by Tim Hoy
“No! Chika, you can’t be serious!” I said.
“Hey, in the north of our country,” Chika said, “she’d be an old-maid at nineteen.”
“She’s right, Tessa,” said Ben. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”
“Forced marriage is illegal,” I said. Not that anyone seemed to care.
“In the UK, maybe. But she’s not in the UK anymore, is she?” said Ben.
“What a nightmare,” I said.
“Yes,” Chika said. How true—if true.
There were other cases clamoring for attention. The stabbing of a feeble pensioner, for example, riled the department. And there had been a drug dealer shot in Belgravia of all places. Freddy slid down our list of priorities, which meant for Peter Lazarus that he fell through the cracks. In a way, Peter’s detachment was understandable. Why anguish over a case that not only might never be solved but also might not even be murder? Each of us had our obsessions—open cases that needed closing or closure, if only for our own satisfaction. That one or two we dreamed of, toyed with on days off. Hayworth’s demise wasn’t that for me, it was more of a nag, a back-of-the-mind bother. It didn’t go away, but neither did it keep me up at night. If I couldn’t soon establish a clear link between the pills and a third party with access to cyanide, Hayworth’s death would be relegated to the cold case files, if only by default.
We had no problem coming up with list of possible suspects. Hayworth’s clique all professed to love and miss him, but each admitted to some grievance against the man. None of the abundant women missed the late Mr. Hayworth as a lover or companion. Hayworth’s siblings both suffered in the shadow of their golden-boy brother. How the hell to pare the list? That was the question. That, and whether or not doing so would end up a waste of time. Probably a lot of time. Hayworth’s mother was just about the only person pressing us to solve this case. The media had gone silent, moving on to stories more salacious.
On top of it all, I faced the impossible task of finding the new Jabirah. Every day without her was one of scrambling to care for Jonathan. He needed picking up at school, feeding, tending. I couldn’t expect the Obinnas to plug the gap. I didn’t want a replacement—some stranger in my house with my son. I didn’t want to have to share things with someone new. Ken Larson, bless him, offered to watch Jonathan when he was not off flying. I planned to take Ken up on the offer, but his schedule with the airline was never fixed more than a fortnight in advance, so the offer had its limits. My tally of possible Hayworth killers approached twenty when domestic salvation arrived, at least partly. It came in the guise of a staff member at Jonathan’s school. Elena Doretti supplemented her income by minding some of the children after classes ended at three. She saw to four children until as late at five forty-five and said that adding one more wouldn’t be a problem. There were days when five forty-five would be a problem for me, but I’d deal with that when and if it happened, at least until I’d found a new nanny. Jonathan wasn’t especially fond of Ms. Doretti, which didn’t surprise me. She was kind but firm. There was a reserve to her, even with the children. I think she saw her role as a service-provider and a caregiver, not as a surrogate parent. She tailored her behavior accordingly. Nice but not too nice. Jonathan, at least, was a tad too young for this approach. Smiles were mostly reserved for mums and dads. It wasn’t ideal, but for the time being, it would have to do.
In the midst of this muddle, Mungo Kenroy of all people sent an email proposing dinner and tickets to a hit musical that had recently come to the West End from Broadway.
“You have got to be kidding,” I said to nobody, upon reading the message. What possible signal had I given Kenroy to make him think I’d want to suffer through supper and a show with him? Moreover, how could he think it appropriate for him to court, if that’s what this was, a police officer investigating the death of his best friend? Amazing.
Which is why I said yes.
Either Kenroy was so impressed with himself he was blind to propriety, or he was fishing for information about the Hayworth death. If it was the latter, then I had to wonder why. When I told Ben and Chika I’d been asked out, they encouraged me. Of course they didn’t know the entire story. Kindly, they insisted on taking Jonathan. Ken was the backup. I wouldn’t feel awkward asking Ken, if the need arose. For some time, it had been clear that his most fervent wish was to reconcile with his wife, no matter how unlikely that seemed. He wasn’t over her, his marriage, or his family, although he never came out and said as much. It was sad and sweet. When I mentioned this to Chika, she grinned and said, “You finally figured that out, did you?”
Dating was indeed something I needed to do, albeit without ulterior motives; a night out with someone who interested me for the right reasons, as opposed to Mr. Kenroy. When I did date like that, I knew I’d want Jabirah around to share my stories. Encouraging me, soothing my nerves. Jabirah would have an opinion on Kenroy despite never having laid eyes on him. She would have spoken sense to me, as I hoped I would have to her. I emailed her to fill her in but got no reply, at least not immediately. Nearly a week on, a terse, troublesome answer came.
Tessa:
I am now married. My husband does not wish me to continue our correspondence and has asked me to stop using this email address. I wish you and Jonathan well. The Obinas too.
Jabirah
She had to have hated writing that email! I knew her heart couldn’t be in it. Possibly she was forced to send it. Still, Jabirah and I came from different worlds. Jonathan and I had had the pleasure of her company for nearly two years. Now, she’d returned to the fold, whether by choice or force I didn’t know. I might never know. Either way, I couldn’t help her, assuming she even wanted or needed help. My son and I would have to make do with fond memories of our friend in the headscarf, the one from another planet.
