by Tim Hoy
“The point is, a woman doesn’t need to be modest to be respected,” I said.
“Point taken, although I might use the word ‘shouldn’t’ instead of ‘doesn’t,’ ” she said, and waited for my diatribe to continue, which it didn’t. “A woman who is modest shouldn’t be condemned for making that choice.”
“If it’s her choice,” I said. “And you could…oh never mind.”
“Could what?” asked Jabirah. “Go on.”
“Walk down Oxford Street in a swimming costume. You’d end up on the Daily Mail website.”
“As I’m chased down the street by a horde of lustful men?” Jabirah said.
“We’ll have to try that sometime. I might have to get you drunk first, but I’m up to the challenge. We can go to hell together.” I laughed and clasped Jabirah’s hand. For a moment she squeezed back forcefully.
“In a way, your plans for me sound far more appealing than those of my family.”
“Jabirah, just because something’s a tradition doesn’t make it right. It used to be a tradition in this country to deny women the right to vote. Look, I can take the boys for lunch later in the week. Not a problem. I don’t want to make things difficult for you.”
“No, I’ll take them,” insisted Jabirah. “I can do this. It’s Queensway, not Quetta, after all.”
I gave Jabirah a wink, a nod, and £50 for lunch.
The evolution of Jabirah Rahman. And Tessa Grantley, or so I hoped.
Near the end of the month, an attempted-murder trial took me to Brent Magistrates’ Court. Peter and I had made the arrest; it was my turn to testify, confirming the allegations against the accused before a jury. Rain threatened, so I drove instead of taking public transport. I was called to the stand before eleven and finished prior to the lunch break, which gave me an unexpected hour or so of free time. I took lunch at a caff near the court, answered texts as I ate, and prepared to head back down to central London. Something clicked when I saw a sign for Stonebridge Park, so I pulled over.
Freddy Hayworth’s artist friend, Greg Shafer, had mentioned a printmaker’s studio he’d worked with, the one that specialized in making paper to be used to create prints with a 3-D effect, like the one I’d seen of his: the two weathered wood planks that looked so real. Potential House was in need of things to hang on its walls, but I’d never found the time to go browsing. So I looked up the studio, Artographia, on my phone and found it was less than a mile away. The blurb online described it as a gallery and studio specializing in printmaking and stated it was open to the public.
Artographia occupied a large former garage in an industrialized area. The few vehicles parked on the road were goods vans, large and small. If this place drew the public, it must have been at other times. Mr. Jan Esterhazy seemed surprised by my visit. He was sitting at a desk near the front door tackling some paperwork when I came in. I entered tentatively, shyly.
“Yes?” Mr. Esterhazy asked as I appeared at the door. His tone wasn’t particularly friendly.
“Greg Shafer suggested I have a look at your prints,” I replied.
That warmed him up. Mr. Esterhazy stood and approached, running his hand through his longish hair. Jan (pronounced Yan) Esterhazy was on the short side, diminutive, for which he overcompensated with flashy dress: pressed jeans and a loud shirt, open nearly to his navel. My mother would have called him a lounge lizard, whatever that meant.
“Yes, we’ve worked with Greg a number of times. He’s sent people to us, which is always appreciated. A very talented man,” Jan said, his manner pleasant.
“He is,” I said. “He made the work you do here sound so interesting.” My eyes stayed on the walls, which held a series of lithographs by an Italian artist I’d never heard of. They were exquisite, with warm, strikingly rich colors.
“Thank you for coming in, Ms….”
“Grantley, but please call me Tessa. Mr. Shafer said you welcome browsers.”
“We do, although we don’t get many, seeing as we’re off the beaten path.”
“That you are. How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know how much he told you, but this is a family business. My great-grandfather started it in Hungary between the wars, the world wars, that is. My grandfather came to England in 1956. He left everything behind, started from nothing. But slowly and surely he built the trade back up, and here we are. We’ve been in this location for thirty-four years now. Let me show you around.”
