Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

  "Do you have any proof?"

  "No." Savva drained his glass of wine. "Other than a break-in at the house two weeks before Fitzroy's murder. The burglar escaped into the neighboring property."

  "Alexandros," Shayma said, putting her hand over his, "you'll figure it out."

  Savva smiled, her trust and faith in him was the only reason he'd succeeded in police work. She'd always had such a clear view of his talents and of the cases he'd dealt with. Without her, where would he be? He’d probably still be a sergeant, bemoaning his lot, and drinking himself to oblivion.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  She leaned back into her chair, a proud expectant smile on her face. "Of course.”

  "Would you kill me if I beat you?"

  Shayma blinked and cocked an eyebrow at him with a thinly veiled look of disdain. "Are you thinking of starting?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it," Savva said. "Would it be enough to drive you, or another woman, over the edge?"

  "It's not new, Alexandros Savva."

  "I'm just asking. What would it take?"

  "I'd assume years of abuse," she said. "Do you have proof that Davonna Fitzroy was being abused by her husband?"

  "No."

  "Why would she kill him?"

  "Insurance money?"

  "Pfft," she said. "What about his mistresses? They'd have more of a reason to kill him. He wasn't leaving his wife, if he was like any other man, he was leading them on, making them think they were important, using them, and then he took it all away. It's nice to have hope that a person will change, but when that hope is gone … things go desperately wrong."

  "But," Savva plodded on, "the most obvious answer is that Davonna Fitzroy killed her husband. She had access to the garage and had a full week alone in the house, which was ample time to tamper with the car."

  "Didn't he drive the car to the hotel every day?"

  "Yes," Savva conceded. "And before you ask, no, there weren't any security cameras."

  "If you can't prove that the car wasn't tampered with at the hotel, then you have a wide hole through which her counsel could rip the case apart."

  "It's so encouraging talking to you …"

  Shayma laughed. "You knew all of this before."

  "It's not that. It's just when a man goes home to talk to his wife about his day, he hopes she'll pat him on the back, tell him he'll figure it out, stroke his ego."

  Shayma bit her lip, leaned over, patted him awkwardly, and then doubled over with laughter. Savva glared at her. When she righted herself, streams of tears ran down her face and she almost fell out of the chair again, her whole body shook with mirth.

  "I … do … I … am sorry," she choked out between howls of laughter.

  "Right," Savva said, crossing his arms over his chest in derision, which only made Shayma laugh harder. "I am thrilled to be your fount of joy."

  "You're priceless," she hiccupped.

  "So no ego stroking?"

  "Not from me. Why don't you go get yourself a mistress?"

  "And end up murdered? No, thank you."

  Shayma winked conspiratorially and checked her watch. "I'd better be going. Do you want more calamari?"

  "No, thank you. You might have poisoned it. I don't want to risk my life further."

  "I'm too hot-blooded to poison you," she said, with a wink. "You don't mind do you, you would say if you did? I'd stop.”

  "Are we still talking about murder?"

  Shayma took a deep breath, "The refugees. I go out more nights than I'm home."

  "Don't lie."

  "I'm not."

  "You wouldn't stop," Savva said. "And you shouldn't. No matter what I or anyone else thinks, you're doing great work and you're saving lives."

  "I don't know."

  "I do," Savva said. He placed a hand on his wife's thin, tired shoulders. "You have a heart of pure gold. Do your work. I'll be sleeping. Anyways, it's not like you need my permission to do anything."

  Shayma's eyes watered, her lip trembled, and for a moment Savva glimpsed the young fiery woman he'd married, the woman who wanted to change the world. With overwhelming emotion, he realized she was. Every coat she handed out, every hand she held, every baby she rocked though the night so its mother could sleep, every meal she fed to tired and terrorized people: that was world-changing. She was utterly magnificent, and though he wished more people knew and saw it, but the world's opinion didn't matter. She'd always done it for God anyways, and she took great pleasure in knowing he was always watching her.

