by Tim Hoy
“I don’t for a minute doubt his talent,” Morace said, “but I preferred not to work with him on an account if I didn’t have to. It was almost instinctive on his part to grab the spotlight, to take all the credit, even for ideas that were clearly not his, or not solely his. Everybody knew it. But he got results, which is, I think, the only reason he wasn’t fired long ago. Still, Freddy, needed to be nicer, not dead. It’s terrible. Is it really murder?”
“Possibly,” I said.
“Wow,” Morace said. “Who the hell despised him that much? For most of us it was more a silent distaste. Okay, a simmering loathing. I hate to speak ill of the dead—or say something incriminating—but there you are.”
“So you didn’t socialize with Mr. Hayworth?”
“Sure I did, when it involved business. And if one of us had a drinks party I might invite him and vice versa. Otherwise, I didn’t seek his company. For work or pleasure. That’s how I’d put it.”
In spite of the love and support Ogueri received from all of us at Potential House, his adjustment to blindness was not easy. He would run into things, have trouble focusing. He tripped a lot. Each fall made me wince, left me bruised as well. Some brought me to tears. Getting Ogueri diagnosed wasn’t difficult; still, it was shattering. Work for me was especially busy at the time, and Jonathan was proving a handful. Jabirah was quickly indispensable. Cooking, caring, some cleaning. She came to us by half eight on weekday mornings, usually by public transport. Sometimes her brother Ahmed dropped her off. Those days, I noticed eventually, were the ones she came to the house most shrouded. When pressed, Jabirah admitted that her brother, a year younger than she, didn’t think his sister should leave the house unaccompanied, much less work in a “western” home.
“This is an English home, Jabirah. In England. Does he know what country he lives in?”
Jabirah sighed. “A better question would be what century he thinks he’s living in.”
We both laughed uncomfortably and let it go. Jonathan and Ogueri came down the stairs and greeted us. Ogueri had a hug for me, and one for Jabirah. She had spread her warmth throughout the house.
“Ogueri has to see the doctor today,” Jonathan said.
“Ice cream when he comes home, my kitchen,” I said, “provided his father doesn’t object.”
“His father thinks that sounds like a capital plan,” said Ben, who had popped his head in to say hello and nab his child.
Jabirah and I watched them leave. Jonathan ran into the gadget room.
“My little sister’s blind,” Jabirah said.
“Really?” I had no idea. Then again, why would I?
“A cooking fire not long before we came to England. Paraffin. Happens way too often. She was so little! The scar faded, but her eyes—they don’t see.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is that how you knew to suggest a lower rail on the stairs?”
Jabirah nodded. “She’s fifteen now and really wonderful. Smart as a whip.”
“I’d love to meet her.”
“She’d like that,” Jabirah said.
“Bring her for dinner sometime,” I offered. “I’ll cook.”
“No offense, Tessa, but I’ll cook.”
Point taken. Laughter added. Another stereotype that had crumbled shortly after Jabirah’s arrival was the notion that all pious Muslim women are shy and retiring. She was anything but.
Not long after Jabirah told me of her sister, the tube home ran late one night, which made me late, which meant Jabirah would be late getting home.
“I’m sorry!” I cried as I rushed into the house.
The front rooms were dark. Light came from the kitchen. I heard voices.
“Sorry, Jabirah. I should have texted,” I said as I joined them.
“No worries, Tessa.”
Jonathan was seated at the kitchen table, as was Jabirah’s brother, Ahmed, whom I’d seen dropping Jabirah off before but never met. Ahmed listened attentively as Jonathan explained some game on his iPad. He rose as I entered the kitchen.
I kissed Jonathan on the forehead and mussed his hair.
“I’m kind of busy here, Mum,” he said.
“My bad,” I said to smiles all around. I extended my hand to Ahmed, but he kept his on the table.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Grantley,” he said.
I got a bottle of water from the fridge, filled a glass and drank it.
