by Tim Hoy
“Do you think his condition, if that’s what it was, might have driven him to take his life?”
“You’re not sure he did, right?”
“Right.”
“I’d suggest binning that idea. Freddy Hayworth wouldn’t kill himself. Too messy. Too uncontrollable, you know?”
“Why is everyone so adamant on that score?” I asked.
“I simply can’t imagine it. I don’t know how else to put it.”
Greg Shafer was at school with Hayworth but hadn’t gone near a jacket and tie since. They remained close. The only art in Freddy’s flat was a Shafer print over the faux fireplace. I’d liked it enough to look up the name of the artist. Shafer’s bio included his educational background, which told he’d left Marlborough the same year Freddy had. Shafer’s fondness for Freddy was clouded by the same complaints I’d heard before: self-absorbed, controlling, not always trustworthy.
“You took Freddy with a grain of salt,” said Shafer. “Okay, maybe the entire shaker, but if you could get beyond his imperfections, he was pretty great. He had this vibe people liked. I know I did. And who of us is perfect?” Who, indeed?
Mr. Shafer was making a name for himself as an artist, with a specialty in printmaking. He’d invited me to his studio in Fournier Street to see his etchings. Literally. They were unusual and remarkable. In a way, so was he, with an easy charm. I recognized the style of his work; Hayworth also had a Shafer print in his office.
As I glanced round the studio with interest, he said, “I work here mostly, but sometimes I go to a printmaker in Stonebridge Park who specializes in working with artists who want a more 3-D effect. They make their own paper,” he said, then pointed to a framed piece on the wall. It looked like two planks of wood, one lighter than the other, both about sixty centimeters long. Only when I got closer could I see they were actually raised paper: prints, woodblock prints.
“That’s amazing,” I said. It was.
“In a good way, I hope,” Greg replied.
“Oh yes.”
“Thank you. But you’re here to talk about Freddy, may he rest in peace.”
I stayed with the print a moment, then turned to face Mr. Shafer.
“I am. Thank you for seeing me here.”
“I don’t think I had much of a choice,” Greg said.
“What I meant was I’m glad I got to see your work; it’s great.”
“Right, sorry. Sometimes I don’t know how to take a compliment.”
“Which it was,” I said.
I left with a price list, having reminded myself that I could afford most things that appealed to me. Mr. Shafer’s work did. I took a long, crowded tube ride home, scored a seat two stops on, and snoozed until bumped awake near Lancaster Gate.
I never dreaded heading home. Ogueri and Chika had learned to read braille, which pleased us all. Jonathan, who had turned six a month after the Hayworth death, learned as well, bless his heart. My son said he wanted to “help” his friend. At least once a week we’d have a communal meal or treat in my kitchen, after which Jonathan and Ogueri would take turns reading to us. With Jabirah’s help, the boys would select a book at the library, one that was available in braille, and put on a performance. It was more than just reading the story; they poured their hearts into acting it out. Our kitchen was like a salon. Chika and Ben would occasionally bring friends over, and each invariably proved a pleasure. Ken knew he was welcome and occasionally dropped in. We finally met his daughters, who were warm, confident, and quite lovely. Ken was good with them. When she could, Benazir came, although she never seemed fully at ease around us. I know she liked our company; perhaps it was something akin to amazement, as if she couldn’t quite believe a life like ours was possible. At times there could be eight or nine of us at the table, more spilled over at the counter, eating while standing, taking such pleasure in the company of basic, good, worthy people. There was magic to it; a spell had been cast. I didn’t want it ever to end.
It did, of course.
Jabirah or I took Jonathan to the Children’s Library in Paddington every other week. Ogueri often came along. When he did, we’d check the available books in braille. The selection was limited, and sometimes we would order braille books from other branches or even other cities. Luckily, braille wasn’t threatened by the e-book craze. Printing a book in braille is cumbersome; a 300-page novel could total eight or more large volumes, each resembling a photo album in size and heft. Jonathan was now nearly seven, and Ogueri was about to be six. They read Roald Dahl, E. B. White, many others. One stormy day, Ben and the boys taxied to the library to return and reload.
