Honor Role

by Tim Hoy

  “It doesn’t occur to you that one of these women might not have been pleased to learn she was in a sex video available online? What are you, stupid too?”

  “Okay, good point. I don’t like your tone, but you may have something,” he said.

  “I don’t give a damn if you like my tone, Mungo. Do you know the names of the women?”

  For a moment he said nothing. He looked right at me. Finally, he opened his mouth. “Matter of fact, I do.” He unlocked a desk drawer, drew out a file, and pulled a paper from it. He snapped a photo of the paper. “Text or email?”

  “Both,” I said.

  Kenroy pressed some buttons and put the phone down on his desk. “Anything else?” he asked.

  I nodded and walked to his office door. “Two things: A. Lose my number; B. Fuck you.”

  I found Jonathan upstairs at Ken’s. I was grateful for the help, and Ken said he liked having Jonathan around. “I’d say so if I didn’t, Tessa,” he insisted. One of Ken’s daughters, Wendy, was there when I knocked and entered the flat. She’d come to London with her art teacher and classmates to see a costume exhibition at the V&A. Jonathan was bounding about with one of Ken’s model airplanes in hand. The three of them looked so content it felt as if I was imposing, but only until Jonathan saw me and rushed over with a hug.

  “Stay for dinner,” Ken said.

  I didn’t put up a fight. “You’re sure you have enough?”

  “We’re sure,” said Wendy. “And I’m a much better cook than he is.”

  “Or she is!” Jonathan said, referring to me.

  “Hey!” I protested. He was right, though. Cheeky, but right.

  Wendy proved to be a very good cook indeed. Ken and his daughter were easy with each other, which was a pleasure to see. I hoped for the same as Jonathan grew.

  We were functioning without Jabirah, but little Ogueri prodded me into action concerning her. One Sunday, as the boys sat in my kitchen devouring a snack, Ogueri asked, “I wonder how Benazir is?”

  “Good question,” I said, wondering to myself why I hadn’t thought of Jabirah’s sister in weeks.

  “Maybe she’ll come and visit,” Ogueri said.

  Or maybe not, I thought. Who would bring her? I wasn’t even certain where the Rahman family lived, other than somewhere in Kilburn. The address Jabirah had given when she applied for the nanny position turned out to be that of the shop in which her father worked. Jabirah had told me that herself, at some point, but I’d never asked why. It didn’t seem important. Now, I wondered if she didn’t want me to know her address, if she feared I might stop by and roil her family. They might force her to quit working for such a shady lady. So how would we even find Benazir?

  Then I had an idea. Unless she’d changed her habits or had left the country, Benazir was still a keen reader. She’d visit her local branch library regularly, which meant she’d have a library card. To get such a card, Benazir would have provided an address. It was worth a try. Come the weekend, Jonathan and I would pay a visit to what should be Benazir’s local library.

  That night, sleepless, I rose in the dark, as had become a habit, and looked down on the empty street below. Jabirah was on my mind. I worried about her. Perhaps it was more pity. What a special hell it would be to have no control over one’s life! And all because of gender. Archaic and awful. My phone was charging by the bed. I thought I’d try one more time to reach my friend. I wrote her again.

  Jabirah:

  I hope you are well and happy. Jonathan and I miss you very much. Ogueri does too! You should see the boys; they’re growing so fast. Are you coming back to the UK? I hope so. Please come see us when you do. Are you in Quetta? I remember you telling me your family was from there. I looked it up on the map. So far away!

  Anyway, you are often in my thoughts. Maybe Jonathan and I can visit you someday if you don’t return to Britain. Be well, my friend.

  Love,

  Tessa

  I pressed Send. In seconds, the email bounced back to me. Undeliverable. She really was gone. Pakistan might as well be Mars.

  * * *

  —

  Molly James looked surprised to see me walk into her bank again. She was busy with a customer, with others in the queue. After serving three, Molly turned to a woman seated at a desk and said something, nodding toward me. The other woman gave me a look and then nodded once to Molly, who only then met my eye as she approached.

