by Tim Hoy
If, of course, it even was one of the capsules that had killed Hayworth.
Things quieted at home after the August bank holiday. Jonathan was enrolled at an alternative school not far off, which came highly recommended. He cried the first day I dropped him off. When I returned that afternoon, he ran to me beaming. We had no problems thereafter. Without my son to mind all day, Jabirah’s role in our household shifted. I could have made do with her part-time, but by then I didn’t want to. She’d woven herself into the fabric of Potential House. I wanted her around. Ogueri went to school as well, one equipped to teach children with disabilities. But Jabirah could help with him when he returned from school in the afternoon.
Jabirah and I discussed our changed circumstances. She was the one who brought it up.
“Maybe you don’t need me anymore, Tessa, or at least not as often,” she said.
“Maybe I do. Maybe I see no reason to change anything. That is, unless you do.”
Jabirah shook her head. “But I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Is someone accusing you of doing so? Not that I’ve heard,” I said.
She smiled.
“You can cook; you can help me keep this place somewhat neat. Look, I don’t care if you spend an hour or two in the garden reading a book, Jabirah. Life’s too short, and I’m not exactly worried about the money.” I had told her of Alec’s generosity and as much about my past as I ever shared. “Caring for Jonathan and me isn’t your calling in life, Jabirah. We both know that. The time will come when you’ll move on. All I’m saying is that I want you to be the one to make that decision. You’re among friends here. You do a world of good for this house and the people in it. Please stay. Stay as long as you like.”
Jabirah rose from her seat at the kitchen table, stepped to me, and hugged me from behind. No words. None needed.
Her load lightened, Jabirah remained a welcome presence in the house and our lives. She planted beautiful things in the back garden. She tried to teach me to cook, without much success. One day I even found her dozing in a chair in the front room, a book on her lap. She woke as I walked by, and apologized.
“For what?” I asked.
“Being asleep on the job.”
“Jabirah, I don’t think it would be possible for me to care less. Close your eyes again. I’ll make us tea.”
One day in early October, I found Jonathan and Jabirah at the kitchen table, their heads close together. I’d heard Jabirah’s voice as I approached, but she clammed up as I entered. They were watching a video on Jabirah’s phone, smiles on their faces.
“Don’t let me stop you,” I said. I wouldn’t have stopped them for the world.
Dashing David Colfax was in touch mid-October; he had names to add to his list of Freddy foes, which I returned to his shop to collect. It was midday. There were two customers in the shop when I arrived. Colfax was giving them all the charm he could muster as they stood round a grandfather clock. He smiled on seeing me. At a respectful distance, I watched as he closed the sale and walked them out.
“There’s a nice day’s work,” he said, turning to me.
“Good for you,” I said.
“The list is upstairs.” He led me up the stairs.
Once in his office, he opened a desk drawer, extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to me.
“Hope that helps,” Colfax said.
“Thank you.” I turned to leave, but before I’d taken two steps—
“How did you come to be a policewoman?” he asked.
“At the time it seemed the best of the few options I had.”
“You stayed on, so you must like it.”
“I do, although I’ve never asked myself that question, for some reason. I don’t see myself not doing it, if that makes sense.”
“It does,” Colfax said. “My life was plotted out for me while I was still in the womb, it seems. Family business and all that.”
I asked him, “Do you mind?”
“Can’t say that I do. I actually like the process, the hunt for beautiful things, things with a story most often. There’s a satisfaction to it, over and above keeping food on the table,” Colfax said. “About that list; I’m sure I’ve missed someone, but as of now, that’s what I came up with. I could email it to you as well if you like.”
“Yes, please.” I looked at the paper in my hand. On it were nine names: six women and three men. He’d done his homework; each had contact information as well as a brief explanation of how they knew Freddy Hayworth. The women were all former girlfriends, dating back from nearly a decade to last year. The three men were more varied. One had worked with Hayworth at Idea(1)s, another was a classmate at Marlborough. The last was the former fiancé of one of the women on the list, which I noted to David.
“Yes, Freddy ended that engagement. Disengaged, he called it. I’m pretty sure they’d even sent out wedding invitations. Then they had the misfortune to dine at the same restaurant as Freddy. Someplace suitably chic; I can’t remember the name. He had a knack for getting a table anywhere in town. It was important to him, for some reason, knowing which places had cachet, a queue at the door, and then jumping it somehow. I remember the story; Freddy and some client of his were at the table next to the couple. By the pudding, Freddy and this woman were ready to retire to one of the toilet stalls and do the deed. The fiancé walked out.”
“Sounds mortifying,” I said.
“Not to Freddy. He told the story to anyone who would listen. I remember he said something like ‘Apparently they weren’t meant for each other, after all. She was meant for me, for a few weeks at least.’ Not very funny.”
“No,” I agreed.
“I do know that man is now living in Sevenoaks with a wife and two kids,” David said. “Obviously, I don’t want to cast aspersions on any of these people. I barely know some of them, but I can’t see any as a killer. Still, I don’t know about the suicide angle, which means somebody had to do it.”
“I’m afraid that seems right,” I said.
