by Tim Hoy
“You know as well as I do Freddy wouldn’t do this!” the mother said.
“I don’t know a damn thing, dear,” replied the father. “Now please, get in. You’re causing a scene.”
“I’m causing a scene?” she thundered. “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
She slid into the car, but not without a gentle push from her daughter, who eyed her brother and rolled her eyes. Surprisingly or not, no one was crying.
The spectacle returned to my mind more than once during the following week. I had every reason to pity poor Mother Hayworth. Imagine losing a child! Nevertheless, there was little reason to believe her protestations of Freddy’s innocence. Mrs. Hayworth hadn’t seen her son dead in his flat, reposing on the bathroom tile. It wasn’t a pretty way to go. And, yes, it continued to strike me as an odd way to leave this world.
The very next weekend, elements again aligned, I found myself driving to Essex once more, after first ringing the Hayworth home in Elstree to ask if I might stop by for a few words. I was wondering why this woman was so convinced her son wasn’t suicidal. Her perspective, of course, would be shrouded in motherly love. I know I was moved by her sheer determination, her insistence. I wondered if I’d feel the same should something ever happen to Jonathan. Hell yes I would, had I not already thrown myself off a cliff in grief. The other thing was this: I wanted to figure out why Freddy Hayworth wanted to die. We were close in age, in the same city, but worlds apart. There must be a reason, right? Had he been caught stealing company money? That, I’d seen before. Had he downloaded child porn?
I also wondered where Hayworth had gotten cyanide. After all, it isn’t readily available in the corner chemist’s. It’s strictly regulated. Even though this was my job, I felt as if I was watching some investigative report on tabloid TV or picking up a copy of Hello! in the supermarket checkout line. And wanting more…
I made the Hayworth family trip alone. I’d toyed with the idea of asking Peter to ride along, but he had his boy and girl that weekend, a happy event that occurred less and less, now that his ex had decamped to Manchester with her Pilates-instructing Peter replacement. Anyone who thought DI Lazarus was a cold, hard son-of-something had never heard him gush about those kids. He was a good father; he just didn’t get many chances of late to prove it. Let him be, I commanded myself. Admittedly, Peter didn’t share my fascination with the demise of Freddy Hayworth, despite our being assigned the case. “We have enough things to worry about,” he said, “without having to make work for ourselves.”
Freddy Hayworth’s parents lived well, if not opulently, on a verdant street in the better part of a mundane town. Unusually, my visit was set for Sunday afternoon, as the surviving children, Emma and Luke, would be there for a family lunch. Sofia, the Italian-born mother, was cooking and invited me to join. Surely I wouldn’t be up to making a roast and veg less than a month—or decade—after my son had died, but perhaps Mrs. Hayworth found solace in routine, or in bringing together her remaining family for the comfort of home-cooked food. I declined the offer to partake in their meal, timing my arrival for when I hoped they would have finished.
After introductions, we sat as a group in what Sofia referred to as the salotto.
“Meaning parlor,” Luke explained, as he rolled his eyes.
Emma was the eldest of the children. Somehow, the mix that had combined so fortuitously in her late younger brother didn’t blend for her in such a winning way. Emma was tall, uncomfortable in her body, the curves got wrong. She’d missed out in the optical department as well. Her eyes were beady, shielded with bottle glasses. Luke, the younger son, didn’t share his siblings’ height, which he made up for horizontally. His was not a jolly fat. The father, having flown in from Dubai where he was on secondment from his multinational accountancy firm, had little to say. Sadness, of course, underlined our meeting. Sofia cried a bit, not joined by the others. Luke brought in a tea tray; Sofia poured.
Father Edward asked, “How may we help you today?”
“Please let me express my condolences for your loss,” I said. “As you know, the cause of death was determined to be death by cyanide poisoning.”
“Like something out of an Agatha Christie,” Emma said.
“Do any of you know where Frederick might have obtained cyanide?”
“Hold on now, what makes you think our son ‘obtained’ anything?” asked Edward.