  “Assuming you’re here to see me,” Molly said, “I just got a fifteen-minute reprieve. We can walk outside if you like.”

  “Is there an office here we could use?” I asked.

  “Yes, I suppose.” She led me down a short hallway to a door, which she unlocked with a key from her pocket. It was mostly a storage room for office supplies, but there was a small table and two chairs. Molly sat. “Okay?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “There’s no hot drinks anymore for the staff. Another one of their brilliant cost-cutting measures. God forbid they pay the bank president a million pounds a year less so we little peons in the thousand-plus branch offices could have a cup of coffee now and then.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Well, I’m not. Did you find something out about Freddy?” she asked.

  I ignored the question. “I happened to walk by your sister’s flower shop yesterday.”

  “Oh,” Molly said. She looked at a loss.

  “It looked lovely. I nearly bought a bouquet.”

  “That’s what you came to tell me?”

  “Did you know Freddy Hayworth filmed himself having sex?”

  Her eyes rolled. “He would.”

  “Did you know, though, Ms. James?” She could see I was serious. “I’m not talking about self-gratification here; sex with partners, Ms. James. Sometimes more than one partner.”

  “Oh.” Then it clicked. “Oh! Are you telling me…” Molly James started crying. “Oh my God! Did he…show them to others?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh my God. What, online?”

  I nodded.

  “That bastard! I could—” She stopped. She looked at me as if she’d gone too far.

  “A bit late for that,” I said.

  Molly sobered up. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I’m just so fucking angry. I feel like I’ve been assaulted.”

  “You have been assaulted. I’m right in assuming you never gave consent?”

  “Hell no! I never even noticed the camera,” Molly said.

  “Most likely he used the one on his phone. It looks as if he’d position it someplace and leave it running. The lighting is poor but good enough.”

  “To see, oh my God. How do I get them taken down?” she asked, more like a plea.

  “We’ll help with that, but a few questions first. There’s a sign in your sister’s shop window that says her flowers are “family grown.”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Meaning she or her family grows them? Where?”

  “Up north. Where we grew up,” Molly said. “Our parents have a nursery. Near Sheffield. Our grandparents started it years ago.”

  “They use certain chemicals for pest control and other things?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She answered but wasn’t following. “What chemicals, I don’t know. You’d have to ask my parents.”

  “I mean to do just that, Ms. James.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Look, Detective Inspector, please tell me what you’re getting at. First you tell me I can be found online shagging, now you’re asking about horticulture. I don’t see the…” Then she did. “Hold on, you’re not suggesting I poisoned Freddy? Is that where you’re going with this? This is fucking insane.”

  “Whoever did it had access to cyanide. It’s not that easy to come by. Bu
t it’s used in gardening, or can be, for pest control.”

  “So you say. Oh my God, this is so incredibly deranged!” Molly James cried again. “I didn’t have a clue he was putting me online. No clue!”

  “But you didn’t like him. Even if you didn’t know of the sex videos; you didn’t like him.”

  “Right, and I got rid of him, but not in the way you’re suggesting. I dumped him, for Chrissakes! Gave him the heave-ho! So have quite a few women, not to mention former friends.”

  “So it seems.” My eyes didn’t leave hers.

  “Look, do I need a lawyer?” Molly asked, wiping her eyes. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t do anything!”

  “Not yet you don’t. Police in South Yorkshire are visiting your parents. They may be there now.”

  “Holy shit. They’ll freak.”

  “Tell me again what you hope to find?” asked Molly’s mum, Felicity.

  “We’re looking for something that may or may not have been used in the commission of a crime,” Detective Cooley said, as he followed Mrs. James to the large back garden. I was in the palm of Cooley’s hand, joining the visit by smartphone.