Thanks to a helpful librarian, Ogueri, Jonathan, and Ben left with a multivolume copy of The Secret Garden. Each of them carted volumes to the car boot. The librarian insisted this novel was “perfect” for children their age. Ben had read it as a child and agreed. He checked with me to make certain I’d no objections to the book, which made me laugh and offer him a beer.
The boys loved the story of Mary Lennox, whose afflictions, imagined or not, stemmed largely from feeling alone and unloved in the world. Ogueri took to Colin, Mary’s cousin in the book, for he related to Colin’s feeling that his physical imperfection left him less loved. Colin couldn’t be the perfect son, so he wasn’t loved perfectly. Ogueri knew this tale; perhaps he felt he lived it, although how a child could be more loved than Ogueri is beyond me. It was strange but wonderful to see Jonathan learning to read—print as well as braille—in part because of Ogueri.
One winter afternoon, Ogueri read aloud in my kitchen, with Jonathan, Jabirah, and me as the appreciative audience. Jabirah had made hot chocolate, which all of us enjoyed as Ogueri regaled us. Jonathan half-heartedly followed along reading the print version on the page opposite that which Ogueri was reading.
“Help,” said Ogueri.
“What’s wrong?” Jabirah said, looking down at Ogueri.
Jonathan stopped too and looked to his friend.
“No! That’s what it says,” Ogueri exclaimed. “ ’Help.’ It’s right there at the bottom of the page.”
“May I see?” asked Jabirah. Ogueri lifted the book in the direction of her voice. She ran her hands over the text, once, then again. She looked at the page, turned it, and examined the other side. “Ogueri’s right, Jonathan; it does say ‘help,’ ” she said. “How strange.”
“Then why isn’t in on my page?” asked Jonathan.
“Good question,” replied Jabirah, who looked at the printed page as well. “It appears to be someone’s idea of a joke, boys.”
Simultaneously, Jonathan and Ogueri both whined, “What does that mean?”
As she continued to examine the page, front and back, Jabirah replied, “I’d say someone took a pin and added the word. It looks different from the other indentations. Sort of wobbly.”
“Why?” asked Ogueri.
“I don’t know, Ogueri,” Jabirah said. “It’s not very funny, is it?”
“No,” replied Jonathan. “It’s dumb.”
They continued reading.
Two days later, a rainy Saturday meant an indoor day for my son. Ogueri came down just past noon. Watching him deftly navigate the stairs and the obstacles of furniture was inspiring. I had offered to fix lunch for the two and have them all afternoon. Ogueri’s parents had a wedding to attend and welcomed my invitation. I made the boys salmon salad sandwiches, which they carted up to Jonathan’s bedroom. It was Jonathan’s turn to read from The Secret Garden. Downstairs, I could faintly hear my son one floor up holding forth, embellishing the tale in his own wonderful way. I imagined Jonathan twenty years hence thanking his perfect mother, in the first of no doubt many Academy Award speeches, or a Nobel Prize acceptance in—well, any category would do.
As the boys progressed to the second volume and the third, they found that the tenth page of
each volume had been tampered with. In each volume, that page had the word help pricked into the bottom margin in braille. Never were these words found in print or handwriting on the corresponding text page.
Mid-afternoon, I brought homemade cookies and milk to Jonathan’s room. It was unusually still as I entered, save for the sound of Ogueri reading aloud. The only other noise came from drops of rain tapping the window. The boys were seated on the floor leaning against each other, framed by a pile of pillows. I handed each a glass, placing Ogueri’s firmly in his hands so it wouldn’t spill.
“Careful,” I said.
“Thanks, Detective Inspector,” which is what Ogueri had started calling me, not that I minded. Ogueri thought it the height of cool that Jonathan’s mum was a police officer. I didn’t plan to disabuse him of the notion, at least not for a few years.
“Yeah, thanks, Mum,” echoed Jonathan.
They snacked, and turned their attention to the book again.
“This is dumb,” Ogueri said. “Why would anyone poke holes in the page to leave a message? Isn’t that a crime, Detective Inspector?”
