by Tim Hoy
She laughed, stood, and carried our cups to the sink. “Oh, come on, Tessa, get real. Perhaps there’s a difference between arranged marriages and forced marriages, although sometimes the difference is splitting hairs.”
“That’s one problem I don’t have to deal with,” I said. “Then again, after a full workday, Jonathan-time, and a little me-time, emphasis on the word little, I don’t seem to have a moment to spare searching for Mr. Right. If there is a Mr. Right.”
“And if there isn’t, I think you’d be okay with that. Am I right?” she asked.
I paused and then nodded. “I think so, although I’ve not given it much thought. Which, come to think, probably confirms that I’d be okay with it. Love is a great thing, Jabirah, but I don’t want or need to be defined by it. I don’t need someone else to complete me; let’s put it that way. Am I making any sense?”
It was Jabirah’s turn to nod. “You are indeed. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Oh, so many things, Tessa. So many.” She gave the top of my head a pat. No one had done that since Dad died.
Jabirah tidied up. I went back to my emails. She loaded the dishwasher, ran a sponge over the kitchen table, and around my open laptop. She stopped when she got a view of a photo on the screen.
“Who is that?” she said, staring at the shirtless man, the photo cut off perilously close to his private parts.
“Mr. Freddy Hayworth. Believe it or not, that photo’s his screensaver; the one that pops up every time he turns on his computer. Talk about conceit.”
“He’s got a lot to be conceited about,” Jabirah said.
I laughed. “Jabirah! You’re a scandal!”
“I’d like someone to arrange my marriage to him,” she said, bringing more laughter from both of us.
“Unfortunately, he’s not marrying anyone. He’s dead.” No more laughing. “One of the cases I’m working on.”
“Oh my. How horrible.” Subdued, Jabirah returned to the sink. A minute may have passed before she stopped messing about and turned again to me. “How did he die?” she asked.
I looked up at her, grasping for the thread of the conversation. “That’s the question. It looks like a suicide. Then again, it doesn’t.”
“Why would someone like that kill himself?” she said.
“Life isn’t all about looks, lovie.”
Jabirah wasn’t listening. “Was he ill?” she asked.
“I wondered about that too. His doctors say no. Issues, yes; ill, no.”
I left Jabirah in the kitchen, checked on Jonathan, then headed to the office I’d set up for myself in the spare bedroom on the first floor. I normally spent what probably averaged half a day a week administering the charitable foundation I’d established to honor my late husband’s mother, the sadly defamed, wrongly accused Gloria Golden. I called it the Golden Fund, vague enough so that nobody necessarily associated it with Ms. Golden, who was still thought a murderer by the world. I knew better. I knew Alec had framed his mother for the murders he had committed, which compounded his evil. Requests poured in from far and wide, nearly all of them worthy, or seemingly so. Saying no, which had to be the answer more often than not, could be gut wrenching. Wading through these pleas, plus searching for other, less-publicized or less-aggressive causes, fell on me. Unknown to her, Jabirah influenced me. I’d read about the bravery of Malala Yousafzai, the teenage Pakistani girl who’d been shot by the Taliban for advocating education for girls and ended up with a free ride to Oxford. A little research uncovered an organization that provided books and scholarships to Pakistani girls. They were overjoyed by a substantial contribution from the Golden Fund, a UK-based foundation they’d never heard of. In time, I was funding shipments to rural Pakistan of English, Urdu, and Pashto textbooks printed in the EU. The Fund also augmented the pitiable salaries of teachers in remote northern parts of the country. I had, as well, made substantial payments to the families of my husband’s victims, even established scholarships for their siblings. I atoned for sins that were not mine. Doing so had helped me heal, helped me live with myself, and in so doing, helped me be a better mother—or at least a saner one.
