Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

  "We weren't perfect, but I managed."

  "Why don't you sleep in your bed?"

  Davonna froze, her heart pounded, and she gasped for breath. Surely, Miriam didn't know.

  "I sleep in it."

  "Don't lie. You sleep on the window seat. I check on you every night to make sure you're still in the house, still with me."

  "Miriam!" Davonna said. The exasperation was forced and weak.

  "I want to know why it has gotten to the point we have to search for your passport."

  Davonna drew a great, shuddering breath and turned away to stare out the expansive windows. What was there to say? "I told you we had our problems, like everyone else.”

  "Normal people's problems are arguments about who takes out the trash or who’s too sensitive or what schools to send their children to. Those are normal. Raping your wife, taking their passport and hiding it, that's something else. Davonna, don't you realize he abused you systematically over years? He squirreled you away in this house, on this island; he cut you off from everything and everyone you've ever known. He made it so you could never get help or get out."

  "How could I tell you?" Davonna screamed, her eyes flew open in a rage and her hair seemed to crackle with electricity, she looked deranged. "How could I tell you? It crushed me what he did. Even in the beginning. I made excuses for him. I told you all to pound sand when you said he wasn't good for me.

  "How could I come back and say, ‘I was wrong; he's a monster?’ You with your perfect family? Seamus dotes on you. He looks at you like you're beautiful, rare, and magical. How could I do that? I was embarrassed, confused ... I still am. I can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. On some days I'm sure it was my fault and others … in moments of lucidity, I knew he was a monster.

  "But I loved him, Miriam. I didn't think I'd get back what I spent on him. I wouldn't get my job or apartment back or the years we lived together or my family who didn't know me anymore. It was easier to trudge on than to escape. I didn't know how to escape … not then not now." Davonna broke off and glanced at her hands. She wiped her nose and smoothed her flyaway hair and averted her eyes. She shuffled to a chair.

  Miriam collapsed into the chair, her face the color of milk, and she shook.

  Davonna moved toward her in case she fainted. "I'm so sorry.”

  "It's not your fault."

  She meant it too. How could this have turned out differently? If John's car hadn't gone off the edge of the cliff, she'd be in the kitchen, dragging dinner towards the dining room and dreading the rest of the night.

  "I can't bear to think what you were going through. I didn't pay enough attention to you. I hate myself for it. I should have realized. I should have tried harder. I should have paid for you to come back home. Why didn't I do that?"

  "It wasn't your fault."

  "You keep saying that, but it doesn't make me feel any better," Miriam moaned. "And here I am carrying on and you have so much to worry about. It's not about me. I'm angry at myself."

  "I understand," Davonna whispered. "What a trap to fall into. I should have been smarter. But it was so slow … so methodical that each action didn't amount to much, but the whole … it was overwhelming. And I loved him. It clouded so much … clouds so much."

  "No!" Miriam said, jolted out of her misery. "No, you can't love him. He didn't love you. That's not love. It's domination. It's abuse—what he did."

  "I know now …"

  Miriam flew out of the chair and fell to her knees in front of Davonna, gripping her trembling hands.

  "Promise me," she said. "Promise me, you won't love him anymore. We will sift through it all. We will find you help. I'll fight for you. I wasn't there then, but I am now. You can lean on me. You can love me, please love me. Don't love him."

  Davonna tried to hold back the tears, tried to explain that pulling that cord wouldn't be possible, but there was something in Miriam's eyes, something fierce, shimmering like gold. She stared at her, and in the depths of those eyes; she remembered. She remembered being held in safety. She remembered her parents kissing her forehead and pulling a pink and purple quilt to her shoulders and tucking it in at the sides. She remembered being treasured in the warm center of family. It was beautiful. Life had once been beautiful and full of promise.

  She nodded and threw herself into Miriam's arms. Miriam drew her close, encircling her heaving shoulders with steady hands. They fell to the floor in an untidy heap of limbs, rocked back and forth, Miriam's tears dropped steadily onto Davonna's head.