  Savva pulled himself upright and back into the present. Shayma was taking a load of dishes to the kitchen. She brought back a glass bowl and an orange lid and spooned in the leftover calamari. She smiled vaguely at him, as though he was now far from her mind.

  "Would you like me to go with you tonight?"

  Shayma looked up from putting the leftovers into a padded lunch box. "You work tomorrow."

  "I don't mind. I could go for a few hours."

  They walked out of the house, hand in hand, fifteen minutes later. The kitchen was tidy; the dishes put away, the hallway light left on for when Savva came back. They made their way to the beach where Shayma and her friends watched for boats. He apologized for leaving his car at the police department but Shayma said she enjoyed the walk.

  It was midnight, a fog settled around the streetlights, creating strange effervescent haloes, when she sent him home. He hitched a ride with a passing constable and stepped back into the house; distinctly unhinged. Aside from the sole light on in the hall, the house was dark and silent and empty. There were no remnants of Shayma's delicious cooking or her unbridled laughter, no sign that two people had enjoyed each other's company.

  Savva sat at the table and stared across at Shayma's usual chair. Her words echoed through is mind, the mistresses having as clear a motive as the wife, the hotel parking lot through which any good barrister would rip holes in a case, and the break-in at the Fitzroy house. Frustrated, Savva pulled his hands through his hair.

  But something niggled at his mind. Davonna's behavior didn't fit; she wasn't being honest. He needed to know more about her. He needed to search the house. This wouldn't be the case that slipped through his fingers unsolved.

  VII

  Πολλοί συγγενείς, λίγοι λίγοι.

  Many relatives, little by little.

  Savva's feet rested on his desk the next morning. He was ignoring the abyss of paperwork before him, when the door swung open. Booras poked his head in.

  "What is it?" Savva barked. He pulled a hand across his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  "It's Colonel Kleitos. He wants to see you."

  "What the hell for?"

  "I'm not sure, Sir."

  "The devil you are."

  "Ten euro it's the Fitzroy case, Sir."

  "Kleitos wants to sidle on in and check on me like my mother."

  "I'm not sure about that, Sir."

  "Good God, man, don't we pay you to have a brain?"

  "Not to have opinions about our top brass' inner workings."

  "What a frightening prospect," Savva said with a feigned shudder. "Are you still here?"

  Booras grimaced and beat a hasty retreat.

  "Booras!" Savva barked.

  He came running back in, his face inscrutable. "Yes, Sir?"

  "What'd she say?"

  Stelios stared owlishly back. "I've been working on Athena Carras' past, there isn't any new information yet …”

  "Not her," Savva said, rolling his eyes. "Your girlfriend."

  "Oh! She said yes," Booras said, a wide grin broke over his face and he blushed crimson.

  "Good," said Savva. "But I wouldn't have given you the day off if she said no."

  "I didn't think you would, Sir."

  "When's the wedding?"

  "She hasn't decided yet."

  "Don't let her think too long."

  "Why?"

  Savva considered Stelios, he pointed at t
he man's chest. "What does a man give up when he gets married?"

  "Not much, Sir … except being a bachelor."

  "That's right. Men give up being alone, making decisions alone, sleeping alone. He exchanges it for a beautiful, loving woman; not a poor trade. Now what does a woman give up?"

  Stelios hesitated, "Um …”

  "Now come on, Booras, you're smarter than that. This is important."

  "Her last name?"

  "Is that it?"

  "I … I don't know, I hadn't thought …”

  "A woman gives up a great deal. Independence means more to a woman than it does a man, since culturally, she's the submissive one. She gives up her family and cleaves to her husband. She gives up her body, to bear children into her husband's family. She gives up her career most times. She gives up her home, all she knows, to be with you." Savva paused, Stelios backed up a full step. "That's why I'm saying don't let her think about it for too long, because she may come to realize you aren't worth it."

  "Are you saying I shouldn't marry her?"

  Savva rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've been married for thirty-five years to a saint of a woman, and I still don't understand why she stays. What I am trying to tell you is: honor her sacrifices. Honor her every single day."

  Booras nodded, lost for words.