I noted with pleasure and relief that my son was becoming an easygoing, rambunctious child. The credit went not to me, I believed, but to our larger family in Potential House. Jonathan had little trouble speaking to complete strangers; whys and hows tumbled out of his mouth with charming ease. At times I worried Jonathan was too garrulous, his manner too trusting. Other times, I marveled at the warmth my son exhibited, a trait I longed to share.
Mr. Bethany of Idea(1)s had requested a return visit because, as he said, he “hadn’t been entirely up front” with me when I met with him to arrange interviews with his staff. “No, that makes it sound as if I was doing something wrong,” he added. “I should have mentioned this before, but I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, if that makes sense.”
“It does, but I do need you to be forthcoming, Mr. Bethany. We can’t do our job otherwise.”
“Yes, I see. Of course. Well, I can’t think how this could have a bearing on Freddy’s death, but a problem had come up,” he said.
“Involving Mr. Hayworth?”
“Yes. Look, we recently lost a major account because of him. First time he’d ever screwed up, and I called him on it. That’s my job, Detective Inspector. This is a business.”
“Go on.”
“It was just so unlike him. Usually he was so professional.”
“Okay. What happened and when?”
He sighed. “Freddy led a team here that was working on a campaign for a new car model—we’ve had the Audi account here in the UK and Ireland for, what, eight or nine years? Nearly ten, come to think. Time flies. The presentation went off really well, or so everyone said. Afterward, that evening, Freddy and two of the others here took the clients to dinner. Usual thing, you know. Good food, a lot of drink. Too much drink for Freddy apparently. One of the Audi executives was a German woman, quite attractive; I’ve met her. Freddy must have followed her back to her hotel room. When she tried to close the door in his face, he got angry and pushed his way in.”
“He assaulted her?”
“I wouldn’t say that. He yelled a bit, called her some choice names, but he didn’t force himself on her. He told her women didn’t treat him this way, that sort of thing. It sounded awful.”
“He didn’t like being told no,” I said.
Bethany nodded. “That’s probably it. Obviously, I apologized every which way, offered to pull Freddy, but they were having none of it. Nine good years and they pulled their account.”
“So you confronted Mr. Hayworth?”
“Of course. I had to. The week before his death. At first he was defensive; said the woman was rubbing his leg under the table, that sort of thing. Whether or not that’s actually true, I made clear he’d crossed a line and that doing so had cost the company. I could have fired him then and there, and he knew it. He probably also knew I wouldn’t; he’d get snapped up by a competitor so fast my head would spin. Once he calmed down a bit, he was remorseful, very much so. He cried, which frankly astonished me. Didn’t know he had it in him. I remember he said twice ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ By the end of the meeting he had me feeling sorry for him. Later, I wondered if it was all an act, but I don’t think so. Freddy knew he’d lost control—and the account. He seemed truly shattered.”
“And you say this was just before he died?” I asked.
“The dinner was on a Thursday, I remember. His last day at work was the following day.”
“I’d like the names of everyone in the meeting and at the dinner, please.”
“Of course. I didn’t know he had such thin skin. I mean, yes, he screwed up big, but it wasn’t as if he’d killed someone. And it wasn’t going to ruin the company. I thought I shoul
d tell you.”
“Thank you. You did the right thing.”
* * *
—
Once unlocked, Freddy Hayworth’s laptop was a vault of information. Contact numbers, strings of emails from assorted friends and foes as well as those from a list of females he’d strung along for varying durations. At times the women overlapped. The relationships usually ended with silence, occasionally with a note from the woman along the lines of “Don’t ever contact me again.” There was a pattern to Freddy’s love life: initial ardor, weeks or sometimes months of frenzied passion that always cooled and eventually froze. He may have looked too good to resist, but too much time with him apparently proved an effective antidote to his physical allure. Still, his partners’ bitterness, if any, seemed to mellow with time. It does indeed heal wounds. Or maybe wounds heels, and Freddy Hayworth could be a real heel at times. It was almost as if one could pick an approximate date of parting by gauging the spite in which Freddy Hayworth was held.
