by Tim Hoy
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry I’m running a bit late. Had to take my wife to the train. Off to see her problem parents.”
“No worries,” I said. He opened the studio door and held it for me to enter. He turned on the lights.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“I was thinking about the paper you use.”
“The paper we make. It’s quite unique.” Said with pride.
Jan made coffee for us both, and then we descended to the basement. There he showed me a large vat, which was raised two feet or so off the floor. Around it were the ingredients used to make their distinctive paper. In one corner was a pile of rags, some thick, some thin, some white, some not. Next to it were shelves of bottles and plastic containers, which held various potions and powders used in the process. Some of the bottles were labeled “Poison.” One contained cyanide.
“Is this what the label says it is?” I asked, pointing to the container on the shelf.
Jan nodded. “We use only very small amounts, but I wouldn’t advise making a meal out of our paper.”
“You don’t keep this locked up?”
“Why would we?” The question surprised him.
“So anyone who comes here would have access to this?”
“Theoretically. We make the paper, though, and, yes, there can be trace amounts of cyanide in it. I know we get it locally at an industrial chemist’s. An artist may request a certain rag content, thickness or thinness, something to do with pliability, but we do the making, not the artists. And this floor is not generally open to unaccompanied persons, other than the artists themselves.”
“Understood, but they’re working just over there,” I said, pointing to four long tables, two holding large, old-fashioned presses, presumably used to make prints.
“Right,” said Mr. Esterhazy. “What are you suggesting?”
“And no one other than the artists themselves gets access to this floor?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “I can’t recall anyone else coming down here; then again, when one of our clients is working, we don’t monitor their every move. Wait a minute; I do remember a few months ago, the spouse of one of our artists showed up with a bottle of champagne. Their anniversary, I believe. They popped the cork just over there.” He pointed to one of the tables. “I had a glass.”
I looked around the room. “No cameras?”
“None. Nor do we keep record of who comes and goes. We’re pretty low tech, I’m afraid.”
Which meant I’d have to be too.
For some time I’d known Jabirah had something up her sleeve. When I went through the post that night, I found an invitation addressed to Ms. Tessa Grantley and Jonathan Hanay. The Obinnas also made the list. Jabirah was hosting a “small” luncheon for Benazir’s birthday. I was certain that Jabirah had never hosted a party in her life. Jonathan and I wouldn’t miss it. Jabirah had booked a private room in a modest South Kensington restaurant. Ben and Chika shared my positive reaction to the goings on. None of us thought Jabirah had it in her to plan such an event. I’d also bet good money she’d never made a restaurant booking in her life. We were underestimating her, both then and always. Jabirah could do anything.
Two days before the lunch, I went online and checked out the restaurant’s menu. Afterward, I rang the place.
“I’m phoning about the Rahman luncheon this Saturday,” I told the woman who answered.
“Party of ten at one o’clock. Is there a problem?” She sounded leery.
“Not at all. If you would be so kind, I’d like to pay for half the cost of the lunch. Is there a way we can arrange that? I can give you my credit card information now.”
“Oh,” she said, the relief apparent in her voice. “Yes, of course.”
“It’s just that I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t tell Ms. Rahman. Maybe you could tell her you were having a one-day special on large parties? Something like that? I know this must sound crazy.”
“How nice of you! Okay, I’ll prepare a bill for you at the end of the meal. You get up to take a call or use the facilities and I’ll give it to you. You can pay then. Ms. Rahman will get a bill with our special discount—half off.”
“Perfect,” I said and gave her my name. I wondered who brought the total to ten. Jabirah didn’t have to tell me her parents and brothers would be missing. They probably didn’t even know Jabirah was doing this.
Jonathan and I were the first to arrive. We were shown to the private room.
“It doesn’t look like a birthday party,” Jonathan said. He was right; there were no decorations.
“What would be the point, kiddo?” I said.
“Oh right,” he said. “Saves time and money, I guess.”
I squeezed his shoulder. We left our gifts on a side table. Soon Benazir and Jabirah arrived. Benazir was beaming. The Obinnas entered directly after. We all hugged Benazir and wished her a happy birthday.
“Who else is coming?” I asked Jabirah as we picked seats. She had no time to answer, for at the door stood Miles, his mother, and a man who I assumed was his father. Mr. Nye looked uneasy, or maybe bashful. Jabirah jumped up when she saw them.
“There you are! Welcome. I’m so glad you’re here!” Jabirah smiled and shook hands with the adults. “Especially you, Miles. Thank you for coming to my sister’s birthday party.” Jabirah touched the hand of the boy, who then extended it for a shake.
“Thank you for inviting us,” said Patricia Nye.
“You are most welcome! And you, Miles,” Benazir said. “Now let’s order. It’s my birthday, and I’m hungry!”
It was a lovely lunch and a lovely time. But what made it especially memorable was that it was the last time I ever saw Jabirah.
“You’re joking,” Greg Shafer said. He leaned forward in his chair, seriously agitated. I stayed in mine, calm. We were in his studio. My return visit was both unscheduled and, apparently, unwelcome. I got straight to the point.