I eyed the braille on the page. I could see that the last word in raised braille dots at the bottom of the page was somewhat skewed, amateurish. It wasn’t “written,” for want of a better word, in a straight line. Jonathan handed me the second volume.
“Page ten, right guys?” I asked.
Ogueri and Jonathan both nodded. I turned to the page and found the added pinpricks at the bottom.
“Let me see the next volume; one you haven’t read yet.”
Jonathan found it and handed it to me. I opened it to the tenth page and there it was again; a word—unintelligible to me—just below the bottom margin.
“I think it’s here as well,” I said, and handed the volume to Ogueri. He ran his hands over it.
“Yes, ‘help,’ ” Ogueri read.
“Looks like you have a new case to solve, Mum.”
“Right,” I said, heading to the bedroom door. “You know, I’m kind of busy.”
“But this is illegal!” said Ogueri.
“It is,” I agreed. “So I’m going to assign you two to handle this one, okay?”
Jonathan’s face lit up. Ogueri started to nod.
“Good idea,” said Ogueri.
“Okay, what do we know so far?” Jonathan asked Ogueri. “Maybe I should start a list.”
I left the room, smiling.
If there’s any consistency to murder, or to suspected-murder investigations, it’s this: In a way, the investigator gets to know someone quite well. Someone she will never meet. The relentless research and interviews inevitably draw a composite of the victim. I was getting to know Freddy Hayworth, at least a version of Freddy Hayworth, sketched by friends, family, and colleagues.
Some of Freddy’s friends left a greater impression than others. Hayworth had made a friend at his gym, a man he often trained with, named Tamir Hussein. Mr. Hussein managed a well-regarded restaurant in Soho, one I’d been to some time back. His family owned the establishment, as well as three other upscale eateries in central London. Tamir’s family had arrived in the UK from Lebanon in the 1980s, but he had been born in Britain. They’d done well; Tamir looked prosperous. Smart suit, shirt, and tie. Class act. We talked in the bar of his restaurant, which was quiet in the early afternoon.
“I admired him,” Tamir said, speaking of the deceased. “I work hard; so did Freddy. I appreciate that sort of drive. I went to his office once. It was impressive, at least to me.”
“How did you two meet?” I asked him.
“At the gym. We started working out together on certain equipment, noticed our weekly routine was similar—arms one day, back the next, that sort of thing. Eventually, we’d make plans to meet after work and train together. Both of us would occasionally have conflicts, which I took better than he did, I’ll admit. Business, travel, family—but we kept at it for over a year. He drove me, pushed me, and vice versa. I’ll miss him.” He laughed sadly. “You know my sister had a crush on Freddy. She was devastated when he died.”
“Just a crush?” I asked.
“I hope so; she’s fourteen.”
“Oh,” I said, “I hope so too.”
“Let me put it this way,” said Tamir. “If it had gone any farther, my friend Freddy wouldn’t have lived so long.” He smiled, but I’d swear he meant it. “He came by the restaurant now and then. She met him here. Women loved Freddy; you probably know that already.”
“I’ve met some who no longer did.”
“He went through them,” he said. “That he definitely did.” Tamir paused. He shook his head. “He couldn’t have been nicer to my kid sister, though. Made her feel special. And he always insisted on paying for his drinks when he came round. I would have shouted him; he knew that. It’s my place, you know? He just didn’t want me to feel obligated, I think. I thought that really…what, upstanding, I guess. We talked a lot, mostly when we were working out. Came to confide in each other; at least I felt that way. I think he did as well.”
“Did he ever speak of being depressed?”
“No, and I’m skeptical of the suicide angle, Detective Inspector, but who am I to say? He led a charmed life; at least it looked like it to me. Still, I’ve thought about it. A lot, actually. I had a cousin in Lebanon who offed himself. Twenty-two years old. We weren’t close, but I remember his brother telling me how it made no sense. Just hours before, he’d made plans for that evening. He was meeting friends at some club. Apparently, he sounded fine, happy even. Then he goes into his bedroom and shoots himself in the head.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, but it’s not like we were near and dear or anything; it’s just that all this talk about which of us is or is not the ‘sort’ of person to kill themselves is bollocks. Nobody knows what’s going on in another person’s mind, what demons are in there stirring things up, you know?”
