by Tim Hoy
“If I’d known, I’d have gotten rid of it. What if our children…” She shuddered.
“It’s been there at least since my parents were running the place,” said Clark. “I took over twenty-three years ago now.”
“Clark inherited the property,” Felicity said. “The business goes back, what, Clark?”
“We’re the fourth generation to grow things here. Likely the last, since our kids want nothing to do with it,” Clark said, in a defeated tone. “They used the cyanide to kill vermin, my parents did. I hadn’t thought of it in years.”
“The tin dates from the late 1950s through the mid- to late 1960s,” I said, because I knew. I’d checked the label.
“That fits,” he said.
“So you never used it?” I asked.
“Goodness, no,” said Mr. James. “We had a cantankerous old moggy when I was a lad. Bootsy. My mum’s name, not mine. Big cat. I must have been six or seven when poor old Bootsy got to one of the poisoned rats first.” He stopped a moment, clearly upset at the memory. Mrs. James rubbed his shoulder. “He’d eaten about half the thing before the poison did in Bootsy as well. Her last supper.”
“Oh my,” said Mrs. James. “I don’t think you ever told me that story, dear.”
“It isn’t something I like remembering,” he said. Mr. James looked into the camera, nodded as if resolute, and continued. “Anyway, that was the last of the rat poisoning. My mum bought a few traps. We even made this contraption once, a bucket full of water with a stick across the top. A roller stick. In the middle of the stick we put the bait—you spread marmite or maybe butter on it—so when the rat crawled out for the treat, it lost its balance, fell into the water and drowned.”
“Clever,” I said. Where was this going? “Did you ever tell your children about Bootsy?”
“I’m sure I never did,” Clark said. “Why traumatize them unnecessarily?”
“Your son, Rick? Or Richard? Or the daughter who lives near you?” I asked. “I’ve met two of your daughters.”
“Rick,” said Felicity. “The older brother. Our first. Three years older than Molly. Celia came next, now married with two children, living in Sheffield.”
“You son’s not in the picture?”
“He’s on our laptop screen every Sunday,” Clark said. “Skyping from Sydney. Been there four years now. Met a girl, whom we haven’t yet had the pleasure, I might add.”
“I expect they’ll marry eventually,” said Mrs. James, “although nobody seems in any rush these days to ‘make an honest woman’ of ’em, do they? Listen to me sounding like a prude. I’m happy he’s happy.”
“He’s not been back to visit?” I asked.
Mr. James shook his head.
“It’s such a long trip. We’re going soon though, aren’t we, dear?” Mrs. James said to her husband.
“If you say so,” he replied. “Twenty-some hours on a plane doesn’t strike me as the perfect getaway.”
“It is if it’s the only way you get to see your son,” Mrs. James said.
“True,” he said. He nodded. “You’re right, dear. We’re going.”
The chat went on a few more minutes, but nothing notable came of it. Molly had met Freddy Hayworth a little over two years ago. This meant that brother Rick and Freddy Hayworth had never met. There’d been no break-ins on the James family property, not so far as anyone noticed. Nothing had ever gone missing. And, no, the shed had never been locked. No need, they insisted, nothing worth nicking.
“We’re a good few miles from civilization,” Mr. James said. “Not on a major road. You’d have to come looking for us.”
Mrs. James nodded. “And nobody has.”
“Still if, say, you were both down in London visiting your girls, it is possible someone could come and help themselves to your potted plants, right?” I asked. “Or the contents of the shed.”
Both looked skeptical. “I suppose,” said Mr. James.
“Could and did are two different things, Detective Inspector,” Mrs. James said.
They are indeed.
Peter Lazarus injected his usual, and usually welcome, read on things Hayworth.
“We’ve got zilch, Tessa,” he said, “Nada.” It was later in the day after my conversation with Molly’s parents. I’d walked to Peter’s office, which I’d intended as a gesture of goodwill.
“I wouldn’t exactly say zilch. I’ve got the poison.”
“You may have it. You found a source. You know the tin’s been moved sometime in, what, the last five years? The last decade? And so what? Somebody could have been up there looking for something else and moved things a bit. Clearing cobwebs or something.”
“Nothing else had been moved, Peter. Every damn can, pot, whatever on that shelf had a layer of dust that pre-dated the Beatles’ first hit. And it would still be potent. I checked.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “That’s good, but it doesn’t make a case against Ms. James, does it? No fingerprints, right?”
I shook my head.
“What’s one step up from zilch?” Peter asked with a smile.
“How about fuck off?” I said, smiling back.
“I’m sorry I flew off the handle at you,” he said.
“You did, didn’t you? I may have deserved it, though. Still, thanks. I’m sorry I wet your trousers when I know you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”
“I miss my wife,” he said, “although I admit she’s a superficial shrew. Her new fellow’s a dance therapist.” Peter’s voice made it clear what he thought of the man’s profession.
“What the hell is a dance therapist?” I asked. “Dearie, your waltz is suffering because you weren’t loved as a child? Jesus.”
