by Tim Hoy
“Then what happened to her?”
More tears came. “I’m worried they did something to her. Her family.”
“Did what, Tessa? Be specific,” Vernon said.
“I’m so afraid they killed her.” Tears dripped down my face.
“My God. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I very much hope I’m wrong, sir.”
“Me too, Tessa.” Vernon’s gaze softened. “We didn’t have this conversation, okay? Do what you have to do. Just don’t take forever doing it.”
I stood and babbled, “Thank you, sir.” I turned to the door.
“But don’t ignore your other work, okay? If it’s too much, we can juggle things around, for a week or two, at least.”
It came to my attention that the chief inspector did have a heart after all.
Peter Lazarus pored over credit card and bank statements for Kenroy, Shafer, Kramer, and Colfax. There were items of interest. Mungo Kenroy had bought petrol in Sheffield nine months before, putting him in the vicinity of the James homestead at least once in the past year. The problem was, not a month later, Greg Shafer spent a weekend in Huddersfield. David Colfax had traveled from King’s Cross to Waverly Station, Edinburgh, three times in the previous year, twice after the boys’ summer bike trip. He could have gotten off the train in Sheffield, helped himself to some of the poison stashed at the James’s, and caught the next train. That, or forfeited his ticket on to Edinburgh and returned to London by other means, using cash to leave no trail. He most likely took a bus; they were cheap and plentiful. I couldn’t see Colfax with a thumb stuck out for a ride. And if he had murderous intentions, he’d know better; a hitchhiking dandy like David Colfax would stick out like one of his manicured nails. Nothing Peter found helped winnow the field of suspects. And that field wasn’t so sparse; it wasn’t just the boys. Of course, Peter still wasn’t certain there even were suspects, other than Freddy Hayworth himself. Despite that, he worked the case without grousing, mostly as a show of support for me. Bless him. In doing so, he gave me time to work our missing person matter.
“That artist guy whose work you liked?” Peter started. “Who’s to say he didn’t nab some cyanide at that print-making studio you checked out?”
“The owner, for one. Access is restricted,” I said.
“Do those restrictions include CCTV on the area where they make the paper?”
“Nope.”
“Great,” Peter said with a moan. “And what about all these women he had his way with? How long is that damn list?”
“Long enough,” I replied. “I don’t think it happened that way.”
“You don’t think?” Peter said. “Says you and who else? Sometimes you think too much, my friend.”
“Look, Peter, this wasn’t someone acting in a fit of passion; this was planned out. This was textbook calculation. Think about it. If one of his female former friends wanted to kill him, why the hell wouldn’t they run him over or push him down a set of stairs? This wasn’t anger, Peter; it was hatred. There’s a difference.”
“They didn’t run him over because they didn’t want to be caught.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so,” I said.
“Good luck proving it.”
“At least I’m going to try. Give me credit for that,” I said.
Peter looked me over. “You know what? I do, Tessa. I really do.”
I smiled at that. First time in days.
“You were in Sheffield on May bank holiday weekend last year,” I said to Mungo Kenroy. We were assembled again in his office. The third time there was not a charm. No tea on offer, nary a smile.
“If you say so.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Was I there? Jesus, I don’t even remember…hold on, yes, I do. A wedding. A colleague here tied the knot up there. It rained the entire time, from what I recall.” Kenroy mused silently a moment, then pounced. “Why? I can prove it, by the way.”
“Were you alone?” I asked.
“I attended the wedding alone. I drove there alone. Let’s get back to my question. Why?”
“I’m the one asking the questions,” I said.
“Think again, Detective Inspector. You’re in my office, uninvited. I’ve been charged with, what? Nothing, right? If I’ve got questions, I’ll damn well ask them.”
“Okay, why am I asking of your whereabouts? Sheffield is near the Jameses’ homestead, remember? Molly’s parents?”
“Now that you mention it, I do indeed. What of it, Inspector?” Mungo asked.
“Detective Inspector.”
“Whatever. I was among friends all weekend, including all night the one night I spent up there. Keeping warm with a colleague from our Paris office.”
“Can I get her name? Or his,” I asked. Kenroy didn’t have a sense of humor, apparently, at least not about his sexual proclivities.
“Please. Her name is Claudette. I’ll get you her contact information. Please try being discreet, if that’s at all possible. She’s married with children.”
No comment from me. He forwarded me the woman’s LinkedIn profile.
“I know you have to ask these questions, Detective Inspector, but you’re barking up the wrong elm.”
“My bark and my bite are both pretty bad, Mr. Kenroy. Try to remember that.” I stood and walked to his office door, which I slammed as I left.
David Colfax seemed nonplussed by my unexpected arrival at Colfax & Goodyear. No warm greeting this time.
“Official business?’ he asked.
I nodded.
“Is there news about Freddy?”
“Not yet. You traveled by train to Scotland a number of times last year,” I said. “Was that for business?”
“Estate sales. Two. One required a return journey. Why do you ask?”
“Did you make any stopovers coming or going from Edinburgh?” I asked.
He thought about it, and then said, “No. I had no reason to. I’m not following your line of reasoning, Detective Inspector.”