  “May or may not what? We don’t own any guns, Detective. And the knives are in the kitchen.” Detective Cooley didn’t reply. “Should I phone our solicitor?” Mrs. James gave out a strained laugh. “Why would we need to do that? This is crazy. Look, my husband is gone for a few hours. Couldn’t you come back?”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. James,” said Cooley. “You have the search warrant.”

  She raised her hand holding the piece of paper Detective Cooley had presented to her on his arrival. She said nothing.

  They reached a weather-beaten potting shed. With some effort Mrs. James pulled the door open. Its hinges cried.

  “You’re not being accused of anything, Mrs. James. Neither is anyone else. So far.”

  Mrs. James’s mobile rang. She picked up as Detective Cooley snooped about the messy shed with me in tow. He pretended to give Mrs. James privacy, but I could hear every word she said.

  “You’ll never believe what’s going on here,” Mrs. James said. She listened to her caller and replied, sounding both exasperated and perplexed. “Yes, they’re here! How did you…Look, is this something to do with you, Molly? All I know is, there are two of them and they’re looking for a weapon apparently.” Mrs. James looked at us warily as she listened to her daughter on the line. “But we don’t have any…” Mrs. James said. “Wait a second. Hold on…” Without hanging up, she walked two steps to the shelves lining a wall. Her eyes went across each shelf from the bottom on up, but the top shelf was too high for her to view its contents. She turned to grab a ladder that was propped in the corner. Detective Cooley stopped her.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” she said.

  Cooley positioned and climbed the ladder. The mobile went back to Felicity’s ear. She spoke to her daughter. “Sorry, Molly, he’s poking about in the shed out back. There are things in here that pre-date both of us, I’m sure.”

  Cooley spied cans and pots littering the dusty shelf. Touching nothing, he craned his neck about.

  “Oh, this is hopeless,” Mrs. James said to her daughter. “I’ll ring you back, dear.” She disconnected the call and addressed her guest. “If we have any, it’s up there, out of reach of children, get it? Even though our children are long out the door.”

  “There are lots of things,” Detective Cooley said, as a complaint.

  “Let me see,” I said, loudly. Cooley brought the phone to his ear.

  “What?” he said.

  “Let me see too,” I said. “Look for a skull and crossbones on the tin.”

  “Oh right,” he said, and he brought his phone up to the shelf.

  “Yes. One tin, no two.” The detective reached for one of the tins but stopped. He focused the phone’s camera on the tin and then brought his phone up to speak.

  “Check this out,” he said.

  I did. “Do you have gloves?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s pretty filthy up here. Dusty.”

  “I can’t read the labels clearly,” I said. “Do either say ‘cyanide’?”

  He leaned in closer and switched on his phone’s torch app, which brightened things.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Look at the dust under the cans, especially the one you think is cyanide.”

  He did. “Yes, it’s been moved. Wait. Can you see?” I watched my phone screen. Detective Cooley was right.

  “No way to tell how long ago it was, but it wasn’t put back on the exact spot it had been in for a long time,” I said. “What about the other tin? What is it?”

  “Uh, sulfuric acid, it says. Looks like it hasn’t been touched. Covered in dust.”

  “Okay, get video of both tins. Make sure you get the dust on the shelf. It’s not a large tin, so bag the cyanide,” I said. “Once you’ve got the gloves on.”

  Cooley took a moment before responding. “Done. Now what?”

  As if I knew.

  A man in his mid-twenties leaned behind the counter of the small newsagent’s where Jabirah’s father had worked. Earplugs in, moving to whatever music he was hearing, he was so engrossed that I had to repeat my question. Repetition seems the rule in this age of headphones, earplugs, and wexting (walking while texting).

  “I said, ‘Is Mr. Rahman here?’ ” Loudly and slowly.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Rahman. Mid-fifties, married with children?” His blank stare riled me. “Think!” I yelled.

  The man startled. “Uh, no. Ali, you mean. He’s on hols—holiday. Back home.”

  “When is he expected back?”

  “He isn’t.”

