by Tim Hoy
There was no music. The wait wasn’t long.
“You sure you have the name right?” Jeff asked when he came back on the line.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, there’s a Jaleeza Rahman, at the same address, but she’s forty-two. She was on a PIA flight to Karachi almost exactly three months ago,” Jeff said.
“The mother,” I said.
“So Ali Rahman, fifty, same address, is Papa Bear?”
“Bingo.”
“That’s it,” Jeff said. “He was on the same flight from Heathrow as Mama. Maybe she used a Pakistani passport?”
“She might’ve, but I don’t think so. And if her parents traveled on British passports, why wouldn’t she do the same?” I asked.
“You’re sure she became a citizen?” Jeff asked back.
“She voted in the last election. I’m sure of that; we talked about it. She showed me that little sticker they give you.”
“I can check on the citizenship thing, but not right now. You can’t find her; is that it?” he said.
“I got an email from her. Or at least from somebody. Her phone’s switched off. Now, she doesn’t answer emails either.”
“Tessa, maybe she just doesn’t want to answer you. Is that possible?”
“No!” I said, too forcefully. “Sorry, no, that’s not possible.”
“Okay,” Jeff said, sounding skeptical. Maybe he had it right; maybe she closed that brief chapter in her life and didn’t want to turn back, even if the pages were happy ones.
“Thanks, Jeff. Really. I owe you big for both.”
“I know,” he replied and rang off.
For a minute I couldn’t move. Was this denial? I had only my own perspective on Jabirah, that and my son’s. We loved her, worried about her. Was it possible she didn’t feel the same about us? Of course. After all, she was my employee. It was never an equal relationship, was it? She came to us needing a job, needing money, and got both. I think she got a lot more out of our time together; I know Jonathan and I did. Still, maybe the warmth and affection was just her way. Love may not be for sale, but “like” sure is.
Ten minutes later, Jeff rang my mobile.
“She didn’t use a Pakistani passport either,” he said.
“You checked?”
“Mmmm,” said Jeff. “Jabirah Rahman neither entered nor left the UK in the past five years, at least not by legal means, as in trains and boats and planes.”
“Let me think aloud here. So if Jabirah didn’t travel with her parents to Pakistan and has no UK passport…”
“Or any other passport, at least not under the name you gave me,” Jeff added.
“Right,” I said.
“She’s still in the UK, Tessa. There’s no reason to smuggle someone out of the UK; unless she’s a very good swimmer, she’s here.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jeff.”
“Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing for you to worry about, though. I owe you a meal.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
“Nothing over £10.”
“Guess again. I’ll be in touch on the dual-citizen thing. Shouldn’t take long. Good-bye, Detective Inspector.”
My brain was overcharged. I felt aggrieved but more shocked. No doubt Jabirah was, and remained, a decent person; perhaps she didn’t want to upset Jonathan or me. Possibly she thought walking away was the best of some bad options. She went back to her world. She didn’t want to say good-bye. It might hurt too much. It might stop her from doing what she felt she must. Or what others told her she must. Once, Jabirah and I were having one of those meaty “state of our lives” talks. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, lamenting to her, “You’re not happy!” What I meant, of course, was I wanted her to be happy; I wished her happiness. She gave me a weary smile, sipped her tea, and replied, “To you people that’s the only question. It’s not, you know.” Leaving aside whom she meant by “you people,” I see that she was right in a way. She always had to consider her family’s “happiness,” too. It was a responsibility she never questioned.
Still, as I dwelled on it, the notion of Jabirah somewhere in Britain made me angry. She walked out of our life without warning, for what? Those weeks just after she left were hellish, what with the trial and error of finding her replacement, and the grieving, which we surely did. Part of me said to butt out; that I was meddling in something I didn’t know or understand. Another part of me felt as if I’d been dropped by a close friend without reason, without any precipitating words or fight. Jonathan and I would both get over her, but if Jabirah had been made to marry some man she neither knew nor loved, I didn’t think
I could stand it. I’d find out. I’d find out and, if necessary, try to set things right. Or, if she was truly satisfied with her new circumstances, I’d leave her alone. Even with the best of intentions, I didn’t need to make Jabirah’s life more difficult.
Tamir Hussein had kept the card I’d left him that day I stopped by to ask him about Freddy Hayworth. An email from him hit my inbox one workday morning. His family was expanding their restaurant empire, adding a new place. They were planning a party on the opening night. I was cordially invited. Immediately, I RSVP’d yes, and texted Sally to see if she could stay late one night the following week. I knew already that Ken would be flying then, so he wouldn’t be around to mind Jonathan.
The thought of Tamir made me smile. I decided I’d make a real effort that evening. Later in the week, I stepped out for lunch and headed by tube to Harvey Nicks, where my Barclays card suffered a new outfit, including shoes. The new Hussein restaurant was in Marylebone, in an old primary school that had been lavishly restored. There’d been an article about it in one of the dailies, with a photo of Tamir. He looked so good I found myself longing to see him again, even if only at a large party where he’d be the host and have little time for me.
