallish one bedroom available on third floor for the right person or couple. Furnished. No lift.”

  One of us could always say no, right?

  The friend, Ken Larson, was a recently divorced airline pilot who seemed to be at sea. Within two minutes of meeting him, I knew he wasn’t the one who had asked to end his marriage. He pined for family life. He was sad even having to discuss new housing and said he’d been living in an airport hotel when not doing long-haul flights.

  “Time for me to find a proper home,” he said, sitting in my kitchen, a mug of coffee grasped in both hands.

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  “Just over five months. I thought I should live near my girls, but I think I need to be out of my ex-wife’s sphere of influence, you know? She’s moved on. So should I, in more ways than one. You have a son?”

  I nodded. “One son, Jonathan. He’s at the park just now. I’m widowed.”

  “I’m sorry. How old is your son?”

  “Nearly six.”

  “Mine are nine and fourteen.” Ken looked wistful. He pulled snaps from his wallet. Sweet.

  The children and ex were in Reading. Ken liked my location, in London but slightly west, with access to Heathrow, Gatwick, and his daughters. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to have them overnight in such a compact flat, but the below-market rent swayed him. And he rationalized they’d stayed in smaller tents on camping trips. So he said.

  Yes, Ken Larson was attractive. Dashing is the word Mum probably would have used, especially when he came home in uniform. For me, however, that was more a reason not to rent to him. What if one of us made a move and things didn’t work out? I wouldn’t want him two floors up, would I? So when he thanked me and asked how long he had to think about whether he wanted to let the place, I told him there was no rush and that I too had to think about it.

  “Meaning?” he asked.

  “Nothing personal,” I said, “I’m not even sure I want to let the place.”

  “Oh.” Ken looked defeated.

  I laughed. “Mr. Larson, relax.”

  He did. Eventually. So did I. He’d lost his family, in a way. Let him try ours at Potential House, I thought. And let us try him on for size and fit. I rang his airline to confirm he was indeed employed by them and wasn’t viewed as some malcontent. And I ran his name on our database. He’d never been arrested. He had, it appeared, piloted fighter planes in Iraq. I’d wait and let him bring that up. Perhaps he never would.

  Within a month he moved in. We didn’t bother with a lease, which gave us both an out. Ken was gone a lot. Two- or three-day absences, followed by days when he was about. Not that I kept tabs. When upstairs, he was quiet. Ben told me they heard a TV or radio in the morning sometimes, but it was never more than soft garble, not at all disturbing. Eight weeks in I’d seen nothing of Ken’s children. I had no intention of asking why. Ken himself, though, had become a wise and welcome addition to our home.

  The night before his death, Freddy Hayworth had had a first date with Elaine Laval, a trainer at his gym. He and Elaine left the restaurant together but ended the evening separately. Some sparks, she said, but none ignited. She professed to have enjoyed the evening but didn’t expect to see him again. Ms. Laval knew of Hayworth’s death. She appeared upset. Her prints weren’t in Hayworth’s flat, and she insisted she had never been in it. Security cameras on the entrance to Hayworth’s complex and in its underground car park corroborated her assertion. So did the one above the entryway to her building in Wandsworth. It showed her arriving home shortly past midnight, alone.

  The cameras covering Hayworth’s building also backed up Molly James’s statement. She said she had not been in Hayworth’s flat since their parting around Easter, nearly two months prior. Hayworth’s phone held a few photos from his last night on earth, including one of him in front of a mirror, dressed well for his impending date. The time stamp read 19:47. There was also a shot of an advert on the wall of a tube station, Green Park, Piccadilly Line: a black-and-white photo of a pug sporting a knit cap, promoting an American whiskey. Perhaps Hayworth thought it amusing, possibly intending to forward it to a dog-loving friend later. Or, it might have sparked an idea in Hayworth’s head for some ad campaign he was then working on.

  Freddy Hayworth’s other colleagues at Idea(1)s confirmed he was serious about fitness and hit the gym at least six days a week, sometimes twice a day. The staff at his Fitness First branch held Hayworth in no special regard; he was known to be friendly enough and a neat freak. The issue with him appeared to be the failure of other members to use the provided towels to clean off equipment after use. Occasionally he would lodge complaints, but he was never nasty, only adamant. And, as the assistant manager said, technically he was right. The supplements found in Hayworth’s flat were mostly purchased at a shop in the gym. The shop assistant described Hayworth as “a habitual user,” by which he meant a good customer. Hayworth had read up on the pills and powders he purchased and often asked questions before making a buy. From the contents of his medicine cabinet, Hayworth must have taken ten different vitamins a day, maybe a dozen.