Esterhazy led me into a spacious and bright room. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all white. On the walls hung an abundance of prints, some from artists prominent enough for even me to recognize. All of the works had an element of multi-dimensionality or depth to them, like raised letters or images, or holes in the paper. There was, for example, a work by a celebrated artist that looked to be a clock affixed to a white canvas. On closer inspection I realized it was a print—the entire thing—with the three-dimensional illusion obtained somehow in the process.
“How brilliant,” I said, which it surely was.
“Thank you. As you can see, we work with a lot of artists.”
“They come to you for your expertise,” I commented, although it was more a question.
“And for inspiration, I hope. Often an artist wants to try something new, and we help him—or her—do so. We make a variety of especially pliant paper, and we have all the printmaking equipment here one would ever need. They bring their talent and we provide them with what I’d call texture and volume, all intended to enhance their work.”
“Apparently it does just that.”
“Is there anything special you’d like to see?” he asked.
“How about everything?” I meant it; I was hooked. “I have time,” I added, “but I don’t want to take up too much of yours.”
Esterhazy laughed. “Don’t worry about that,” he replied.
What was especially fascinating was the studio space, where the printmaking presses were, as well as long tables covered with works in progress. No artists were there at the time, but Jan, as he insisted I call him, showed me where Tracey Emin had been working the month before. A large back room contained vats and some ancient-looking machines, all used to make paper thick and supple with high rag content. It looked like a laboratory, but one that hadn’t been updated in many years. Jan explained the process. I understood about half of what he said.
An hour later, I departed with a brilliant print and an intention to return. In that time, nobody else had come to the studio, either to work or visit. There were so many pieces I loved, but for the moment I limited myself to a single purchase. I would put the raised print, not at all cheap but not shockingly expensive, over my fireplace at home. The artist was of note, a member of the Royal Academy. And I knew I would let Ogueri experience the artistry by running his hands over the surface.
After he washed them.
* * *
—
Jabirah’s luncheon with the boys went off without a hitch. She walked in the middle, holding each child’s hand. The day was warm and fine. Sensibly, she wore a loose headscarf, jeans, and a light blouse. No riots commenced at the sight of a beautiful young woman walking two boys. The sky did not fall. Jabirah later told me she felt somehow undressed at first, at least for the neighborhood, but then it was as if a burden had been taken off her shoulders. Like the first time riding a bike without training wheels. What could be impious about taking two children to lunch? Jabirah said she felt like thanking me but also felt somehow she was betraying part of herself. As best I could, I kept my mouth closed on this subject. Surely it wasn’t for me to tell Jabirah how to lead her life; she already had too many people doing that. I had no insight on how difficult or restrictive her home life was, other than the few veiled comments she made from time to time, pun intended. Neither did I know how important or not her faith was to her. I did
n’t need to know.
Upon arriving home with the boys, Jabirah made barley water from scratch. She took a pitcher and glasses to them in the back garden, where they’d gone to commence their latest reading project, Treasure Island. Jonathan had already begun reading and performing the first chapter when Jabirah arrived. Ogueri was listening raptly to my son. Jabirah quietly set down the tray. Jonathan stopped reading.
“Don’t mind me,” said Jabirah.
Jonathan began again. Jabirah walked to the door to the kitchen and lingered there. This was good. Ogueri made the occasional moan; loving Jonathan’s spinning of the tale. Jabirah handed Ogueri his drink. He whispered thanks. Ogueri leaned down and followed Jonathan’s recitation in the Ogueri’s braille version. Eventually, I too crept into the garden and listened. Before long, Ogueri stopped the show.
“It’s here again,” he said.
“The word?” asked Jonathan.
Ogueri nodded. “ ‘Help,’ like before.” Ogueri handed Jabirah the volume so she could “see” for herself.
“That’s the fourth book, right Ogueri?” said Jonathan.
Ogueri nodded.