“You don’t think it was suicide either, do you?”
“I’m not sure, either, although I really shouldn’t comment on an open case.”
We talked for perhaps twenty minutes. Mr. Colfax, so he said, was divorced, with no children. The “What about you?” question received my canned response: “I lost my husband some years ago.”
“Lost meaning dead,” said David.
I nodded. “My preferred euphemism, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry. Never was much of one for sugarcoating the truth,” he said, which irked me somehow. Who the hell was he to choose my words?
“Actually, I don’t think I’m doing anything of the kind,” I said. “You don’t know the details and don’t need to.”
He looked taken aback. “Point taken. I was out of line.”
“No worries. I should go.” And I did. I caught the tube back to the Met.
Jonathan was upstairs with the Obinnas, so I expected a quiet night at home. Surprisingly, Jabirah was there, poking about in the kitchen. I gave her a pat on the shoulder, filled a glass of water from the tap, and got comfortable at the kitchen table.
“I needed…quiet. I hope you don’t mind,” said Jabirah.
“Not at all; it’s an unexpected pleasure,” I proclaimed. “I’m going to have some wine. Don’t suppose I could tempt you?”
“No, thanks,” said Jabirah as she chopped vegetables, her back to me. At once, she put down the knife and turned. There were tears in her eyes. “On second thought, yes. I’d love a glass of wine. It will be my first.”
I smiled and only then looked at Jabirah. “Oh my, what’s wrong?”
Jabirah cried openly. “I’m not a bad person, Tessa. I’m good. I am.”
I hugged her. “Of course you are; you’re great. Tell me how I can hel
p?”
We sat and sipped our wine.
“You help every time I come here, Tessa. I see how it is possible to live, really to live. Sometimes I take the bus, you know? My family fought me hard on that one; they said public transport wasn’t a fitting place for a single woman.”
I kept quiet and listened.
“I won that fight, but mostly because we needed the money. The thing is, one of their main worries was that I’d meet inappropriate men on the bus.” Jabirah had already nearly finished her inaugural glass of burgundy; I topped it off.
“Let me guess; you met someone you don’t consider inappropriate,” I said.
Jabirah beamed. “He’s wonderful. Kind, so good-looking, at university.”
“Muslim?”
“His family is from Lahore,” she said as she nodded. “His father is a doctor. It’s a good family.”
“And the problem is?” I wondered.
“Tessa, my parents, my brother, they are in charge of my fate—at least according to them. I have no say in the matter of whom I marry. And the very idea of me going on a date without a chaperone is not only out of the question, it would be a ‘stain’ on my family, or so I’ve been told a thousand times.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“To you and much of the world, maybe, but not in my culture,” Jabirah added.
“Your culture now is at least partly English, Jabirah. You live here. You can do what you want.”
“Come on, Tessa, you know that’s not true. It may sound right and good, but it’s not reality,” said Jabirah, “at least not mine.”
I said nothing for a while, but then added, “You can’t help who you love, even though sometimes it’s the wrong person—or the right person at the wrong time.” It sounded like a cliché from a romance novel, which didn’t make it any less true.
Jabirah nodded. For a moment she was silent. Then she looked at me and said, “I’m only now getting to know myself. I’m my own person; do you know what I mean?”
“Of course.”
“They’ll choose someone suitable, at least to them. You’ll never see me again, and I’ll never be me again.” Tears wet her cheeks. I took her hand. She squeezed mine. What could I say that would help? I couldn’t think of a thing.
“Why are you so intent on getting the Hayworth case off our to-do list?” I asked Peter.
“Because it’s a waste of time, Tessa. The man offed himself. You might wonder why; you might find it incredible, but what other explanation is there? None, and you know it,” Peter said. “And yes, I get that a small army of people hated the poor sod. What of it?”
“What of it?” I said. “He’s dead.”
“May he rest in peace,” Peter said. “I, for one, will mourn him in my own quiet way.”
“I’ll mourn you being an idiot,” I replied, shaking my head.
Peter turned to me and grinned. Smug bastard. I threw a pencil at him. I missed.
“We have better things to worry about than a possible suicide, Tessa, and you know it.”
“I’m not in the business of placing different values on people’s lives, Peter. Last I looked, I wasn’t God.”
According to the chatty doorman in Hayworth’s building, some five weeks before his death, Hayworth had a drinks party in his flat. The occasion was Greg Shafer’s birthday. Finding a list of invitees was simple; a blast email had gone out to thirty-two addresses. The invitation included an image of one of Shafer’s prints. Oddly, at least I thought, those invited were not asked to RSVP, which would have been helpful. A head count would be good when ordering the libations. How many bottles of Bolly to chill, etc. Nevertheless, six people responded that they were unable to attend and eleven indicated they’d be there. That accounted for just over half of those invited. Hayworth’s building had twenty-four-hour reception, meaning someone would have been on duty that night. There was, as well, that CCTV camera targeting the door. I was able to obtain the footage without resorting to a warrant. The boys, I recognized: Mungo Kenroy, Scott Kramer, David Colfax, and the honoree, Greg Shafer. They arrived, if not together, then at nearly the same time. Hayworth’s boss, Carl Bethany, came as well. Those already known to us could identify the others. It made the most sense to ask for assistance from the birthday boy, so I used the excuse to pay another visit to Shafer’s East End studio.