Mungo Kenroy met me at an Italian restaurant in Seven Dials. We could walk to the theater from there. The curtain call was for eight so we dined prior to the show rather than after, since I had an early next day. When I arrived, Kenroy was already there. I think I looked okay, in a simple designer dress I’d found at a second-hand shop in South Kensington. Every few months I stopped in to the store to browse the latest donations, the barely worn castoffs of its tony neighbors. Why pay full-price, even if one could?
Kenroy stood as I entered the restaurant. He pecked my cheek.
“You look great,” he said.
I smiled. “Thanks. Same to you. Your invitation surprised me. I thought you said you had a girlfriend.”
“Had, as in past tense,” he said.
I sat. He poured me a glass from the bottle of Barolo already on the table. Then, he handed me a small box, which I opened. It held an orchid.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it, though.”
Mungo took the flower from the box. A pin pierced its stem.
“I know it’s kind of 1940s, but I thought you might like it. You can pin it to your dress, on your sleeve—never mind, you don’t have any sleeves—or just take it home and put it in water.”
“I’ll take the third option, but thank you. It’s very thoughtful. You didn’t grow it, did you? My Dad tried orchids once. Didn’t go too well.”
“God no, I kill every plant I set eyes on,” he said. “Actually, a friend runs a flower shop off Oxford Street. Her parents have a big greenhouse in South Yorkshire. They win prizes for their roses.”
“What’s the name of the shop?” I asked. He texted me the contact information. The woman’s surname was James.
“Like Molly James, one of Mr. Hayworth’s exes.”
“Her sister, actually. She’s one of my exes, truth be told, and Colfax’s, if I remember right. She sort of ran through us. We’re still friends. She’s great.”
“Then why is she an ex? Not that it’s any of my bu
siness,” I said.
“No, that’s okay. Well, in part it was Freddy. He knew Sandra from Molly, of course. When the Molly-Freddy relationship went south, he turned his eyes on Sandra, who was seeing me at the time.”
“Meaning she didn’t tell him to get lost.”
“She did, actually,” Kenroy said, “but only after spending the night with him, which she attributed to…well, never mind what she attributed it to; the deed was done. I think she truly regretted stepping out on me, but the damage was done. At least for me it was.”
“Broken. Couldn’t be put back together again.”
He nodded. “Like Humpty Dumpty. I’ve done stupid things myself, so I’m not one to judge.”
“But you remained friends with Freddy Hayworth,” I said.
Mungo looked pained recalling the situation. “Not at first. He expressed contrition and all that, but it was a pattern with him. Kept saying he knew he needed to control himself. It was always about him.”
“I’m not getting why he was such a good friend,” I said.
“He just was. Odd as it may seem. He wasn’t always thinking of himself, Tessa; I shouldn’t have put it that way. Freddy was funny, and, what—charismatic, I guess. You wanted to be around him. You knew you’d have a good time with him. The anger I felt passed eventually. The good times with Freddy did not.”
“They outweighed the bad, apparently.”
Mungo nodded. “I miss him. You must think him a complete cad. He wasn’t.”
Mungo Kenroy was charming, or could be. Why should that surprise me? The play we saw lived up to the hype, thankfully. At the end of the night, when asked, I said yes, I’d like to see him again, but only after we’d concluded our investigation of Freddy Hayworth’s death.
“I didn’t do it,” he said, clearly in jest.
“Let’s say I believe you,” I said, “but for now we need to keep this professional, Mr. Kenroy.”
Outside the theater he hugged me and kissed my cheek. He pulled away, holding onto my hand, but only for a moment. With that, he walked away.
Kenroy didn’t seem a creep, not that night.
Maybe it was only a matter of time.
Ben and Chika’s reaction to Jabirah’s email was more resignation than sadness or anger.
“It’s her culture, Tessa,” Ben said. “We’ll all miss her, but she’s not coming back.”
“Not even if she wanted to,” Chika said. “For many people, family is everything. Where would Jabirah be if she didn’t have her family?”
“In the upstairs flat,” I said. “With this family.”
Ben smiled indulgently. “That was never going to happen.”
“What do we tell the boys?” I asked.
“Do we need to tell them anything?” Chika asked. “They know she’s gone. In a few weeks they’ll have forgotten about her.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
“Let’s see,” Chika said.
One Saturday, Ogueri was downstairs playing with Jonathan in the gadget room. I brought them something to drink.
“So Jabirah isn’t taking us to the library anymore?” Ogueri asked as I handed him his glass.
“She got married,” Jonathan said.
“So?” Ogueri replied.
“So now she’s got other people to go to the library with,” Jonathan said.
“You two will have to make do with me,” I said.
“Okay,” said Ogueri. As if it was no big deal that Jabirah, our rock, had disappeared.
She became barely a memory for the boys.
But not for me.
* * *
—
Running through emails at work a few days later, I nearly deleted one from Peter. The subject line was “The Whole Picture.” It sounded like one of the lame jokes he sent occasionally to an unlucky few of us. Maybe it was a peace offering, or as close as he would come to one. The body of the email said only “Work related photo.” So I clicked on the attached JPEG. It was the photo of Freddy Hayworth that he used as a screensaver. Only it didn’t stop at the top of his bushy parts. This one was full frontal.