“I do. Yes.” I said. Did I ever.
“And that fatal last straw can be the most inane thing, an old photo, a baby in a pram you just passed on the street. Look, I wake up some nights in complete despair wondering what the fuck—sorry—what the hell I am doing with my life.”
“So do I.” I blushed as soon as I said it.
Tamir Hussein watched me briefly as if scrutinizing me a second time, or perhaps for the first time. He nodded once. “But it passes, you know? That or I fall back to sleep, or both. Sometimes I wonder what I’d do if it didn’t pass or if I had a bottle of sleeping pills by the bed or a gun, like my cousin. Of course guns are easier to come by in Beirut.”
“It’s none of my business, but have you seen someone about this, Mr. Hussein?”
“That’s my point, I don’t think what I’m describing is all that unusual. I don’t think it indicates I have some problem that millions of others don’t have. I think, Detective Inspector Grantley, that what I’m describing is the human condition, or at least my own.”
“I hope that’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. And believe it or not I consider myself to be reasonably content.”
“Then whatever does discontent look like?” I asked.
“I don’t want to know.” He smiled.
I too smiled. “Neither do I.”
“What I’m saying is Freddy Hayworth could have been having one of those truly bad mental moments. Anxiety, depression, whatever. And it could be hidden to the world. My brother has a term for Facebook profiles, Instagram accounts; he calls them facades—the Facebook facade. It’s what you want the world to see of you, but only part of your reality, the tip-of-the-iceberg kind of thing. Maybe Freddy’s facade went beyond social media. Maybe it was a lot darker, you know?”
Tamir’s thoughts intrigued me. Surely I’d known despair, although I couldn’t imagine reaching a point where I
’d ever have either the desire or the nerve to end my life. Of course, I was forgetting the time Alec confessed to me, owned up to his evil. I recall how hopeless it all seemed that night. How complicit I felt, as if I’d helped my husband get away with murder. Not intentionally, of course, but so what? Had Frederick Hayworth felt that way? What could he have been feeling, been hiding?
The Audi account fiasco would likely still have been on his mind, weighing him down. He may have felt some extra anguish about his obsessive-compulsive behavior, not to mention his womanizing and what it had wrought. The thing is, everyone including his therapist insisted he was improving. And couldn’t his cock-up at work be seen as a one-off thing? A bad move never to be repeated? He didn’t lose his job, after all. Then there’s the lack of any kind of suicide note. His relationship with his parents wasn’t strained; would he have taken his life without explanation?
I know I could have stopped looking for answers. I’d made no breakthrough in the matter of Frederick Hayworth. I could have explained this to Chief Inspector Vernon and not been chastised. He knew I’d done my best. Not every case ends with a tidy solution. So why didn’t I leave it? Part was curiosity. If it was murder, I wanted to find the culprit and bring him—or her—to justice. And there was also this: I’d already left one murderer at large—my husband. And one is one too many.
Summer arrived. The slap of humid, hot air made for a lot of cranky Londoners. I’d enrolled Jonathan at a day camp recommended by a couple I liked, with children we both liked. I took a fortnight’s holiday with no plans except no work, no Freddy, no murders at all save those I might read about in novels. A staycation. No bags to pack. No tickets to buy. No flights to be late for. And when had I last taken time to enjoy the city? To visit museums, see theater, try new restaurants, shop—not in the usual rush. I hired a trainer, did daily runs, weights, cycling classes. As well, I found more time to read, to catch a film. I saw two plays—one grand, the other not so much. Jabirah, who was smoothly running our lives, came with me to the good play, a matinee. She had never been to the theater. Afterward, the two of us had an early dinner in Covent Garden. Jabirah judged it a “nearly perfect day.” I agreed. I went on a blind date with a man distantly related to a fellow detective. By consensus, there was no second date. Late afternoons, my son came home full of the magical day he’d had at day camp. His tales sparkled. They rubbed off on me.