Jabirah’s fingers slid over the raised text. “Somebody needs a good speaking to.”
“Yeah,” said Ogueri and Jonathan at once.
“Or jail,” Ogueri added.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Don’t you think whoever is doing this is not a very happy person?” Jabirah asked.
That stopped the boys.
“Maybe,” said Jonathan.
“That doesn’t make it okay, though, Jabirah,” Ogueri said.
“You’re right, young man,” she said.
One evening not long after, arriving home later than expected, I was surprised—and relieved—to find Jabirah had prepared supper. We hadn’t planned on her cooking that night. I unwrapped the print I’d purchased and picked up from the framers. It drew praise from Jabirah, even from my son.
“Over the mantel, I think,” I said.
“Yes,” Jabirah agreed. “Just there. It’s perfect.”
I opened a bottle of wine, a rare occurrence, and poured myself a glass, offering some to Jabirah, who declined.
“I took Jonathan and Ogueri to the library today,” Jabirah said.
“Good. Thanks, Jabirah.”
“And I listened to them read again,” she responded. “Those two could go on the radio!”
“It’s pretty wonderful, isn’t it?” I sat down at the kitchen table.
“It is,” Jabirah agreed. “They found the message again in the book.”
“Why would some bratty kid deface books like that?”
“A child who can’t see? A whole world closed to him? It’s not so hard to figure out, is it?” she said, with wisdom I lacked.
I nodded. “How are you getting home?”
“I can ring my brother,” said Jabirah, “or catch the bus. No worries.”
“Why don’t Jonathan and I take you home? Let your brother relax.”
“Oh no,” Jabirah said, “thanks just the same.” She was insistent.
“But…” I began.
“It’s very kind of you, Tessa, but it would cause more trouble than it’s worth.”
“How?” I wondered. “I don’t mind. The boys could ride along.”
Jabirah sat down across from me. “The only reason my family ever agreed to allow me to work, Tessa, was because father’s job was made redundant, and we needed the money. Now, father has found other employment. I’m just waiting for one of them to tell me that I have to quit coming here. I don’t want to do anything that reminds them that I’m working. You pulling up in front of our house would do just that.”
“You went to school and got a degree in childhood education, didn’t you?” I asked. Jabirah nodded. “What did your family expect you to do with the diploma, frame it and forget?”
“Get a better husband, of course,” said Jabirah. “A degree shows I’m bright, that I will have bright sons. There was never any intention I would go out and find a job. I’m to be married, Tessa; surely you understand that.”
“I understand none of this,” I said. “I’m sorry, but it seems, I don’t know, immoral to me.”
“Immoral?” Jabirah sounded incredulous. “I don’t think so. It is considered the very height of morality, Tessa. Marriage to a suitable man, motherhood, children. That is not immoral. Not at all.”
“It is if it’s forced on someone. Not everyone wants to be married and not everyone who does wants a life partner imposed on her. Only you should decide who’s suitable.”
“Perhaps this is something we should avoid talking about,” Jabirah said.
“Oh, look, I’m sorry. It’s just I see so much potential in you.”
“Excuse me, but I’m not a child, Tessa. You see ‘potential’ in me? What am I, five years old?”
“No, no! That’s not how I meant it, Jabirah! You’re amazing. Really. Without conditions, okay? Look, Jonathan loves you and he should; you’re a wonderful person. Caring, loving. I have no business trying to change your life, and I told myself I’d keep quiet, but it’s hard for me to think that you won’t have the opportunity to be all that you can be. Look at all you’ve done for little Ogueri; think of all you could do for others. Forgive me for meddling, but it really does come from the best intentions.”
“Thank you. And I know. At times it’s hard to come here and see how women like you live—how you get to live. My goodness, Tessa, you’re a detective with Scotland Yard! Men answer to you. To me that is quite amazing and utterly delightful. My mother would be shocked! My father…he would probably be horrified.”