“I’m not sure I am either.” I gazed around the shop a moment. My memory might have been hazy, but I was certain he’d added more pickings from the blue bloods, finds from stately home estate sales no doubt, new chairs, new screens, a painting or two. Then again, he would have; Colfax bought things to sell. That was the business: in with the new, out with the old, always at a healthy markup.
“Okay. Now what?” he asked.
I kept looking around. Let him wait for me to respond. Eventually, my attention turned to him. “I’m sorry to have taken your time, David.”
“Please. I want to help.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Sure you couldn’t use a cup of tea in my office? There’s a good whisky too.”
“I really can’t,” I said. “Sorry.”
He forced a smile and nodded. I took my exit.
I walked back to Sloane Square to catch the tube. The futility of these questions weighed on me. How did I, or anyone, get from A to B in the matter of the untimely demise of Frederick Hayworth? If he was indeed murdered, the hurdles that needed jumping to reach the truth were very high indeed. Think of it: Alibis, usually so important in a criminal investigation, were here not a factor. While we could determine a time of death, we couldn’t determine a time of murder, or the precise act causing the murder. The crime could have been committed days, weeks, or even months prior to Hayworth’s sudden death. So checking the whereabouts of anyone under suspicion didn’t much help, at least not in relation to a given time or date.
Another issue was access. We had two possible sources of cyanide. There could be more. Only one in that parade of women and friends Freddy climbed on and over needed access to poison. How would we ever know of them all? How would we get to that one person who bor
e a grudge in such a deadly way? If, of course, it was only one person.
My money remained on Freddy’s friends. He controlled them, hijacked their women, bullied them; at times he played them like puppets, even if they couldn’t or wouldn’t see it themselves. Their bond was tight, but oh so oppressive. Too many relationships are. Solitude can be a wonderful thing. I know. Freddy’s clique was little more than a street gang in suits and ties. Those ensnared in such groupings weigh the benefits and burdens for themselves, of course, too often clouded by fear of what life would be like set adrift, without that strong link that has come to define their life. Outsiders might see the malice of the bonding, while those living it are often blind, or choose to be. Not belonging can feel worse than the grimmest of alternatives.
And then there were the sex videos. Freddy was the enthusiast. I suspect he loved watching himself as much as the woman or women he was with. Did Mungo go along willingly? Did the others? David Colfax appeared truly ignorant of the game. Was Scott Kramer? Greg Shafer? I didn’t know, but I needed to find out. And if they too were in on the game, on the sex videos, did one of them finally have enough? If so, wouldn’t that be a motive for ending the antics of Freddy Hayworth?
My son lightened the burden in one respect. It was Jonathan who planned and mostly executed our farewell party for the Obinnas. I left the decisions up to him, although I vetoed the clown. For now at least, our upstairs neighbors were headed back to Lagos. Our happy Potential House fraternity would shrink by three. Our lives, Jonathan and mine—and even Ken Larson’s by now, I believed—would be much poorer with their absence. I’d done nothing to replace them on the second floor. There’s a word for it: denial. I would always be proud of the crowd we assembled in Hamilton Gardens. Jonathan knew just who to invite to the dinner we would give them.
“Too bad Jabirah isn’t here to cook,” my son said. “No offense, Mum.”
“None taken.” I smiled.
“Will we ever see her again?” he asked. “She’s been gone forever.”
“Jabirah? I hope so. And it’s only been a few months, Jonathan, but I miss her.”
“Me too.”
That night, there were eleven of us. The food wasn’t fancy. Neither were we. It was delicious, however, because I had it catered from a Yoruban restaurant I knew Ben loved. We had celebrated his birthday there two years in a row. Tamir Hussein had offered to provide the meal, but I told him his presence was all that was required. I looked forward to having him there as much as anything. The Nyes—Gerald, Sybill, and the still rambunctious Miles, now nine—were invited but couldn’t come. Miles, just three years Jonathan’s senior, hadn’t become a close friend of Ogueri or my son, but he had proven a great resource on the latest in high-tech gadgetry for Ogueri. I’d contacted Miles more than once for birthday or Christmas gift ideas.
The evening was pretty much perfect, save for the departure, the very next day, of the Obinnas. Tamir was a hit. He stayed and helped me clean up.
“I could do the rest in the morning,” I said.
“Are you saying it’s time for me to go?”
“Quite the contrary.” He kissed me. I liked it. We continued.
“We’ll get there, Ms. Grantley, but not tonight,” he said.
“Oh, okay. Is everything okay?” I asked.
“It is. Which is why I’m going home tonight.”
“Am I rushing you?”
“No, Tessa, you’re not,” Tamir said, and kissed me again.
Not long after, he departed, leaving me a little embarrassed and a lot happy. And what was there for me to blush about? I wanted to take Tamir to bed; what was wrong with that? Had the roles been reversed I suspect I’d have been much more frustrated than embarrassed. To hell with that. When Tamir texted me the next morning to thank me for “a lovely evening,” I replied suitably—and circumspectly. He added this: “Are you free Friday night? On the late side I’m afraid, but I’d love to see you.” I accepted and thought what a nice way to start the day. Until seconds later when I remembered why I even had the dinner party the night before.