  XVI

  Οποιος μπλέκεται με ταπίτουρα τον τρων οι κότες.

  He who gets in chicken feed is eaten by the chickens.

  Savva sat on the concrete floor of the basement, working his way through overflowing boxes of donations from around the world. He had the list beside him, written in Shayma's elegant handwriting, of the sizes needed. It was a lot like the projects she’d given their daughter when she was little, 'here honey, fold these fabric scraps' while she cleaned house like a maniac.

  Shayma was thrilled that Davonna was out on bail and had expressed her stiff opinion that he’d arrested the wrong person. She didn't do it often. He couldn't remember how many years had passed since she'd quarreled with him about a case.

  But she doesn't disagree with me, Savva thought, as he pushed aside an 80s blue and yellow puff jacket (size XXL men's), for the white Reebok one underneath (size S women's). She tells me I'm wrong and we both move on.

  Davonna didn't look or feel guilty to him. The issue was that all the evidence, circumstantial though it was (yes, Shayma'd caught that too), pointed to Davonna. Yet, the thin, worried woman flitted around his mind's eye, like a fly tapping over and over against a window.

  Savva added the white coat to his small pile and leaned against the black bags, moving boxes, stuffed animals and closed his eyes. They hung out of reach, the answers for every question. That tantalized him, tugged at his ego, and pulled at his heart, until all he could see was Davonna on the front steps of that huge house, crying.

  "What are you doing? Napping?"

  Savva jumped with a start and knocked over two boxes of soccer balls.

  "I finished!" he said, scrambling to put the balls back in the box. "Ten women's size small jackets, four infant jumpers, and six child size five sweatshirts. Oh, and the fifteen large men's jackets."

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye like a mother trying to catch her child in a lie. Savva smiled and stuffed the coats into a bag for her.

  "You were thinking about her.”

  "About who?" Savva asked with bravado, bent double, stuffing the clothes in.

  "The Fitzroy woman. The one your boss thinks killed her husband. She didn't do it, and you know it and you should look for—find something to clear her name."

  "Erastís, I've looked, there isn't anything."

  "You haven't looked hard enough. I came down to let you know forensics called and they want you to come by."

  "It's probably from another ongoing investigation."

  "It didn't sound that way," she said haughtily, as she flounced up the stairs.

  Savva lolled his head back and smiled, dutifully trudging after her.

  "You’re not going to believe this," Rallis said, as soon as Savva entered the lab.

  Had the man been lying in wait for him? "I'm sure I won't. This’d better be good, it's my weekend."

  "Oh, just wait."

  Rallis made his way back to where the techs were still processing the items confiscated from the Fitzroy garage. On the table, under a spotlight, lay a battered, what could've once been red, toolbox. It looked like something his grandfather would have used.

  "The boys just got to this: you can imagine why. We spent most of our time processing the most likely tools for sabotaging the brake lines. They took this beauty because of one little fact." Rallis turned the toolbox around to reveal a broken padlock, which hung limply off the too
lbox.

  "I see," Savva said, frowning.

  Rallis rolled his eyes, and flipped the toolbox open.

  "On the surface we have boxes of nails, bags of screws, hammers, screwdrivers, etc. Then we take off the top and we have a nice wooden bottom."

  "Fine," Savva said, and stared back at the toolbox. "Metal toolboxes don't have wooden bottoms."

  "Precisely," Rallis said, with a maniacal smile. "Take it off and you have this …”

  Savva moved forward and peered into the container. There, lying supremely out of place was a United Kingdom passport. Its dull red cover shone like a beacon.

  Savva stared. He, asked, but already knew the answer. "Whose passport is that?"

  "Davonna Fitzroy's."

  The two men looked at each other and back at the innocent-looking toolbox.

  "I assume you broke the lock."

  "Sure did."

  "Dust it all for prints—today. I want to know within 24 hours who handled this."