“Tell me what you want, Jabirah, if I’m not prying. A family? A career? Both?”
“I’d like to have both,” she said. “The question is, will I be able to.”
“Able or allowed?” I asked.
Jabirah paused, as if thinking of how to respond. Before she did, though, Jonathan entered the kitchen to say he was hungry, which ended things and started dinner.
Time and again I told myself that Hayworth’s death made no sense except as murder. Take, for example, the photos of the body. The case stayed with me, like some stubborn stain. The circumstances didn’t seem to add up, and they weighed on me, frustrated me. A pool of water outlined one side of him, spilled from the bottle on its side near Hayworth’s right hand. Yes, some people drink a lot of water, for its hydrating value, but Hayworth was using it to swallow pills. There was another small capsule clutched in his left hand. Eventually it had been tested and was vitamin D. Why would Freddy Hayworth be taking vitamin D at the same time he took cyanide? Surely he wasn’t concerned about vitamin deficiency in the moment before he chose to end his life. Then again, possibly this was Hayworth’s last act as a person cursed with OCD. He couldn’t go on, but neither could he alter his pill-popping pattern. The autopsy found three other vitamins concentrated in Hayworth’s stomach. None were dissolved, which meant they had been swallowed in the minutes or seconds before he died. It looked as if Hayworth was following a routine; he had a batch of vitamins and supplements he took each morning. Why would one planning suicide insist on swallowing supplements intended to keep him healthy?
I needed some answers in the death of Freddy Hayworth. For the time being, I put aside the question of who did the deed. I continued to concentrate my efforts on determining where the poison came from. The source of the poison would, quite possibly, lead to the killer. Detective Inspector Lazarus still didn’t question the culprit’s identity, however. “I’d kill myself too if I was that emotionally crippled,” he insisted insensitively.
None of the food in Hayworth’s refrigerator had been tainted; we’d checked all of it, from the bottled water to the low sodium Marks & Spencer prepared meals he must have liked. So the investigation focuse
d on pills and powders. Had any of the many bottles in his bathroom been doctored? Each bottle had been examined for traces of cyanide but nothing registered. I took a trip to the evidence room and signed out a box from the Hayworth home, which was full of pill bottles, small and large. There was, as well, a rectangular plastic pill container with eight separate wells, each with a lid printed with a day of the week on top, and an extra unlabeled one. All but one of the wells were full, so a good guess was that Hayworth filled the thing on the weekend and had done so before his death. The container had been found in his gym bag, which led us to believe that the pills therein were consumed during the day, possibly with lunch, or before or after his evening workouts. Whatever killed Freddy Hayworth was taken in the morning, but it wasn’t possible to eliminate those supplements found in the daily pill container, for he might have taken some—or all—of them more than once a day.
There were nineteen bottles of pills in total found in his home, some nearly empty, some full. The protective seal hadn’t been removed on one, so I put it aside. Only one was a prescription drug, the Paxil, which had been filled in the prior year and was two-thirds full. The others were an alphabet of vitamins and acronyms: C, D, DHEA, CLA. Some were solid pills; others, like the CLA, were capsules containing viscous liquid. Only one of the supplements was a capsule containing powder, a “thyroid support” remedy. I took one of the pills from that bottle and held it between the thumb and forefinger of both my hands. The capsule was a translucent pale yellow. It took only a little pressure to unstick the two parts of the capsule and when I pulled them apart a green powder rained out like salt from an overturned shaker. I put a forefinger to my tongue, wetted it, pressed into the powder and brought a small amount to my lips. It tasted of iron but was not especially bitter.
On my office computer I looked up the thyroid capsules by brand and found their intended use was to speed metabolism, which told me little. The directions on the bottle, however, did recommend taking the supplement one to three times a day, at least half an hour before eating. Freddy Hayworth would have followed the instructions. He loved instructions. His stomach would have been empty when he took the pill. And when is a stomach more empty than when waking up from a night’s sleep?