I wrote back: “Where?” as in where did this come from? We’d only seen the cropped version.
Peter replied: “IT was finally able to open password-protected files on Hayworth’s laptop. There’s more. Bring the smelling salts.”
I’m not sure why I was so surprised to learn that Freddy Hayworth liked taking pictures of himself. Isn’t that exactly what narcissists do? Spend some time on Instagram if you doubt me. Except that Freddy liked being filmed naked, and not only alone, but also with others. By others I mean the women he was having sex with at the time. And by women, I mean there were occasions when there was more than one of them. I was stunned, watching the clips for the first time. What possessed someone to bring a camera to the bedroom like this? I’ve heard of exhibitionism, but this was more; this was homemade pornography. Thirty-two files, multiple photos and video clips in each. The clips were mostly no more than two or three minutes, but some were as long as twenty. The quality was poor. Somebody—I’d guess the late Mr. Hayworth—propped a smartphone near a bed, sofa, whatever, opened its camera app and pressed Record. Then, Hayworth would come into the frame from the side, starkers, and take up with his eager partner.
“Wow,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Peter.
“Who the hell…okay, I know the answer to that. What the hell does he do with these?”
“Well, since you asked.” Peter clicked on another file. This time the man on camera was not Freddy Hayworth but Mungo Kenroy. The woman with him was unrecognizable. In two of the longer Hayworth videos, however, we could identify the woman. She was mostly a blur until Hayworth switched on a lamp. Even then it was hard to see her face, but her voice was unmistakable. It was Molly James. At one point during their encounter, Hayworth looked toward the camera, smiled, and winked as Molly gasped.
There was also a file with passwords to five adult websites, all focused on showing and sharing amateur sex videos. Swinger sites. Exhibitionist sites as well. In my office I clicked on each of them. Afterward, a shower felt appropriate. When I entered Hayworth’s passwords, his account showed which videos in his “library” he had shared and named the other members he shared them with. Freddy Hayworth was boasting of his conquests by sending them to others online. Clearly, the man had been a sex addict, one with a penchant for exhibitionism. He liked to expose himself. No longer was it necessary for such people to cruise parks in raincoats. Now it was online and legal. Or was it? Wouldn’t Freddy’s co-stars need to consent as well?
Identifying the women could take some time. Most were unrecognizable, heads cropped or blurred. These films looked illicit, which was probably the point. They could be staged, intended to look surreptitious. All lacked the lighting, angles, professionalism, one would expect in a commercial production. This, I suspect, was another part of the appeal for Hayworth, the good boy who could be ever so bad. The successful executive, the man in tailored suits who could shock, who loved—even craved—the sordidness of it all. It was a tired old story we’d seen millions of times. Still, it was indeed shocking. The things people get up to behind closed doors! Except Freddy Hayworth apparently liked to keep the door open.
As for the men, one was dead; the other was the deceased’s best friend. Could these clips have gotten into the wrong hands? They could have ended his career, embarrassed him or his family. Would that be a motive for suicide? Or did one of the women in the videos find out? Talk about a motive for murder. I’d use the nearest knife on the bastard who filmed me and shared it.
Mr. Kenroy looked surprised when I showed up at his office the next morning.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. Pleasant but guarded.
“What did you do with the sex video
s you and Mr. Hayworth made?” I asked, remaining standing. Damn the pleasantries.
Kenroy choked on the coffee he’d just sipped. “What the fuck—”
“Answer the question, Mr. Kenroy. Was it some kind of ego thing? You and Freddy took these women to bed and filmed it. I’d bet money you didn’t have their consent, but I mean to find out. If I’m right, you could have a serious problem on your hands.”
“Now wait just a minute, Detective Grantley.”
“Detective Inspector. You know what? Enough waiting. I take it you also visit the websites Hayworth used? AdultFriends.com? Some friend you are.”
“If you’re trying to intimidate me, Detective Inspector, you’re not doing a very good job. I only did a few of those films, and I know for certain nobody could recognize any of the women with me. I even photoshopped a tattoo off one of them. Now, your prudish mind may get offended at Freddy’s and my extracurricular activities, but that’s your problem, not mine.”
“How would your employers feel about seeing these tapes?” I asked.
“How would yours feel if you got the Metropolitan Police sued for harassment? Maybe you like me a little too much.”
“You really are disgusting.”
“Calm the fuck down, Detective Inspector.”
For nearly a minute I didn’t answer. Then I said, “Did you know he had you on film? That he was sharing you with others online?”
Kenroy took a moment. When he replied he was unequivocal. Looking me in the eye he said, “Yes, I did. And I ‘shared’ him too, to use your word. We both liked it. I suppose we got some kind of thrill out of it, sharing our conquests—the ones we had in common. So what?”
“No so what. You answered my question.”
“Look,” Kenroy said, “if you think you’ve found some clue about Freddy’s death, I’m all ears. If I can help, I’m all yours. Otherwise, why are we having this conversation?”