  “I thought you said he was on holiday,” I said.

  “That’s what he called it. He phoned in one morning and said he was off to Pindi, or wherever his family is. Pakistan, I know. No notice, just gone in a flash. A sick relative or something. My dad owns this place. He wasn’t pleased, to put it mildly. And I don’t exactly relish standing here all day. What do you want with Ali?”

  I produced my warrant card. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “He in trouble?”

  “Did I say that?” Silence. “Want me to repeat that question too?”

  “Yeah, I know where he lives, unless they moved out, or something. It’s not far. Want me to write it down?”

  I did. He did. I stopped being shirty and thanked him.

  The house, a semi-detached on a side street, appeared shabby and unoccupied. Advertising circulars were strewn on the step. The curtains in the front window were drawn. The flowers and plants lining the front of the house, though, were tended and healthy. Somebody was seeing to them. I parked on the street a few houses down and walked back to the Rahman residence. The doorbell worked; I heard the ding-dong. No answer. I rang again without result.

  As I turned to walk back to the car, a noise came from the house, as if glass had shattered. Retracing my steps, I pounded on the door. In a second it flew open. Ahmed, disheveled, dirty, stood on the doorstep.

  “What?” he demanded. He looked shocked to see me.

  “Ahmed. Hello,” I said, trying to sound pleasant.

  “What do you want?” Another Greenland moment. Cold as ice.

  “I was nearby and wondered about Jabirah and Benazir. So I thought I would check on them.” A smile stayed on my face, set in stone.

  Ahmed stared. Finally, he spoke. “They are both fine, thank you. Now, I have to get back to sleep. I’m on the night shift now.”

  “Oh, okay. Sorry to have disturbed you,” I lied. “Jabirah is still in Pakistan? I had an email from her.”

  “Then you know. She’s not coming back, Detective Inspector.
She’s good where she is.”

  “I understand that. It’s just that she left so suddenly the boys and I were concerned. We miss her. We miss Benazir too, especially Ogueri.”

  “I’m here!” Benazir’s voice. Ahmed startled, then looked angry. He turned his head into the house. Benazir appeared behind him and came to the door.

  “Benazir!” I said. “It’s so good to see you!”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Tessa.” She extended her hand in my direction. I stepped forward to grasp it.

  “The boys would love to visit with you sometime,” I said. “We could come and take you to lunch or something. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds not possible,” said Ahmed.

  “Ahmed, there’s no reason to be rude,” Benazir said. “I’m sorry, Tessa. We had a sort of family emergency. I haven’t been getting out much.”

  “I heard,” I said. “Is everything okay now? Your aunt, I think Jabirah said? I hope she’s improved.”

  Benazir got tearful. “Oh, she is.” There was a bite in her response.

  “Good. Well the boys miss you, Benazir. I don’t want to be a bother, though. I know you must have better things to do.”

  She laughed, which seemed odd, inappropriate. “No, Tessa, I don’t. I would love to do that. I miss them too.”

  Ahmed grabbed Benazir by the elbow and yanked her back. Benazir struggled free, but Ahmed slammed the door in my face. I didn’t knock again.

  Shaken, I drove home. Something was wrong, but what? Had Jabirah been forced into marriage? Had she been forced to leave the UK? I had no evidence, other than her emails, but this silence made no sense. Jabirah wouldn’t simply fly to Pakistan without saying something. She was no longer a minor; legally, her parents could not force her onto a plane. Of course, I knew better. I was meddling in something I knew nothing about. Forced marriage might be illegal, but proving it was something different altogether.

  The next day I spoke on the phone both to Felicity James and her husband Clark. Mr. James hadn’t returned by the time Detective Cooley had finished his search and left their premises so this was his first time being interviewed. I asked them to use the video chat on their smartphone if they had one, which they did. I wanted to see their faces as we spoke. Both Mrs. and Mr. James confirmed that they’d never used the cyanide. Mrs. James insisted she hadn’t even known the can was there.