We both had a chuckle.
“I know it’s not my business, but I know you miss your husband,” Peter said. The comment surprised me, which showed. “What?” he added. “I’m trying to be nice for once.”
“Actually, I don’t,” I admitted. We’d never spoken of Alec, at least not since he disappeared.
“You don’t? Really?”
I shook my head. “Okay, I miss the man I married. Correction, the man I thought I married.”
“What does that mean?”
“Peter, you don’t want to know. Trust me.”
“I do, you know.”
“I know. And thanks. It’ll be in my memoirs.”
“I’ll pre-order them on Amazon,” he said.
Fight called. A draw.
Late that night, still awake, I emailed Jabirah. And again, one of those automated responses came back: “Invalid address.” Her mobile number had been assigned to someone else, so I knew not to try it again. I’d really lost all contact with her. The thought saddened me, not only for the loss but also for the powerlessness I felt. The notion that Jabirah would willingly cut us out of her life was inconceivable. Nevertheless, what could be done? Something had shattered. Its shards wounded both me and my son. Add our friends and neighbors up the stairs. Time would ease the sense of loss, but she would be missed. Always there would be hope that, someday, Jabirah would open the front door and come home to us. No need for her to ring the bell; she still had the key.
I knew how time worked its mellowing way. No more did I obsess on the malevolence of my gone husband. For a long while, he had haunted me, invading my dreams. Each of us evolves, of course, if only because our lives do. Reality intervenes. My first priority was Jonathan. My life changed when I became a mother and changed again as a single mother.
In a way, for me the late Freddy Hayworth was a cautionary tale. Like Freddy, my son’s father was a very handsome man. And like Freddy, Alec was deeply flawed. That Jonathan should always be a kind person seemed essential to me, no matter who or what he grew into. He should always treat people, including women, with respect, and ne
ver with a sense of entitlement. One could only imagine what new opportunities for communication we would have in twenty years. The world would be even smaller then, and possibly more prone to abuse by those who preyed on others, like Freddy Hayworth.
I couldn’t decide if I believed Molly James when she claimed not to know that Hayworth had filmed them in bed together. She might not have known at the time; given the surreptitious quality of the filming, I’d buy her claim she didn’t know she was on camera. Or maybe she knew but had gone along because Hayworth convinced her that the film was for his personal use only. Like sexting. Callow but possible. Wouldn’t someone somewhere in her circle of acquaintances have seen the proof once Freddy Hayworth uploaded it to one of those porn sites? Wouldn’t someone have recognized her? Between the videos and the acrimonious break up, Molly had a plausible motive for killing. The crux of the matter: Could this friendly, lively woman have planned this sort of murder? We’re not talking of the heat of passion; we’re talking of killing with calculation. Spiking a capsule, adding it to a bottle with a hundred identical-looking pills. At least that’s the method we were considering now. Think of the patience required! The killer’s resolve hadn’t faltered, apparently. Had it, Freddy Hayworth would still be alive. The killer spent every minute of every day, week, month, waiting for the text or call that would make him, or her, a murderer. How would that work? How could a normal, reasonably adjusted person live that way? Wouldn’t the passage of time inevitably diminish the anger that motivated the murder? And with the diminishing effect of time, wouldn’t someone reconsider? Go to the Hayworth residence on whatever pretext, use the toilet and nab the pill bottle, or flush its contents away? The answer, in this case, must have been no, which meant I was dealing with someone especially cold-blooded, extraordinarily depraved. That person likely looked forward to the fatal phone call. Each day he or she would wake wondering if it would be Freddy Hayworth’s last day on earth, wondering not in fear but in eager anticipation. Wrap your head around that, if you can.
The thought settled in. In the morning, I checked the train timetables. By eleven a.m. I was on my way to Yorkshire. Lazarus, ever the inquisitive one, texted me shortly after departure.
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Can’t. On a train.”
“Going where?”
“Gardening.”
Detective Larry Cooley of the South Yorkshire Police met me at Sheffield station and drove us to the Jameses’ farm. The ride was under half an hour. After a morning rain, the countryside glittered green. Cooley was a man of few words, which suited me. He knew the way, turning down a lane that brought us to a modest, well-maintained older house framed by smaller structures, including a garage and what must have been the shed in question. In the background, low to the ground, was a sizeable greenhouse. Luscious flowers and plants were visible inside. We parked on gravel in front of the house beside a small, unmarked goods van. Mr. and Mrs. James greeted me kindly if warily. I’d have done the same, so I took no offense. With thanks, I refused coffee or tea. Mr. James—Clark, as he insisted I call him—took me to the shed, which was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Once inside, Clark loomed in the doorway, pointed to the cluttered row of shelves on the back wall and left me to it. Detective Cooley was extraneous. Mrs. James watched us from the back door to the house. A dim light came on in the shed, the only illumination in the old place. It barely sufficed, lending a weak glow and not much more.
“Top shelf,” he said. “That’s where it was all those years. At least I assume so.”
I looked to Cooley, who nodded in agreement.