“You had access to cyanide, Mr. Shafer.”
He looked astonished. “You can’t be serious!”
“I couldn’t be more serious, Mr. Shafer. Cyanide is a highly regulated substance. It’s not easy to obtain, and when you do get your hands on some, there’s usually a record of the purchase. But every time you went to Artographia, it was right there for the taking.”
“I didn’t take anything. Look, Detective Inspector, lots of people have access to the workspace at Artographia. Every artist who’s ever worked with them, including the one whose print you now have hanging in your home.”
“She didn’t know Freddy Hayworth. You did.”
“How the hell do you know? Did you ask her?”
“I can,” I said.
“Be my guest. Maybe you should have done so before coming here and making offensive accusations.”
“I’ll get a list of artists who’ve used the place in the past year. Not a problem. You and I both know what I’ll find.”
“Ms. Grantley, you’re not the only person I’ve sent to Artographia. They’re open to the public, you know.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a pen and pad of paper from my bag, “I’m all ears. Name names, Mr. Shafer.”
“Well, at some point, lots of my friends have been there. A print for a mum’s birthday and so on. I get them a deal.” He rattled off a dozen names, some of which I knew. Mungo Kenroy, for example. And Freddy Hayworth, on more than one occasion, apparently. “He loved a deal,” Shafer said.
“But they wouldn’t have been allowed in the work space unaccompanied; that’s what Mr. Esterhazy told me. And how would anyone know there’d be poison in the workshop for the taking?”
“Isn’t that a question for you to answer?” Shafer asked. “First I knew was when you barged in here like a woman possessed. They make the paper, De
tective Inspector; I don’t. They run the chem lab downstairs, not the artists.”
The Artographia workspace was indeed like a messy lab, or rather a part of it was. Most of the area held long tables on which the artists worked, preparing their creations to be printed. I went there directly from Shafer’s studio. He must have told them to expect me. The welcome mat was not out this time. Jan answered my questions but didn’t offer me a cup of coffee.
“It’s possible someone could have snuck in there unannounced, Detective Inspector,” said Esterhazy, “but I seriously doubt it. We do get patrons here, but not so many that the place is crawling with them. I keep a good eye on things, as does my staff. Of course, there’s the infrequent special occasion when we draw a crowd—”
“Describe ‘special occasion,’ please,” I asked.
“Exhibitions mostly. Opening night receptions. If an artist is working with our paper, and we like what we see, sometimes we give them a little party. Good publicity for them and for us. Just like the Black Box Gallery.”
The comment came like a blow. “What does that mean?” I asked, not in a nice way.
“I was at your husband’s reception, Detective Inspector. The one that made the breakfast shows and the morning papers. I saw him get pushed into the back of a police car. By you, I believe.” Jan Esterhazy stood up. “I knew you looked familiar, so I checked you out. The clips from that night are on YouTube. Quite the story.”
“Let’s stick to the point here, Mr. Esterhazy.”
“How does a man you thought was a murderer end up in your bed?”
“How the hell is that any of your business?”
“It leads me to question your investigative skills, Detective Inspector,” he said. I wanted to smack the smile off his face.
Esterhazy was inches away, goading me. “You married him?” I kept silent. Unfortunately, he didn’t. “Dumb move, Detective Inspector.” That did it. I pushed him against the nearest wall, and the back of his head smacked it. I’d venture he’d not often been grabbed by anyone, much less a woman. Still, the smirk never left his face. He wanted me riled.
“Why do you want to fuck with me?” I asked. “It’s so not a good idea.” I let him go. He lost a few inches as he deflated.
“We all make mistakes, Detective Inspector. I’m only giving you a friendly reminder. You’re barking up the wrong tree here. And I remember Mr. Hayworth. A little shit he was.”
“Then I’ll add you to my list of suspects,” I said.
Esterhazy laughed. “Be my guest!”
In the corner was a small refrigerator. I walked to it and drew out a bottle of water, not because I was thirsty; I needed to calm down. Otherwise I was going to slap this self-satisfied son of a bitch into next week, which wouldn’t end well for either of us.
As I unscrewed the bottle cap, I asked, “So at these parties, people had the run of the place?” I finished the bottle and dropped the empty in a bin.
“The door to the workspace was kept locked. Bolted. I have the only key.” He pulled a mess of keys from his desk and waved it.
“Then tell me, which artists have been down there in the past eighteen months?”
“That I can do.” He turned to his desktop and tapped a few keys.
* * *
—
“Why are we still talking about this guy?” Peter asked. We’re supposed to be finding out who beat that IT lad in the City half to death, aren’t we? That we can do.”
We were seated on adjacent stools in a sandwich bar. I chewed. He talked. “It seems to me all you’ve done is show it’s not so difficult to get your hands on cyanide. Go ask your MP to pass a new law.” Peter bit into his lunch. “If anyone can get hold of it, anyone includes the late Mr. Hayworth.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“So what if you don’t think so? Maybe he had no idea how quick-acting cyanide is. He sure as hell didn’t search it online. Not on his laptop, not at work. We checked, remember?”