I dusted off desire, tried it on again, and found it still fit.
Other than best wishes, what does one bring to a restaurant opening? Not food, surely, nor wine. Flowers seemed appropriate. I knew just where to go, a shop not far from the restaurant: Sandra James’s establishment in Duke Street. She was behind the counter finishing an arrangement as I entered and approached.
“How beautiful,” I said.
Sandra looked up, smiling, but quickly turned wary when she saw it was I offering praise. It was the sort of reaction I expected after showing my warrant card, not before.
“Can I help you?” she asked, as if she’d rather not.
“I’d like some flowers for a party tonight.”
At first she didn’t answer, then she said, “Seriously?”
“I’m not sure what that means, but yes, seriously. A friend is opening a new restaurant.”
“I know who you are. I looked you up online after Molly rang me in tears. If you think my sister’s a killer you are seriously delusional.”
“Look, I think you’re right. You understand it’s my job—”
“To attack people like that? And then you pay a visit to my parents and scare the shit out of them? I think I can do without your business, Detective Inspector—that’s your title, right?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I really did come here to buy flowers. I didn’t intentionally upset your sister or your parents, but somebody killed Frederick Hayworth, Ms. James. It wasn’t suicide.”
Sandra put down the scissors in her hand. She sighed and said, “Okay, I’m sorry. This is all very upsetting, you know?”
“I do,” I said.
“And you know what a prick Freddy Hayworth was?”
“I’ve been told,” I said.
“More than once, I bet. There’s a long list of people with a good motive on this one.”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘
good’ motive for murder, Ms. James.”
“You’re right,” she said. She seemed to be assessing my statement. “You are. It’s just that most of my family got taken in by that man, at some point.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My parents met him too. My mother was swooning when she rang and told me.”
“When was this?”
“God, maybe a year and a half ago? He was up there with some of his mates on a bike trip, I think it was. They stopped by the house. This was when he was seeing Molly. Mum and Dad gave them lunch, I remember. Five of them. Mum called them the three musketeers plus two. All in loud Lycra, you know, with the names of French banks or something on their shirts? Ridiculous.”
I laughed. So did Sandra.
“Mum loved it. Then again, she doesn’t get out much.”
“She didn’t mention it to me.”
“Did you ask her?” Sandra said.
I hadn’t. Why would I? Better yet, why wouldn’t I? Stupid of me.
“Not yet,” I said.
“She’ll have the details,” Sandra said. “Dad too. He was there.”
“Thanks. So, uh, flowers?” I asked.
“You didn’t pick up on what I said; most of my family liked him,” Sandra said.
Oh. “You too?” I asked.
She nodded. “My sister doesn’t know. It was just once. I’m ashamed of myself.”
I softened. “Aren’t we all ashamed of ourselves at some point? God knows, I have been. But since you said that, I think I should tell you that Mr. Hayworth had a habit of filming himself having sex with women and sharing the footage.”
She startled, then relaxed. “Sounds like something he’d do.”
“You might be…” I started.
Sandra shook her head. “Trust me, it was one time. We slipped into a pantry at a mutual friend’s party. Left the light off. He definitely didn’t plan it. Wish I could say the same.”
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “you’ve nothing on me.” Sandra blushed, brushed off her smock, which didn’t need it, and smiled. “Now,” I added. “Flowers.”
“Of course. Something special.”
“Exactly. Leaving a good impression. On a very handsome man. Handsome and, I strongly suspect, good.”
We both laughed. I left with a dozen white roses tied with a red velvet ribbon. And the intent to return should I ever need so much as a poppy.
When I arrived, Tamir’s party was in full swing. There was even a red carpet out front with photographers snapping those invited, at least the celebrities. They ignored me. I hurried past the flutter into a beautiful room of happy people and mellow music. It took a few minutes to find Tamir, but when I did I handed him the flowers and took a kiss on the cheek. He stepped to a cupboard, pulled out a vase, filled it with my gift and placed it on the bar. His other hand held a magnum of champagne. From a hovering waiter, Tamir grabbed a couple of flutes off a tray. He poured me a glass, then one for himself.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said.
“Thank you for inviting me. It’s lovely, Tamir. Good for you.”
“It’s going to be crazy busy tonight, but this Sunday it will be just me. Can you come back? Dinner? You’ll get a feel for the place as it should be seen. It turned out well, I think,” he said with deserved pride.
“I have to discuss it with my six-year-old son, but I’m going to try.” I said.
“Bring him along!” No hesitation on his part, which meant a great deal to me.
“Maybe some other time. I like the idea of just us two,” I said, me being bold.
“So do I.” Tamir hugged me and kissed my cheek again. We didn’t speak the rest of the evening. We didn’t need to. Uber got me home—me and the grin on my face.