“Please call me Tessa. Has Jabirah offered you something to drink? You probably have to go, but don’t feel the need on my account.”
“We really should go,” Jabirah said.
“Of course. Again, sorry I was late; I got stuck on the tube.”
“Thanks for the lesson, young man,” Ahmed said to my beaming Jonathan. “Next time I’ll tell you more about skydiving. I may go again next weekend.”
“Wow. Yes please!” Jonathan said. They high-fived.
Ahmed looked about the room, turned to me, and smiled. “You live here alone?” he asked.
“Jonathan and I live here,” I replied. The question surprised me.
“Your husband is dead?”
I nodded, annoyed. “I lost him some time ago. Why do you ask?”
“Ahmed, I told you not to ask such questions,” said Jabirah. “It’s none of our business.”
“I was only thinking of her, Jabirah; it’s not good to be alone.”
“Some people prefer being alone,” I said. “Isn’t it nice that each of us gets to decide for ourselves.” It wasn’t a question.
Clearly, Ahmed wanted to respond. He didn’t. Instead, he nodded his head once and held his hand out as if to sweep Jabirah out of the house. As she passed her brother, Jabirah looked back at me and rolled her eyes. Despite my ire, I threw her a grin.
“Bye, Jonathan!” Jabirah said.
“See you, Jabirah!” he answered. Immediately his attention returned to the iPad. I could have been wearing a clown suit, and my son wouldn’t have noticed.
From the front room I watched them leave. Who the hell was an eighteen-year-old boy to question my living arrangements?
“Are we ever going to eat?” Jonathan asked, his eyes on the computer game. He would put it down once dinner was on the table. If he didn’t, I would.
“I was wondering the same thing.”
Food had been prepared and stored in the fridge hours ago, one of Jabirah’s creations, which Jonathan nearly always loved. Chicken tikka with perfectly cooked basmati rice, plus a savory eggplant dish. All I had to do was set the timer on the microwave and press a button. As dinner warmed, I cooled. Yes, Ahmed was a jerk; no, he wasn’t going to get to me.
My late, unlamented husband had an Ella Fitzgerald CD he used to play occasionally to “wind down” in the evening. “Three little words, oh what I’d give to hear that little phrase…” He’d sing along, then give a plaintive look, which was my cue to yell “I love you!” Now, I couldn’t imagine loving Alec Hanay. At the same time, neither could I imagine life without the son he gave me.
The three little words I kept hearing during the Hayworth investigation were “I’m sorry, but…” The phrase showed up in almost every interview, from friends or acquaintances, former girlfriends, even his teachers. There was sympathy, even compassion, but Mr. Hayworth left a legacy of ill will, which seemed to date back to this childhood. He was admired, at times envied. Rarely was he liked.
Molly James, Freddy’s most recent ex, agreed to meet me in a nearby Costa Coffee during her abbreviated lunch hour, which was really more like forty-five minutes, as she needed to clock in no later than an hour after she left. She was in banking, as Scott Kramer had told me, but as in teller at a Lloyd’s branch in Kensington. I watched as she flew into the café and placed her order with dispatch. Those behind the counter knew her. Their smiles indicated they like
d her. Molly was lively and lovely.
“I’ve got maybe thirty minutes, Detective Inspector,” she said breathlessly, “so fire away.”
Ms. James made a good impression —friendly, open, no discernible guile. There was none of the coldness Scott Kramer described.
“You and Mr. Hayworth were a couple for some time,” I started.
“Nearly five months,” she said. “It ended—let me rephrase that—I ended it right before Easter, so two months ago, give or take.”
“Did you have any contact with him after you broke things off?”
“A couple of texts asking me to reconsider. Nothing creepy, though. He thought we had a good thing. For a while, we did.”
“So nothing for a few months?” I asked.
“Since the week after Easter. I know because I got the last email on the train back from Sheffield.”
“Where you’re from?”