“It shouldn’t have been there,” Clark James said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I mean it should have been tossed out long ago. Then again, maybe that was the problem,” he said.
“What was the problem?” I asked.
“Disposal. Of the poison. Do you simply toss it in the bin? Where does it go from there? My parents were good people. Maybe they didn’t know what to do with it, so they did nothing, other than putting it out of reach of us kids.”
“Perhaps they forgot about it altogether,” I said.
Mr. James nodded. He remained solemn. “I didn’t know it was there, Detective Inspector.”
I nodded and added a half-smile so he knew I meant it. I believed him. The shed was a time warp. Old tins of paint, the labels from decades past. Bags of plant food. The floor was a cracked slab of pitted concrete. I poked about.
“Anything you need me to do, Detective Inspector?” asked Cooley.
“Not that I can think of,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”
Turning again to Mr. James, I said, “About your cat.”
In vain, he waited for me to continue. “Who, Bootsy?” he asked eventually.
“You found her? Or him?”
“So long ago,” he said, as he nodded.
“Still,” I said.
“Yes, just outside. Not yet dead though. Convulsing, I guess you’d say. Dead rat in its mouth, half-eaten. Not a pretty sight, especially for a young lad, which I was back then.”
“I can imagine. And you never told your family?”
Mr. James shook his head. “Put it right out of my mind, I think.”
“Anyone else?” I asked.
“Did I tell anyone? It wasn’t like it was a secret. Over the years I’m sure I’ve mentioned it. I know I told friends back when it happened. I dreamed of it for years, I can tell you.”
“Anyone in the past few years?” I added.
“That I told? Not that I recall.”
“Think about it, will you?” I said. Mr. James nodded.
Less than four hours after arriving, I was on a train back to London. Detective Cooley had delivered me to the station.
“Check on him in a few days; could you? I gave him my card, but he may need a little prodding,” I said to Cooley, as I climbed out of the car.
“I will,” Cooley said. “Safe journey back.”
It was. I slept much of the way.
At home we were getting by. Jabirah could not be replaced, but the new nanny I’d finally found was capable, her disposition warm. Sally let us at least glimpse some of the magic we had with Jabirah. Once again I felt lucky.
The Obinnas were rumbling about their future. Ben would be finished with his studies the next year. He was in the UK on a student visa, although Chika and Ogueri had obtained permanent residence through the immigration attorney I’d found for them. Ben too could get permanent residence but wondered if he wanted it. Ogueri had far more opportunities in Britain than at home in Nigeria, Ben believed, but the point of their coming to London in the first place was to learn skills they could take home with them, skills that could improve the lot of those in their homeland. Chika admitted the nobility of Ben’s feelings, but if left to her, the family would stay in the UK. I knew better than to give an opinion, although I wanted them upstairs forever. Our perfect little extended family was unraveling. While inevitable, it made me nostalgic in a way, for it also signified that Jonathan was growing up, changing. Best to cherish the time now; Jabirah’s absence brought home that point. There was nothing to be gained by fretting about the future. Who knew, if the Obinnas did leave, perhaps their replacements would be wonderful too in their own way. Best to focus on things I did have some control over. Like finding out what really happened to the late Mr. Hayworth.
My first year on the Met, I spent months investigating a cigarette-smuggling ring. The crime was tax avoidance, so HM Revenue & Customs worked with us—liased was what my superiors called it. Such a silly word. I got to know some of their people. I liked Jeff Wanger enough to stay in touch with him. Jeff was now with the Home Office in a semi-senior position. We saw each other maybe once a year for lunch or drinks, mostly as a way to keep the contact open. Both of us recognized the value of knowing some
one in our respective positions, someone who would take the call if ever it came. That and we enjoyed each other’s company. He picked up straightaway when I rang his mobile.
“Who died?” he said, a typical Wangerian greeting.
“Not you, apparently. I’m well and assume you are, so let’s cut to it: I need a favor.”
“Ask and ye shall most likely receive.”
“Good,” I said. “Two things on one person. First, I need to know if someone is a UK citizen with a valid passport.”
“With a full name and address, that I can do. Birthdate would probably cinch it,” he said.
“Perfect. Second question, same person. Could you tell me when this person last used her UK passport? Oh, and I guess there’s a third question.”
“That’ll cost you extra.”
“Put it on my bill. Can you tell if someone is a dual national? As in…”
“I know what ‘as in,’ Detective Inspector. Which is the second country?” he asked.
“Pakistan,” I said. “I’m told she went to Pakistan around three months ago, at least that was her final destination.”
“Name?” Jeff asked
“Jabirah Rahman. Twenty years old, address in Kilburn,” which I recited, along with her date of birth.
“What did she do?”
“More like what was done to her. Possible forced marriage. Probably nothing to be done, but I have to try.”
“Good for you. What an atrocity, forced marriage. ’Course, I married my first wife out of love. It lasted a year. We split up five years ago, and I still despise her. Okay, I’m putting you on hold a moment. Enjoy the music.”