  "Enough chat, get back on Athena Carras." Stelios hurried from the room like a shot. "Booras!" Savva said, stopping the sergeant for the second time.

  "Sir?" Stelios stood in the doorway, petrified of stepping back in.

  “I’ll expect an invitation, shall I?”

  “I’d be honored if you and Kupia Savva would come.”

  Savva leaned back an inch or two and blinked. He was on the verge of making a snappy retort, his mouth open to respond, but he waved his hand and dismissed Stelios.

  Savva leaned back in his chair and stared at the dusty beige ceiling. The sight of Stelios’ face made him chuckle. Did the boy know what he was getting himself into? Did John Fitzroy know? Had he honored the sacrifices his wife had made? Had he ever known what she’d given up?

  What was it about her that bothered him? She had access to the garage. She had a motive because of her husband’s infidelity, and she was the only one at the house the last week. It was enough time and privacy to tamper with the car. But how could she know the brakes would give out at the exact moment? They could have gone out as soon as Fitzroy pulled into the hotel lot or his own driveway? Did she have sufficient expertise to manage it or was it luck?

  Then there was her demeanor. She'd almost collapsed when he'd told her Fitzroy had been murdered. He'd even heard the sound of her retching from across the house. Was it feigned? She'd been so calm at the accident site and even leaned over the wall to have a good look at the mangled Morgan.

  Savva pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes, shutting out the light. Had he missed a crucial piece of the puzzle? After decades of service was he losing his edge? Was it time for a younger man to step in? Was that what the Colonel wanted to talk to him about? It had been in the press, the unfortunate death of a British ex-pat. It was by sheer happenstance they hadn't gotten wind of the recent developments. Savva couldn't count on it remaining the case for long. He grunted and shoved the green Fitzroy case files into a thick worn briefcase. What was it about Davonna? Who was she?

  Savva tramped down the hall, scattering uniformed and plain-clothes officers alike. He didn't notice them, and many an officer wondered why he didn't scowl and yell. Up two flights of stairs and across a much quieter hall, he strode, until at last he came to a halt before Colonel Kleitos' receptionist.

  "He's waiting for you, Captain," the young man said, before Savva could open his mouth.

  The corner office into which he entered was spacious and quietly grand, with long, thick burgundy drapes at the windows and a gold plated coffee cart in the corner; Savva always suspected that one jar at the back held gin instead of coffee beans.

  The man sitting behind the ornate desk hung up the phone with a dull clack. He beckoned to Savva and pointed to a hard-backed chair in front of the desk. Colonel Kleitos was a tall, thin man with an impressive black beard, not out of place on a Russian tsar, and distant, unfocused eyes.

  "Kalimera, Captain."

  "Kalimera, Colonel."

  "I don't have much time today, so let's get to it. Where are you at on the Fitzroy case? I'm sure the story will go viral at any moment. I'd like us to preempt that and have a suspect, preferably in police custody."

  "As you know we recovered both the body and the car. John Fitzroy died of a combination of blunt force trauma to the skull and suffocation due to drowning."

  "Yes, go on."

  "The car yielded more information. Our forensic team determined that the brake lines were damaged, which means they took a while to fail. We cannot give an exact time the lines were tampered with, but the damage happened 'recently.' We must resolve that fact before the case gets to court."

  Kleitos cut him off. "I want more than what's in the reports. Whom have you talked to? What have you not put in the report?"

  Savva took a breath. "I've spoken to several people acquainted with the Fitzroy's, well if not John, then Davonna. One of our sergeants is an acquaintance of hers. The consensus suggests that she's a likable woman, but private. We know little about John Fitzroy other than the fact he rarely spoke or interacted with locals. One of his mistresses, Athena Carras, who works at the hotel, is adamant his wife made his life a living hell. She claims Fitzroy showed her a list of big ticket items, demands which Mrs. Fitzroy had written out for him to buy while he was in London. I put the picture Miss Carras took in the file. While her testimony is intriguing, it clashes with every other conversation I have had regarding Davonna Fitzroy. Everyone else I spoke to has naught but praise for her."