Forlorn, Jonathan and I stood on the street in front of Potential House and saw off the Obinnas. I’d hired a regal limo to drive them to Heathrow. They had lots of luggage but had, they said, been careful about the weight restrictions. Excess baggage fees were not in their budget. Ogueri cried as they walked to the waiting car, which was already loaded with their lives. Little Ogueri had barely known a place other than our corner of London. And when he came to us, he could still see. So even though he was only a child, his visual memories would end with us. How overwhelming this move to another continent, another world, would be for him.
“Bye, Ogueri,” Jonathan said. My son didn’t cry, but he sure looked sad.
Ogueri, following Jonathan’s voice, walked over and hugged him. That’s when I began to cry. We all hugged and swore to stay in touch.
Chika took a last look in the car boot to make certain everything was there. She reached in and retrieved a basketball, which she brought to Jonathan.
“Jonathan, thank you so much for the ball, but we just have too many things,” Chika said, handing the basketball to my son. “You keep this. Get real good. I know you will! We’ll see you on TV playing for the Lakers!”
“That seems unlikely,” Jonathan said, in the tone of a weary fifty-six-year-old.
As they drove off, I held Jonathan’s hand.
“I didn’t know you even owned a basketball, Jonathan.”
“It was a gift. But we don’t have a hoop anyway.”
“A gift from who?” I asked.
“Andy,” he said.
“Remind me who Andy is?”
“The guy at school. He cleans up. He’s very nice.”
“He talks to you?” I asked. I didn’t like this.
“Sure. We’re friends.”
“You’re friends with one of the cleaners at school?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Jonathan asked.
Let me count the ways. I gripped Jonathan’s hand more tightly.
“Mum! That hurts.”
It did indeed. Me more than him. If there was one person I could protect, would make certain to protect—I was holding his hand.
Ms. Gupta, the headmistress of Jonathan’s school, didn’t know what hit her. She had arrived forty-five minutes prior to the start of classes. I was already parked down the street, crouched, ready to pounce. Things were quiet until I ran up to her. She didn’t see me coming. I frightened her.
“Ms. Grantley, whatever is the matter?” asked Ms. Gupta.
“Who is Andy?” I yelled.
“Andy? There’s no one here by that name,” she said.
“The hell there isn’t.”
“What is wrong with you today, Ms. Grantley? I know of no Andy.”
“One of your cleaners, his name is Andy, gave my son a basketball. Are you saying you knew nothing about this?” I asked.
“I have no idea who the individual janitors are; they’re sent by the company that has the contract. They’re all vetted. That I do know,” she said.
“Vetted by who? You have adults here with these small children you don’t even know?”
“As I told you, they’re rarely here during the school day, Ms. Grantley,” said Ms. Gupta.
“Rarely isn’t never,” I said. Other adults were entering the school in anticipation of the children’s arrival. They threw us anxious looks. I let them.
“So some man named Andy made friends with my son, Ms. Gupta, gave him gifts—”
“A basketball,” she interjected.
“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” You could have heard me down the street and around the corner.
“You’re talking about Andy? I know Andy,” said another woman entering the building. “Can I help?”
“Ms. Grantley is Jonathan Hanay’s mother. This is Patricia Carrolton,” Ms. Gupta said to me. “She is one of our teachers.”
“I love working with Jonathan,” Ms. Carrolton said. “He’s a wonderful boy.”
“Thank you,” I said. “About this Andy.”
Ms. Carrolton pulled her mobile from a coat pocket. “I may even have a photo of him. He was there during one of the children’s birthday parties last month. We gave him a piece of cake.”
“But you don’t know him either,” I said to Ms. Carrolton.
“Yes and no. I occasionally see him here. He couldn’t be nicer,” Ms. Carrolton said, as she swiped her finger across the phone screen scanning for the right photo. “Here.” She handed me her phone. “It’s not very good, but that’s Andy.”
The photograph showed a group of children, Jonathan included, enjoying cake. Smiles all around. In the background were two adult women, both teachers I recognized, and beside one of them stood a tall white man of solid build. “He must have moved just as I took the picture,” Ms. Carrolton said. His face was turned away and obscured by a mop of straight brown hair that touched his shoulders.
“This tells me nothing,” I said, handing the phone back to Ms. Carrolton.
“Ms. Grantley is with the Metropolitan Police, Ms. Carrolton,” Ms. Gupta said. “A detective inspector, isn’t that right?”
I nodded.
“You don’t suspect him of anything, do you?” said Ms. Carrolton. “I can’t imagine. He had an accent, eastern European, I think. Very soft-spoken. Always kind. He tried to stay out of the way. I only met him a few times.”
Jonathan had told me that morning that the “nice man” who’d given him the basketball “spoke like someone on television.” To my son that would mean an American, or perhaps an Australian. Not eastern European surely. Or maybe I wasn’t fully aware of Jonathan’s viewing habits.
“When do you next expect him?” I asked her.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea,” Ms. Gupta said. “The cleaning staff changes quite often, although it’s the same company.”