  "Did she say anything about this?"

  "This morning, in court. The judge ordered her to turn over her passport and she said it was missing. There was a bit of a rigmarole, but Immigration said we could place an electronic ban on her for now, until the document could be found."

  "Did she know it was in here?"

  "Why would she padlock her passport in a toolbox and hide it in the garage? She's testified that she rarely went in there."

  "Did he put it here?" Rallis pressed

  Savva looked at over and massaged his temple. An understanding passed between them, the ground had shifted underneath their feet, and reality was not longer what it had been just an hour ago.

  "It's not ‘did he’, it's why?" said Savva sagely.

  "I'd better get back to work."

  "Use John and Davonna's file prints for elimination up front. We don't need to run what you find against the whole database if we don't have to."

  Savva ran out of the lab, pulling out his phone as he dashed back to his office. ‘New developments won't be home. I'll drop off items at refugee center. You may be right.’ He sent the text and imagined Shayma's smug face when she read it.

  He was true to his word and dropped off the two black bags stuffed with warm clothing. It wasn't strictly necessary in the summer, but the nights could get cold. Lesvos didn't have the proper accommodations for so many people. He drove off, but stole a glance in his rear-view mirror at the gaggle of black-haired boys kicking around a brand-new red and black Manchester United football.

  The Fitzroy's house rose in front of him like a fortress that he had somehow grown accustomed to. He knocked and rang the bell and waited for nearly five minutes before Davonna opened the door. Her hair had come loose from its elegant chignon; wisps of hair framed her face in an untidy halo.

  "What can I do for you?"

  She hid her hands behind her back and Savva recognized the gesture. Her eyes were full of fear and apprehension. She was afraid, deathly afraid.

  "I'd like to ask you a quick question."

  Davonna let him in reluctantly and led him to their usual spot in the drawing room. They had just sat down—Savva in the same blue silk chair—when Miriam burst in.

  "It’s no use I can't find the bloody thing anywhere and I'm going to pass out if I don't eat, now!" she said, collapsing into a nearby chair.

  Savva cleared his throat. It was almost comic the way she perked up, how her eyes filled with fear and anger, like a cat that had been slapped by an annoying child.

  "I came here to ask your sister a simple question," Savva said. "But tell me, what are you looking for?"

  Miriam tried to shake her head, but Davonna answered quickly, "My passport, since I was granted bail."

  Savva cleared his throat. "I remember there was trouble about it in court. How long has it been missing?"

  "I don't remember exactly, but three or four years ago I went looking for it, to see when it expired and it was nowhere to be found. I talked to John about it.” Davonna stole a look at her sister before continuing, "He said he'd taken it for safekeeping and that it didn't expire for another six years."

  "Your husband had your passport?"

  "Yes," Davonna replied flatly. Savva looked over at Miriam who exchanged a look resigned and annoyance at the turn of events.

  "Why would he do that?"

  "To punish me," Davonna said.

  Savva left the house quietly. Davonna's face swam before him like a mirage. The case was flimsy, at best. Sofia Gabris had called no less than ten times to ask when the prosecutor and police would drop the case. She had cited "wanting to salvage the Police Department's professional reputation" as her main motivation.

  It was too much to hope that John's fingerprints would be on the toolbox—the man had been so careful. Careful—that was it, Savva thought. But what? Careful about what? The thought slipped away before he could put a finger on it. Savva kicked wildly at the pink rocks at his feet. He'd never worked this way before, tapping around the perimeter of an investigation like a blind man.

  What was it about this case? And if it wasn't Davonna Fitzroy who had cut the brake lines; then who did? The answer slipped through his fingers like water. He turned and looked back at the house. There was no movement behind the windows, but Savva thought he knew what Davonna would be doing … waiting for the nightmare to end. What a life for a woman with so much ahead of her. What a shame, Savva thought, as he walked back to his car and shoved his body inside.