Molly nodded. “I went up for a visit. Parents, my sister, and her insufferable kids, my niece and nephew. Six and seven. The sort that could put you off motherhood, you know? Another sister lives in London. One brother. He’s overseas.”
I smiled. “Would you mind telling me why you ended the relationship, Ms. James?”
She took a moment, sighed, and said, “Freddy had some good qualities, Detective Inspector; but eventually the bad outweighed the good. Let me count the ways, you know? For one, he was monumentally narcissistic. I know he made a good salary, but my, was he cheap! I understand frugality—I even admire it—but it wasn’t that. He’d spend a pile on clothes, a new watch, that sort of thing, but when it came to taking me out for a nice meal, he’d use a coupon from Time Out. Paying full freight bugged him, at least when treating others. And it wasn’t as if I always expected him to pay, mind you. I treated him occasionally, made him dinner, that sort of thing. It was obvious he didn’t budget much for squiring me around town.”
“I know the type,” I said.
“Then I started noticing the little rules, once the love-is-blind shine wore off. Like every time we went out to dinner, as soon as we ordered he’d have to go wash his hands. No matter we were eating with cutlery; he just had to wash those goddamned hands, excuse my French.”
I did with a nod.
“And it didn’t end at the table. Sex was an antiseptic experience. He was beautiful—you must know that—you wanted your hands all over him, but you could tell he was going to run to the shower as soon as things were over. He once told me he changed the sheets on his bed every other day. When I laughed, he got offended; said he used to change them each morning. Like an effing hotel! Maybe I could have lived with the quirks if he wasn’t so goddamned self-centered. And he never, ever stopped looking, by the way. We’d be in a restaurant and I could see women checking him out. He loved it; he’d smile or nod, with me sitting right across from him. I’m just a friendly guy, he’d insist. It means nothing, he’d say. And I’d say, oh yes, it does; it means you don’t have enough respect for me to cut it the fuck out.”
“So you made him redundant, so to speak,” I said. “Gave him his walking papers.”
Molly laughed. “That I did. It wasn’t easy. Isn’t it sad how much we’ll put up with from a complete jerk if he looks good? Especially naked,” she said and laughed again. “Okay, he looked pretty good in clothes too.”
I smiled but made no comment. “I assume you know how he died?”
Molly nodded. “And you think he took the stuff intentionally. I must say I find it hard to believe Freddy would kill himself. He was pretty much blind to his faults. Ignorance is bliss, right? I don’t see it, Detective Inspector.”
“Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against him, had it in for him?”
“A couple dozen women, I have no doubt. But don’t you think they’d have moved on? I did. I’m so much happier now.”
“Seeing someone?”
Nodding, Molly said, “Someone amazing.”
“Good for you.”
“And he’s nice-looking, you know, but not clearly better looking than I am. That works for me. Freddy didn’t.”
* * *
—
I knew beauty, all right. I knew the disaster it could rain on its beholder. Freddy Hayworth ran in a pack. His emails and texts showed it. A gang of four, sometimes five, each of them thirty or bordering, north or south. Scott Kramer claimed to be Hayworth’s best friend, but there were others. Search results on their names indicated none were married or ever had been. From texts and emails, none showed signs of settling down. It’s true that marriage and family often come later now than in prior generations. Still, Freddy’s clique seemed afflicted with some sort of group arrested development. One of them, Mungo Kenroy, another public-school, pinstriped City worker, had an interesting spin when I met with him in his office.
“The best times I ever had were with Freddy and the gang,” Mungo recalled when I saw him. He spoke as if dreaming about it, eyes on the ceiling. “Okay, he was a bit full of himself at times, bullied us a bit about crap like clothes and manners, but maybe he had the right. He set the style. We looked up to him in a way. Sometimes it was as if none of us wanted to be the first to break away, to leave the fold and start a family. That wife-and-kids kind of love is great, but it’s restrictive, you know? I know that sounds strange. Trust me, it wasn’t some gay thing. It was simply that we brought out the best in each other. Brotherly love, you know? Fraternal. That’s the word. I don’t think it will last now with Freddy gone.”