Within minutes of arriving in Fournier Street, I had names and what contact information Shafer had, mostly mobile numbers and email addresses, usually both. Shafer’s brother, Harry, had attended the party with his wife, Ruth. Four other couples were friends of Greg’s who did not, so he said, know Hayworth. Freddy, he said, had told Greg to ask whomever he wanted, which he did. “It’s your night, mate,” Freddy had said. “Run with it.” Colfax brought a date, but Shafer couldn’t remember her name. Nice enough to look at, he said. Shafer said he heard David advise Freddy against poaching, which prompted a laugh from their host.
“Actually, it was a bit more than a birthday celebration,” Greg said. “Freddy had me bring some of my work to show people. He was hoping I’d make a sale or two.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“No. But as they say, it’s the thought that counts. It was a nice gesture on Freddy’s part, selfless really. Good of him, you know?”
I nodded. “By the way, I took your suggestion and went to Artographia. Mr. Esterhazy gave me the tour. He thinks highly of you—and your work.”
“The feeling’s mutual. There’s some pretty incredible stuff going on up there.”
I nodded. “I bought an Elizabeth Blackadder print,” I said.
He looked taken aback. “Did you now? Good for you.” Now he really eyed me, as if for the first time.
“You sound surprised.”
“Maybe, but pleasantly surprised. I doubt many in the Metropolitan Police collect art.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a collector,” I said. “I simply saw something that appealed to me, and now it’s hanging in my home. Apparently, she’d been working in the studio not long before I visited.”
“I saw Hirst there once. Damien Hirst.”
“I know who Damien Hirst is, Mr. Shafer.”
“Yes, well, it sounds as if you got the grand tour. You should see the papermaking process sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Goes back centuries, they say.”
Greg put his beat-up Filofax back in a desk drawer. He turned to me.
“Was there anything else? I’ll help however I can, but I do have an appointment in the West End in an hour,” he said.
“I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up,” I said. “Thank you for your time.” I headed back to the office.
* * *
—
Greg was truthful; many of his friends hadn’t known the host that evening. Nobody had a bad thing to say about Freddy Hayworth, although more than one didn’t find his flat very appealing.
“Nice view, nice stuff, but I wouldn’t want to end up there every night,” one said. “Not enough blankets in London to warm that place up. All mirrors, without the smoke.”
“It needed a personal touch,” said another.
Two school friends, known both to Greg and Freddy, came with dates. Eric and Stan had been at Marlborough with the group but apparently didn’t make the inner circle—or perhaps they’d declined the invitation. Stanley Crawley didn’t much appreciate how friendly Freddy was to his date, Leonora Yaniopoulos.
“That was Freddy, though,” Stanley said, “from the time he hit puberty. It wasn’t so much arrogance as just, what? Colossal self-esteem perhaps? And when it came to his hormones, no restraint. You could call him on it and his eyes would grow wide, as if he hadn’t a clue that he was trying to steal your girl. Maybe that was it; in his mind, he wasn’t stealing. He was borrowing. N
ever mind the ramifications of such a loan. All he wanted was a taste.” Crawley shook his head. “I hadn’t seen him in probably five years; he hadn’t changed. That being said, another thing that hadn’t changed was that he was always kind and generous, often to a fault. That was the old Widow Clicquot he was pouring to toast Greg; above my pay grade, I freely admit.”
Ms. Yaniopoulos found Hayworth “Harmless. He was one of those guys for whom making eye contact means yes. A smile means ‘Where’s the bed?’ It’s mad! I did like his flat, though, although it needed a woman’s touch or something. A human touch. And, yes, I expect a lot of women had been touched in that mirror-lined bedroom. What the hell was that all about? Still, he was cute. Sad to think he’s dead.”
Ken Larson claimed to like my new print. It wasn’t yet hung, but I’d propped it above the fireplace where it was going to live. Ken had dropped in to pay the rent. We shared a glass of wine, as he didn’t have to fly until late the next day.
“How do they get the paper to mold into that form? It must be wet when they do the printing or something,” he said.
“I think they actually make the paper there.”
“My younger one would have tried to eat it. She was always putting things in her mouth. God only knows what’s used to make paper. Besides trees, that is. Who knows what chemicals?”
I laughed but got Ken’s point. “Jonathan was the opposite. He went through the plain-spaghetti phase for at least six months. Wouldn’t touch anything else.”
“Wendy was like that, my older one. She’s still a picky eater.”
“I was like that too,” I said. “Did I ever grow out of it! Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”
“No one would describe you as overweight, Tessa.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
I was back in Stonebridge Park by ten the next morning, knocking on the door to Artographia. The posted hours were ten a.m. to six p.m., but the place was locked tight when I got there. Jan Esterhazy drove up not two minutes later, wondering, no doubt, who the woman was pacing on the step. He recognized me as I turned to face him.