“They got a train to Sheffield and cycled here, rode here, whatever you call it,” Clark James said when I rang him back the next morning. He’d left a message. He’d remembered something, he said on the voicemail, something that could be important, or maybe not. That, he said, was for me to judge. “I remember the day before had been Felicity’s birthday. She’d made herself a lemon cake. Those boys—young men, rather—devoured what was left of it. Not that we minded.”
“Do you remember the names of his friends?” I asked.
“One I do. Mungo. How could I forget that?”
“And the other or others? How many were there?”
“Total of five. All fighting fit. As for names, though, I’ll ask the wife, but I can’t recall. I’d know them if I saw them, though,” he said. “Hold on.”
In under a minute Mr. James came back on. “One was tall, she said, which is right. Glenn, maybe? Nice looking; they all were. Talked posh, but real friendly.”
“Greg? He’s an artist?”
Clark thought out loud. “Don’t remember, sorry. If you have a photo could you text it to us?”
“I will. The other?”
“Not as tall. Friendly. Talkative, I remember,” he said, perplexed. “Do you think one of them took the poison? Is that what this is about?”
“Did you discuss your cat with them?”
He laughed. “Back to Bootsy, are we?” he said. “I did. That’s what I remembered. We found a dead bird by the greenhouse that day. What it died from I have no idea, but I saw it when we showed the boys around—young men.”
“Boys fits.” Catty—which seemed fitting given the subject matter—but true.
“They were poking about the place, this way and that,” Clark said. “One even took a shower! It’s quite a treat seeing all the flowers in the greenhouse for the first time. They were all suitably impressed. When we saw the bird carcass, one of them said as a lad his dog had died. It was old age, but he found the thing and he still remembered how upset he was. Its time was up, he said.”
“So you told them about your cat,” I said.
“Right. And the cyanide. He said something like ‘Nasty stuff, cyanide.’ ”
“Do you remember which one?”
“I think it was the tall one. Whatever you said his name was. Text his photo if you can. I know I said we never used the poison again after Bootsy died. And one of them—the same one—said how do you get rid of cyanide? You don’t just pitch it in the rubbish, do you? I said I had no idea what happened to it. I hoped my parents had binned it long ago. He said let’s hope so, or something; it’s not the kind of thing one wants lying around. I remember that; he said ‘one wants,’ not ‘you’d want,’ you know? We don’t talk like that hereabouts. To the manner born, like.”
“Anything else?”
“They were just starting their trip, Detective Inspector. Who would want to ride through the countryside with cyanide in their backpack?”
“Which of them had a backpack? Do you remember?”
“Oh, all of them, I think. They were on a bike trip, you know?”
“What makes you think one of them didn’t pay you another visit?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Clark said, sounding skeptical. “I suppose that’s possible. This place isn’t exactly Fort Knox.”
* * *
—
The only member of the Rahman family who’d speak with me was Benazir. The problem was getting to her. She lived with Ahmed, who wouldn’t take kindly to me showing up at their door. Assuming she was still a keen reader, the local branch public library might work, but how was I to know when Benazir would pay a visit? And even if I somehow figured that out, how would she get there? It was over a mile from their home, so walking was out. Public transport made sense, but it was more likely Ahmed would drive her there. I recalled that Benazir had been attending school while Jabirah worked at Potential House, but Benazir had to be sixteen by now. At that age, she could have left school, as Ahmed had. Even if she had not, I had no idea wha
t school she’d been going to. The challenge was finding a way to talk to Benazir without Ahmed breathing down our necks. It was simple enough to learn that Ahmed still worked at Heathrow. At some point during the day or night he would have to leave the house in Kilburn and go do his job. He’d mentioned working nights; I could easily park down the street one evening and wait for him to leave.
I took a morning off work, drove to Kilburn and stopped round the corner from the Rahman home. Being there on what would likely be a futile task was frustrating. If I had free time to spend like this, wouldn’t it be better spent with my son? But I wouldn’t let Jabirah go. So I waited. Forty minutes later the front door opened. Benazir, gripping a white cane, walked out, leaving the door open. Seconds later, Ahmed followed. They got into his car and drove off. I stuck a hat on my head, dark glasses on my face, and followed.
Benazir got out at a school not far away. She knew the place; it was obvious in the way she approached the building, walking confidently, without hesitation, her cane not much needed. Two girls probably her age greeted Benazir at the door. She returned their hellos, but without the smile the others wore. It wouldn’t suit for me to enter the school, present my ID, and have Benazir yanked out of class for a chat with a cop. She didn’t need more attention drawn to her. She didn’t need Ahmed hearing the police had questioned her. Instead, after classes had started for the day, I entered the building and found the headmaster’s office.
“Excuse me,” I said, addressing the woman behind the desk, likely the headmaster’s assistant.
“Yes?” she said.
I showed her my warrant card. “Could you please tell me what time classes break for lunch?”
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Not with any of your students. I’d like to speak with one about a family member, and I’d like to do so without her classmates knowing. The student is Benazir Rahman.”
She looked me over, stood up, and walked to the door behind her.
“Give me a moment, please,” she said. She opened the door and closed it behind her, leaving me alone.