“What won’t?” I asked. He didn’t answer straight away, which brought my eyes to him. Kenroy was looking me up and down, sizing me up from the look of it. Entitled bugger. “I asked you a question, Mr. Kenroy.”
“Right. What won’t last? The routine, I guess. That life. The group. Now comes the next chapter. My girl’s been on me for over a year to propose. Maybe I will. That or get another girlfriend.” He grinned; apparently he found himself amusing. That made one of us.
“I’m not sure I understand; did Mr. Hayworth somehow prohibit you from marrying? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I think what I’m saying is we were a family, in a way,” said Kenroy. “I know that sounds odd, but sometimes families don’t fit the usual pattern, you know?”
I nodded. “I do. It sounds as if Freddy Hayworth was the father figure.”
“Not exactly. More like the leader of the pack. Our raison d’ệtre. As a group, at least.”
“You were lucky to have such a close bond,” I said. “Many people never get to experience that.” Utter rubbish, but I needed him to feel comfortable with me.
Mr. Kenroy found an appreciative smile and turned it on me.
“And you didn’t want it to end,” I added.
He nodded. “Freddy dying is going to force us to grow up.”
“Who might have disliked him?”
“Enough to kill him? Oh my, I have no clue. He could drive you nuts at times with his quirks, but murder? The only thing that comes to mind is that old bromide, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ He scorned quite a few ladies over the years. Sometimes he wasn’t so nice about it. Once he bcc’d me on an email he sent to one of them. All caps: ‘GET THE FUCK LOST.’ ”
“Do you know her name?”
Mungo nodded. “Kept the email. I’ll write it down. She was a stunner. He stole girls from us too. All of us, I think. Bloody cheek. One gets over it, though, you know. And he discarded them all after a while, or vice-versa. You know, to Freddy, I kind of think they weren’t important. We were, though. Our gang. I don’t know what girls he’d been seeing lately. I assume you have access to his phone and laptop?”
Nodding, I said, “Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
“Of your two explanations, I’d pick murder,” he added as I walked to the office d
oor. “Unbelievable, maybe, but suicide is even more so, at least to me.”
“Noted,” I said. “We’re not sure yet.”
“Freddy doing himself in makes no sense, Detective Inspector. If it’s true, we didn’t really know him at all. Hell, we all wanted to be Freddy Hayworth.”
I left with some forwarded emails, as well as the names of two women Hayworth had purportedly treated in an especially shabby way. I also walked out wondering what it would be like to be a part of something so enveloping, a band of brothers. It could be wonderful; it could be oppressive. It could define one’s life. There are good gangs and bad ones. Aren’t there?
I can’t point to a specific day when Jabirah added Ogueri to her cares, but gradually, inexorably, she did. From helping raise her sister, Benazir, who lost her sight at a young age, Jabirah knew a thing or two about blindness. At first it was simply Jabirah suggesting devices that might work for Ogueri. Voice command apps, games Ogueri could play. I figured if Jabirah didn’t mind watching two children, why not double up? Jonathan loved Ogueri and vice versa. Ogueri was like a brother to my son. Chika and Ben offered to pay Jabirah for the added responsibility, but she refused. I gave her what I called a “merit” raise.
Chika finished her studies while Ben was still writing his dissertation. Through the firm of solicitors who had handled Alec’s matters, I found an immigration lawyer and took Chika round to see her. Chika worried about the cost, but I explained that the initial consultation was free. It wasn’t, but she didn’t need to know that. The object was to get Chika a work visa so she could earn some money while Ben continued his studies. Money was tight for them. Chika had a degree in public health, a marketable skill. It was time for her to use it.
One of her professors found Chika work with an NGO focused on disease eradication in developing countries. She loved the job, but the hours were at times long, so Ben took over many of the family responsibilities. It turned out he was as good a cook as his wife. They were both thriving. Things were good.