  He drove not to the station, but to the refugee camp to kiss his wife. She didn't normally come out to help during the day because there were so many fewer volunteers who would watch at night. But here she was, surrounded by children and their exhausted and grateful mothers. The women looked at her as though she was a rescuing angel. When she spoke to them in their own language, they fell into her arms, sobbing tears of joy and relief.

  Savva wondered whether the women saw, in Shayma, their own mothers and grandmothers who hadn't made it or wouldn't leave Syria. His wife, a pillar of virtue, he owed everything to her. All those nights when the government was in uproar and he wanted to give in, she made him stay and help.

  "I know what happens when a government falls," she’d said. "Good men must keep going." There wasn't any condemnation from her, but a strong desire to see Greece succeed. She wanted peace and she had found it with him. She held on with both hands.

  Savva walked up and put his arms around her from behind. An uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. She balked and tried to twist out, but he held her, and whispered in her ear. She smiled, told some laughing children to go find their mothers, and carefully pried open his fingers.

  "You should be at work."

  "It's technically my day off."

  "Go and help her," she said, before moving off toward a line of shabby tents.

  Savva watched her go with mixed emotions. They hardly saw each other these days. He worked during the day while she slept. Then she was out for most of the night, watching for boats. They only had dinner together, and, on occasion, lunch, if Savva could break away long enough. It wasn't like it was when their daughter was young, and he had a set schedule. He didn't begrudge the refugees the time his wife spent with them—he wouldn't have it any other way. She would die before her people went hungry and cold and homeless.

  He walked up the rocky trail, back to his car, and drove off, ambling along side roads. After a while he stopped in front of the police department, and rolled his eyes. What was the use of a day off if he never took it? Kleitos would stop scheduling them, or would at least, Savva thought, if he could get away with it.

  Up the stairs, with their familiar creak, he made his way to his office where the files were stacked neatly on the left side of the desk. Savva tapped the desk and licked his lips. He couldn't sit, and so prowled the room, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Where had it all started? The mistress? No, the affairs had been going on for months, and there were certainly others before her; if the
gossip was to be believed. What then? Savva threw back his head and let out a short growl. Europe! The refugees were trying to reach Europe with all its possibilities and democracy and promises of prosperity. They came through Greece. They didn't intend to stay. They wanted to go places like Sweden and Germany and England.

  "England!" Savva shouted. He pounded the desk, vaulting behind it and grabbing the nearest stack of green file folders. "Bloody hotel conference."

  A grin, as slow as molasses, crept over Savva's face. But it was distorted, and almost more of a maniacal smile than a normal grin. It had started in London, with John's trip there. He'd sent the picture to his girlfriend of the list, which Davonna had allegedly written. Hah, he thought, leave no trace!

  Savva held the phone's black handset to his ear. "I want a handwriting expert in my office, PRONTO," he thundered.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And I don't care what excuse they give, get them here NOW!" Savva hung up before the unfortunate person on the other end of the line could say a word.

  He fished out of the pile the picture Athena had sent; the photo John had texted her while in London. It was taken at a restaurant, somewhere fancy. Savva rooted around in his desk drawer and fished out a large magnifying glass. It was there, on the menu in the outer edge of the picture, the name: Clos Maggiore, 33 King Street in Covent Garden.

  Savva wrote down the name and then found the hotel where John Fitzroy had stayed in London: St. Martin's Lane Hotel. On a map, the hotel and restaurant were a quarter of a mile apart. Savva picked up the phone again.

  "Hotel Lesvos."

  "Your manager, please," he barked, adding on the 'please' as an afterthought.

  "Right away."

  It took less than a minute for the manager to pick up the line.

  "Hello?"

  Savva rolled his eyes, such poor professionalism. "This is Captain Savva with the Lesvos Police Department. I need information about the conference John Fitzroy attended in London."

  "Yes, Sir, one moment. Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?"

  "Did he have any friends with him? Men he knew from other hotels? Someone he would have gone out to dinner with or had drinks with?"