“Your question assumes Freddy poisoned himself, and that, I can tell you, is not possible,” said Sofia. Her sentence rode that melodious wave one hears with pleasure when Italians speak their native tongue.
“Mum’s right; there’s no way,” said Luke.
“I must say I agree,” said Emma.
“He had everything, my Frederick. It didn’t happen that way, Detective Inspector,” Sofia added.
“The problem we have is the circumstances,” I said. Gently. “He was alone at the time of death. We’ve been unable to find any trace of the poison in his flat. Freddy clearly looked after himself. We checked his stock of supplements, and found nothing. So we’re…at a loss—”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he killed himself,” Emma interrupted. “Look, Inspector…”
“Detective Inspector,” said Luke.
“Detective Inspector. My brother would never think the world would be better off without him,” Emma added.
“I second that,” Luke agreed. “I haven’t—hadn’t spoken with him in nearly two years, but unless he’s changed radically, suddenly became nice or something, I can’t imagine Freddy killing himself.”
“You two were always too hard on him,” Sofia said.
“You have to be fucking kidding, Mother,” Emma replied.
Mr. Hayworth gave his wife a weary glance then turned to me. “He wasn’t perfect, Detective Inspector Grantley. Bullied some of his classmates as a lad, which didn’t sit well with the school or some of the parents, got caught cheating on an exam, which binned his Oxbridge plans.”
“He did well at university,” Mrs. Hayworth insisted, not pleased with her husband’s candor. “Loughborough. An excellent school.”
Mr. Hayworth resumed. “When he finally got there. He had lots of girlfriends because he could, I suppose. He kept running through them. The general impression was that he was selfish, self-centered. And you know what? He was.”
“He’s dead, Charles, and he’s your son—was your son. Don’t speak ill of him, dammit,” said the missus.
“Darling, honesty is only going to help find whoever did this to Freddy.”
“So he didn’t always leave a good impression,” I commented.
“Yes, he did,” Sofia insisted, countered immediately by her husband.
“No, I’m sad to say, he did not. I loved him, though,” Mr. Hayworth said. His voice trembled. “That I did.” Lovingly, his wife embraced him.
Emma started to cry. “Please don’t think I’m not sorry he’s gone.” She looked at me when she spoke. “I didn’t always like him, but he was still my brother. I loved him too.”
“Are you looking for the killer, Detective Inspector?” Sofia asked.
“We are looking for the source of the poison. Finding it will sort out the issue of who provided it to your son. In turn, that should answer the question of what crime was committed.”
“Meaning?” asked Mr. Hayworth.
“Murder is surely a crime, Mr. Hayworth. So is suicide.”
“I must say I worry that your line of inquiry could detract from finding who killed our son,” he replied. “You’ll be checking chemists while the bastard who did this is on a flight to Bali.”
The conversation threw me. Loved ones were blind to the faults of those they loved, right? Still, this was a family united, and all of them thought murder. “If any of you have a better idea, I’m all ears,” I said. “If no one thinks he could
have done this to himself, who could have? Who had motive? Who had opportunity? And where were they? Nowhere near the place of death. Think about it.”
The Hayworth family members looked at each other, offering no response.
“Thank you,” said Luke.
“I assure you we will be speaking with your son’s friends, co-workers, anyone we can so that we may figure out how this tragedy occurred,” I said. “All of you could help by providing me with names and contact information for anyone you think possibly relevant. Your help is vital to us.” Until that moment, I’d no such plans. Neither did anyone else at the Met. What would be the point? There was a point, though, if I could cut through my cynicism and listen to these people. Doing so wouldn’t cost me much, after all, and it might change the lives of Freddy Hayworth’s survivors.
They named names, including a string of past girlfriends. I took them down. The list went back years, pre-university. None of the Hayworths knew of any physical or mental issues, but they did provide names of doctors who had treated Freddy over the years. An hour after arriving, I was driving back to London. I had a page of people to see, but that could wait.