  "But?"

  "When I took her to the site where the wreckage of her husband's car was, she hardly reacted. It was as if she didn't understand it. Maybe it was expected—if she is our perpetrator. She's confusing." Savva bit his lip.

  He hadn't intended to say the last sentence aloud. Kleitos pounced. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Sir," Savva started, eager to buy himself time, "I couldn't testify to it in court. One moment her eyes close off as if all feeling and sense of self disappears and she's a shell. Then, and this is disconcerting, she overflows with emotion. I can't say what emotion, but at those times … she looks like she's drowning."

  The Colonel leaned back, mirroring Savva's posture. The two men stared not at each other, but past, their gazes searching an invisible crime scene. "Psychiatry has its place. We can learn a lot, going with our instincts. Is she our killer?"

  The question came fast, but Savva was prepared for it. "I'm not sure, Sir. I'm getting a warrant for the garage. It's the most likely spot for the damage to have taken place since the vehicle was only ever there or in the staff-parking garage at the hotel—which I'll check. Davonna Fitzroy is an interesting personality. Don't rule her out."

  "She's a suspect, regardless of what others say about her. Get your warrants and your evidence and charge her."

  Savva recognized the dismissal.

  "Go back and talk to Ioannis Dukas. Speak to him, but be wary. He's influential and could make our lives difficult. But he's a strong judge of character."

  "I'm not sure I follow, Sir. He was clear about Mrs. Fitzroy when I spoke to him last."

  "And you didn't consider he might've taken matters into his own hands? If he suspected abuse?"

  "It's possible, it's just that others have much stronger motives."

  "I'll put this bluntly, Savva, go find out if he was having an affair with Davonna Fitzroy."

  Savva nodded, "Understood, Sir."

  "And, Savva?"

  "Yes?"

  "Finish this before the Inspector General lays into the both of us."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Davonna left the house in the mid afternoon two days later. It wasn't as difficult
to drive the ostentatious car to the ferry dock, as it had been to drive to the hotel. She opened the gate and turned left. She was soon amongst a long line of traffic. She parked under a tall black, four-bulbed street lamp. Its dull white covers were filled with spiders and flies, which lay heaped on the bottom. Across the port, just visible in the gaps between vessels, was Mitilini's bronze statue of liberty: the young girl, with her olive branch crown who perpetually rose out of the water triumphant.

  The vast ferry drew ever closer, and the lethargic waves of the Aegean lapped against the hull like a weary welcoming committee. Davonna pulled a bottle of water from her purse and finished it in ten deep gulps.

  The ship bounced against the dock with a dull reverberating thud, and within five minutes passengers hurried from the mouth of it, bowing their heads against the heat. Davonna shaded her eyes, scanning the crowd for Miriam. But as wave after wave of travelers passed her, she frowned, a tight knot forming in her chest.

  Then, in a gap, amidst harried passengers, came Miriam, striding between two ferrymen. Her baggage bumped and rolled behind her. She chatted animatedly, and the two men hung on her every word, one of them tripped over an orange cable and then looked around, hoping she hadn't noticed. The strange trio stopped at the blue and yellow terminal sign. Miriam shook their hands with an effervescent smile and set her baggage rolling again. Davonna licked her lips and moved to intercept her sister. Miriam Moray sauntered over, a tall, willowy woman whose prematurely greyed hair fell in rivulets down her back. She walked like a thinner, fitter version of Winston Churchill.

  "Davonna, I had no idea it would be so hot!" Miriam said. She took off her hat and fanned her face.

  Miriam was wearing blue trousers and a simple white t-shirt half tucked into her pants. While Davonna worked hard to dress well and be cognizant of what was flattering on her figure; Miriam had none of these problems. Even as a child she had dressed like Coco Chanel, effortlessly.

  "Those are cotton trousers, aren't they?"

  "Cotton blend."

  She tried to catch Davonna's eye, but Davonna turned and gestured to the car. Miriam raised her eyebrows but deposited her luggage in the boot and sat on the leather seat with good grace.