There were exceptions. One of the more recent breakups, with a nurse named Tamsin Reith, didn’t appear to have been acrimonious. Her name appeared in a string of texts over a year ago, all of which were markedly tame, albeit resolute. I found Ms. Reith in the staff cafeteria at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Even a Nurse Ratched uniform couldn’t veil a remarkable beauty.
“I couldn’t take him anymore,” Tamsin said. She had an open, relaxed demeanor, even when speaking of the late Mr. Hayworth.
“Got on your nerves?”
“Every last one of them,” she said, nodding, eyes wide remembering. “Mind you, it’s not a motive for murder, Detective Inspector. There were times I wanted to kill him, but didn’t. Ever had that feeling?”
“Oh yes,” I said. I had.
“He became insufferable. Maybe with duct tape over his mouth I would have…No, not even then. Life’s too short. Shall I tell you a little story?”
“Please do.”
“Okay, my brother, John; he’s a keen sailor. He and some cousins of ours own a lovely old sailboat; they keep it in the Solent. It’s not very big but…I’m getting off topic. Anyway, one weekend John invited Freddy and me to sail with him. The forecast was for fine weather. This was in July. Freddy agreed, provided we didn’t go midday.”
“Isn’t that when one would go sailing?” I asked.
“Pretty much. But according to Freddy, he didn’t want to be out in the sun when it was at full strength. He was worried about his skin. I suggested a hat and sunscreen. Freddy said no. He didn’t look good in hats, he said, and he didn’t like the feeling of lotion on his skin. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.” Tamsin shook her head as she remembered. “It’s not just the monumental self-absorption; I mean, who the hell wants to live that way?”
“Sometimes people don’t think they have a choice,” I offered.
“Yes, and that’s when people see a therapist. Isn’t it? It’s nuts.”
“He did, you know,” I said.
“Did what?”
“See a therapist. I spoke with her. She said he’d been making considerable progress.”
“And he had a lot to make,” Tamsin said. She sipped her tea. “That’s unkind. Good for him. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Only then did she get teary. “Any idea how long he’d been seeing her? The therapist, that is.”
“About nine months,” I said.
“That’s around when I broke it off. Eight months ago, maybe more. Wow,” she said, before recovering, shaking her head. “No, it was too late by then, at least for us as a couple. Do you still not know if it was suicide?”
“Not definitively.”
“If Freddy Hayworth was contemplating something, he would always choose the clean, unmessy option. I reckon that would also include his method of suicide. Not that he could make choices anyway. Try going to a restaurant. Every time, he’d ask the waiter what he or she recommended. Why do people ask that? It’s a restaurant, for God’s sake. Everything is supposed to be good. What’s a person who works at the place supposed to say? The food sucks? That dish is awful? Ridiculous. I don’t see how he could ever find the resolve to end his life. I know that sounds bad, but there you are.”
“His mates seem to have found him good company,” I offered.
“Mungo and the boys? Of course they do. They’re children. I can’t believe I went out with that one, what, maybe three times.”
“Mungo Kenroy?” I asked.
“How many Mungos are there? Yes, Mr. Kenroy. I dated him ever so briefly. He actually introduced me to Freddy. From the fatuous into the fire. Mungo’s a well-clad creep.”
“He hid it well when I met him,” I said.
“He would. That man has a very high opinion of himself.”
“I’ve known a few like that,” I added.
“Then I feel sorry for both of us.”
The partner-swapping intrigued me. Mungo Kenroy intrigued me.
A second visit with Mr. Kenroy found him no less charming.
“I’ve decided to do the Italian trip. A few friends are coming with. It’s going to be a sort of homage to Freddy,” said Mr. Kenroy, as I was taking an offered seat in his office.
“How do you plan on honoring him?” I asked.
“Unclear on that,” he said as he sucked shelled peanuts from his fist. Not a becoming sight. “Freddy mentioned some place that’s supposed to be legendary for its linguine vongole. Maybe we’ll crack a good bottle of champers and toast him over clams and carbs. We’ll have to see. He will be missed, and not just on the trip.”