  The last photo he ever took, from 6:12 a.m. the day of his demise, was a shirtless selfie in the bathroom mirror. In it, he looked more bored than despondent. Perhaps it was smugness on display.

  He was dead approximately one hour later. Could he have been lonely? If so, he hid it well. And weren’t there millions of functioning lonely hearts about, myself included, living routine, generally comfortable lives? It turned out the Paxil prescription was nearly a year old. The bottle was three-quarters full, so it seemed he wasn’t taking the drug at the time of death. Hayworth’s GP would likely be able to confirm this. The coroner found no trace of Paxil in his system. Then again, could he have suffered effects of withdrawal from the drug? On that gray, rainy Monday morning, perhaps he found himself unable to bear another week in the office, another night alone.

  I rang Hayworth’s doctor to ask about Freddy’s meds and general health. He suggested I stop by at noon the following day, when he broke for lunch. The receptionist advised he usually ate in his office.

  When I’d first stopped in at Idea(1)s, the person-in-charge had been away on business. He was expected back the following week. So, the afternoon before my “doctor’s appointment,” I returned to the advertising agency where Hayworth had worked.

  As on my previous visit, the receptionist was a tall, angular man. He was speaking French to an equally svelte woman leaning over the counter. Both, predictably, were clad in black, and not to mourn their late colleague. On the wall behind him was a triptych of bugs. Each canvas bore what looked like the same cockroach in a different color. Somebody was inspired to paint or print these. Somebody else was inspired to buy them. Go figure.

  “Excuse me,” I said, after being ignored a tad too long. Although I’d been before this same man at this same desk a week prior, there was no recognition on his face.

  The young man looked me over without a smile. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Carl Bethany,” I replied. The boss.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Snarky.

  “No, I do not,” I replied. I didn’t add “you little shit.” “Metropolitan Police,” I said as I held up my warrant card.

  The receptionist raised an eyebrow, rose, and walked through a door to the side of his desk. The woman with whom he’d been speaking looked at me with scant interest.

  “Do you work here?” I asked her.

  “Yes.” She had an accent.

  “Did you know Freddy Hayworth?”

  “I do. Did,” she said. A French accent.

  We asse
ssed each other. She came up wanting.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And I’m sorry he’s dead?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  The receptionist returned. The woman walked off.

  “Follow me, please,” he said.

  Mr. Bethany, the managing director of Idea(1)s, occupied one of those offices that advertise achievements. Walls plastered with successful ad campaigns, unrecognizable statuettes behind his desk attesting to his successes. Validation can clutter a room. He dressed well, a perfectly cut suit with a colorful shirt, spliced by a muted tie. Carl Bethany was himself a presentation.

  True to form, the receptionist didn’t introduce me, didn’t ask if I’d like water or coffee, didn’t do anything but turn and leave. So I repeated my own performance: flashed my warrant card and briefly waited to be invited to sit. When I wasn’t, I did.

  “This is about Freddy Hayworth, I suppose,” said Mr. Bethany. He was a bundle of energy, fast-talking. Under the desk his foot pumped at a rapid pace. Every sign said he didn’t have time for me. Signs I intended to ignore.

  “Correct.”

  “I’m sorry to have lost him; he was good at what we do here.”

  “Which is what?” I asked. “Modern-day Mad Men?”

  He smiled. “Yes, although since the ban on indoor smoking, the demise of serge suits and beehive hairdos, not to mention the crackdown on sexual misconduct, it’s much less fun. We still do the three-martini lunches on occasion, though.” Delivered staccato.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I would like to speak with everyone here separately, Mr. Bethany, soon; let’s say by the end of the week. Some I’ve already spoken to, but not all. Do you have a spare office or a conference room I could use to conduct interviews?”

  “A conference room, yes, although it’s booked in advance much of the time.” He looked at me as if deciding whether or not to continue. “Poison? That’s what I read. Seriously?”

  “Cyanide.”