Jonathan wanted pizza, with “lots of cheese,” meaning he wanted a half pound of melted mozzarella on a hard crust, with but a trace of tomato sauce. I wanted a Sunday walk in the park with my boy. Then and there, that was my list of things to do.
Something I read online defined “enucleation” as “the removal of the eye that leaves the extraocular muscles and remaining orbital content intact.” The word sounded to me as if it had to do with atomic reactors. How odd it was to find the surgical gouging out of an eyeball promising, but it was, in a last hope sort of way. It would give four-year-old Ogueri a chance of survival. The Monday after my tenant’s farewell party, the Obinnas had little Ogueri at the doctor, who wasted no time diagnosing retinoblastoma in both eyes.
Chika and Ben did fierce battle with this scourge. They were my heroes. Relentlessly, they searched for the best doctors and latest treatments. Finally, options exhausted, they arrived at that woeful word. I remember looking up enucleation the night they first used it, exhaustion scoring their faces. Ogueri’s left eye was to be removed, the tumor too severe, too resistant to chemo, cryotherapy, anything. The right eye would be saved, but it had been compromised by the disease. It appeared to be cancer-free but wasn’t of much use anymore. Beautiful little Ogueri was able to discern bright light and some colors, but little more.
That next weekend I googled “blind-proofing” and printed out what seemed the best, most relevant recommendations. Over the next few weeks I followed guidelines for making a dwelling safer for a sightless child or one with limited vision. Texture was important; sharp edges needed smoothing. The carpet on the stairs was replaced with padding and a thicker weave, so the inevitable trips might not hurt as much. Jabirah suggested a second, child-sized railing on the stairs, which was quickly installed. Ogueri’s room got a wall of shelves with nooks for storing things. He could choose where to stow something and know where to go the next time he wanted it. The Obinnas insisted on paying for these modifications, but that wasn’t going to happen. They struggled enough with the punishing cost of London. I didn’t. The improvements, I explained, were no more than general upkeep to maintain the value of my investment. A lie, perhaps, but one I could live with, and so could they. Kindness vanquished pride. I altered parts of my flat as well, for I wanted the Obinnas always to feel welcome and safe in my home.
During the “amendments,” as we called them, I ended up with a sprained wrist. I told everyone I’d tripped, which was true. I left out that I’d done so one sleepless night as I walked around the flat in the dark, my eyes closed, to gain some kind of empathy for Ogueri’s situation. So I knew what it was like to fall over a forgotten ottoman. And I had at least some sense of what a life in darkness could be. It could hurt.
A second search of Hayworth’s flat again found no trace of cyanide. The orange juice he’d been drinking was one-hundred-percent pure. All pills and powders were clean. We knew Freddy Hayworth had been poisoned; we just didn’t know how. If it was suicide, it hadn’t been planned for long. Hayworth had booked a holiday on Sardinia with some friends, including a Scott Kramer. Scheduled for the next month, the flight and hotel were already paid for.
After a lunch briefing I took the tube to St. Paul’s. A brief walk brought me to a subdued Mr. Kramer in his City office, where he brokered stocks and, no doubt, voted Conservative.
“I hadn’t seen him in over a week, but we texted a lot,” he said.
“How long had you known Mr. Hayworth?”
“Nearly twenty years. We were mates at school. Marlborough. I’m absolutely stunned by this. Stunned.”
Kramer was tall and posh, doubtless partial to bespoke suits, club ties. He was handsomely groomed, and like Hayworth, unmarried. Behind his ordered desk, the top of the credenza was littered with framed photos of the good life, hale family and friends, including one of Hayworth, Kramer, and three other young men, all in shorts, shirtless and smiling in front of a beach cabana somewhere. Buff Hayworth stood in the center, the others looking at him as if in adulation. Hayworth looked confident. Mr. Kramer watched me eye the photo. He handed it to me.
“Thailand. Must be four…no, five years ago,” he said.