“I spoke with Tamsin Reith yesterday,” I started.
“Lucky you,” Kenroy said, not fondly.
“No love lost between the two of you, I take it?”
“That would be a fair assessment, Detective Inspector. Freddy couldn’t stand her.”
“Well, at some point he could, Mr. Kenroy. And so could you, or so I’m told.”
An assistant brought in a tea tray. China cups, cozy-shrouded teapot. Like some stately home, but in a modern office in the shadow of St. Paul’s.
“I’ll be mother, shall I?” he said and poured. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in the ramblings of Ms. Reith. She was what I’d call a momentary lapse in judgment, first for me, then for Freddy.”
“Ms. Reith seemed to think Freddy Hayworth had some serious behavioral problems.”
“He was set in his ways. That’s all.”
“Mr. Kenroy, I have access to his emails. They tell a story, one that repeats itself time and again. Women found him attractive but eventually, inevitably, it seemed the attraction wore off. Why?”
“Like I said, set in his ways. And he was better in the past few months.”
“Why did you and Ms. Reith part ways?”
“I came to my senses,” he said. “Okay, that wasn’t nice. Let’s just say irreconcilable differences.”
“Which tells me nothing.”
“I don’t speak ill of the dead, Detective Inspector.”
“She’s not dead.”
“She is to me.”
I must admit I found it surprising to discover that Freddy Hayworth’s friends were not all privileged, immature yobs. One, Tom Sayres, was a lieutenant in the navy. He had played rugby with Hayworth as a teenager. They’d remained friends despite how markedly their lives diverged as they grew up, texting regularly, if not often. Sayres, a twenty-stone, six-foot-five drink, still lived in Elstree when not afloat.
“We always made time to see one another Christmas and Easter, when we’d both be visiting our families. Out for a pint or a game of darts. I think he felt comfortable with me; I know he confided in me from time to time, which surprised me some.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why did he confide or why was I surprised?”
“Both,
” I replied.
“He wanted the same things most of us do—Idea(1)s love, a family—but he worried he’d never get there. This from a guy who turned heads when he entered a room.”
“What did he think was the problem?”
“Himself, or so he said. He was sort of trapped in this life he’d made,” Tom said. “Rigid adherence to meaningless schedules was part of it, I know. I saw that myself.”
“Obsessive compulsive disorder,” I said.
“Exactly. You could see people take to Freddy when they first met. Let’s face it; life is easier for the comely. We want them to like us. We bask in the glow they throw off somehow.”
I nodded. “I do, I’m almost embarrassed to say.”
“Don’t be. Anyway, Freddy saw how people looked at him; he wasn’t arrogant about it or anything, but he also said something like ‘It doesn’t last.’ What he meant was, once they got wind of his eccentricities, his appeal faded, then vanished. Spontaneity, for example, freaked him out—last minute texts for a pint or a meal, that sort of thing.”
“Enough to do harm to himself?” I asked.
“No idea, but I doubt it. He’d decline the invitation, not go nuts about it. That’s my read at least. It was more like a sentence than a routine, but not a death sentence.”
“I Wikipedia’d ‘OCD’ in my office the other day,” I said. “This sounds so familiar.”
“Oh, and he could be really selfish. He took what he wanted, which got him in trouble with quite a few former friends who didn’t appreciate him stealing their girlfriends. Never did that to me, but his school chums—he definitely pissed off some of them. He told me stories.”
“So why were you friends?”
“I know!” Sayres shook his head, as if wondering the same thing. “Look, I’m painting you a very unflattering picture of Freddy, but he wasn’t just that, not at all. He was warm, generous, and really a good bloke. When my mum got sick a few years ago, Freddy never forgot to ask after her. When she died, he sent flowers and made a contribution in her name to the Imperial Cancer Society. Didn’t even tell me; just did it. I only found out when they sent a note. I’ll miss him. I do miss him.”