“Right back at you: So what?” I said.
“Did you check to see if Freddy did a search on uses for cyanide? Industrial uses, that kind of thing? If it’s used in paper-making, it’d come up, wouldn’t it?” Lazarus asked. I kept silent. I’d not done such a search, even though hearing Peter suggest it reminded me of how obvious a move it was. Or should have been. “There are impulse suicides, Grantley. He clearly paid a visit to that printmaking place with his friend—both the artist and the owner confirm that.”
“And, what? He’s getting a tour and pulls the bottle off the shelf, takes some—in what?—and puts it back? How would he know he’d find cyanide there?”
“Who said he did? Impulse, Tessa. He came, he saw, he nicked.”
“I so don’t buy that,” I said.
“Why? The dickhead just fucked up badly at work.”
“He fucked up at work after he was at the gallery,” I said.
“Lots of so what’s here. The work fiasco was the last straw. He couldn’t keep a woman. All those phobias and things; it’s like he was living in a fucking straitjacket. And you already said there’re no cameras at this Arto-whatever you’ve been visiting.”
I shook my head and finished lunch. “Nope. You are so wrong.”
Peter laughed and took his last sip of something. “Solving this—either way—isn’t going to bring him back to life, you know.”
My head jerked up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He was a looker, okay. He’s still dead. We’ve got other things to worry about.”
“Meaning what?” I said.
“Meaning stop mooning over a corpse, Grantley.”
I shot daggers at Peter, and poured the last sip of my drink onto his lap. I walked to the exit.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Go out and get laid, Grantley, for Chrissakes!”
I raised my middle finger as the door closed behind me.
We didn’t expect Jabirah on Monday. The week before, she’d let me know she had something to do with her parents that day. I didn’t ask what. Tuesday, however, there was no sign of her. Jabirah was rarely late, so by nine o’clock—thirty minutes after her usual arrival—even Jonathan was worried.
“Where is she?” he asked. Good question. I needed to get to work. I rang Jabirah’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. I left one of those “Hope you’re okay” messages, meaning I was irritated but wouldn’t chastise until I knew the full story. I rang Lazarus to tell him I was running late, the first I’d spoken to him since our lunchtime tiff. Peter was curt on the phone. That made two of us. The answer to our Jabirah questions arrived around ten, in the form of her brother, Ahmed, who knocked on my front door.
“Ahmed,” I said. “I hope nothing’s happened to Jabirah.” Seeing him there unnerved me. He looked drained.
“No, no. She and my parents went home. One of our relatives is very ill.”
“Home? You mean Pakistan?” I asked.
He nodded. “She asked me to tell you in person and say she is sorry she did not let you know. It was all very sudden.”
I must have looked astonished, for I was. “She couldn’t ring?”
“No, no, the plane left very early. She may have emailed you,” he said, “or maybe sent a text.”
“Not as of fifteen minutes ago.”
“You should make other arrangements, I’m afraid. I’ve no idea when they will return. If they return.”
“If?”
“Yes. She should have email, but I don’t know how reliable it will be. They’re not staying in Quetta.”
“Okay, I’ll email her. Look, I’m sorry about your relative, but this is very inconvenient.”
My irritation meant nothing to him. “I should go,” he said, and did.
“Where is she?” Jonathan asked again.
&n
bsp; “She had to go on a trip, honey. I’m sorry.”
“She didn’t say good-bye.”
Both of us were bewildered. Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears.
Fortunately, Ben Obinna was home all day and offered to mind Jonathan. A lifesaver he was. Still, I needed to find a Jabirah replacement quickly. How does one replace someone who is irreplaceable? As a stopgap, I paid a temp agency through the nose for a last-minute nanny with good references. She came Wednesday, thirty-five minutes late, and didn’t make it to Friday. I put in a request for day care on the internal Met site but got no bites other than the fifteen-year-old son of a constable who offered to babysit weeknights. Apparently, the poor lad couldn’t read, at least not my advert. Jabirah’s timing would have been far better had she left at the start or end of a school year. So I made an appointment for Friday afternoon with an agency that specialized in domestic staffing. It had earned good reviews on Yelp, assuming they were real.
Finally, ten days after last seeing Jabirah, I received a response to my multiple emails:
Tessa:
I’m so sorry to have left without letting you know. My mother’s sister is very ill. We only got word that Sunday after the party. Please forgive me. I miss you and Jonathan and hope you are both well.
Jabirah
Jonathan and I grieved. My reply to her email was short and sweet. I didn’t admonish; I wished her well. Chances were her parents insisted she go with them. The Obinnas too were bereft, especially Ogueri. Seeing him cry over Jabirah’s absence made me cry again. Those big damaged eyes of his had no problem producing tears. Chika’s cool head pointed out something I’d not considered.
“If Jabirah’s brother said not to expect her back, that may be because they’re marrying her off,” she said.