I pulled out my mobile and snapped a photo of the photo. Then I handed the photo back to him. He held it and took a considered look, something he’d possibly not done much in those five years. “He could be a pain in the ass. Got a lot better when he went into therapy, though. Maybe he was on meds too; I don’t know. The ladies loved him, at least in small doses. So did I.” Tears formed in his eyes.
“Therapy for what?” I asked.
“He never said; I just knew he was going. He was definitely OCD—obsessive-compulsive. Rules and rituals, you know? Rigid, germophobic, didn’t much like to shake hands, although he’d never admit it. Had to eat the same breakfast every day or he’d fret. It was bad in school. We roomed together one year, and it nearly killed both of us. Wouldn’t allow me to open the window at night because bugs might get in, that sort of thing. Had to double-check that he’d locked the door even when I saw him doing it the first time. His relationships rarely lasted more than a few months; once a girl got used to how, well, good-looking he was, they’d start seeing how neurotic he was as well. Eventually the scales tipped, you know? Then the girls would skedaddle.”
“No relationship at the moment that you knew of?” I said.
Kramer shook his head. “Last one was a few months ago, I think. Molly something. Met her once. Spectacular-looking, but that iceberg the Titanic hit had nothing on her. Sorry.”
“Not at all. Do you know her surname? Maybe a contact number?”
Kramer turned to his keyboard.
“I’ll check my emails,” he said, which took only seconds. “Molly James. This is from late last year. Yeah, when they first met. He was smitten. She worked for a bank, but I have no clue which one. You want me to forward this to you? Print it out?”
“Whatever’s easiest. Thank you,” I said.
“He loved his job and was doing well, I think. Seemed to have things under control. Who the hell would want to kill him?” He handed me the printed email. “And, no, I don’t buy the suicide theory. I know there’s no evidence of foul play, or whatever you call it, but still.”
“You really don’t think he could have done it himself?” I asked.
“No way. He bought his flat only eight or so months ago. I know he was completely jazzed about our trip. Just last week he forwarded me an email from some Italian lovely he’d met on Tinder, I think. She was going to be in Sardinia same time we were. He’d already asked her to dinner or drinks. Said he was brushing up on his Italian so he could brush up against her.” Kramer paused. “Sorry.”
“I’ve heard much worse.”
Kramer nodded and continued. “He actually knew some Italian, you know, from his mum. No, life was good for Freddy,” Kramer said.
“Do you know of anyone who had an issue with him?”
“I know a lot of people found him annoying, but I really think he was getting better. He was trying hard to be spontaneous, more at ease, you know? But someone who hated him this much? Nope. No idea. Disliked, yes. Avoided, sometimes. Hated, no.”
I’d been thinking the same thing, I thought as I left Kramer’s office. Mr. Hayworth led quite the enviable life, at least on the surface. I returned to the Yard and continued asking questions. Peter mostly left me to it, which worked. He could deal with other things—CCTV footage, the laptop, etc. We both knew I’d be better at the interviews, largely because I didn’t think them a waste of time. Peter didn’t share my doubts about the cause of Hayworth’s death.
“The guy was a dick, Tessa,” Peter had said right from the start. “Maybe he couldn’t live with himself, you know? I mean, nobody else could, right? Maybe he came round to their way of thinking.”
Or maybe not. From what I could tell, Hayworth would have been largely blind to his own faults. So, unlike Peter, I was doubtful. And I’d much rather be out and about chatting with people than holed up in a cubicle for hours watching CCTV film of doors opening and closing, drinking too much muddy Met coffee in order to keep awake.
The day after my talk with Scott Kramer, I spoke to nearly everyone at Idea(1)s, the advertising agency Freddy worked for. Idea(1)s occupied two floors of a glassy building in Mortimer Street. Reception was on the first floor. Serious money went on furnishings. The style was Scandinavian modern, sparse-suave. Light woods, bright colors. Unwelcoming to my eye, much like Hayworth’s flat.
The general reaction to Freddy’s death from his work colleagues was shock more than sadness. Henry Morace, of comparable rank to Hayworth at his firm, was candid.
