Honor Role Page 23

  David Colfax looked as if he was drinking this all in. “I’m listening,” he said after a pause.

  “You went to Russell’s at the station and hired a bicycle for the day, paying cash. You even put down a £200 deposit in cash because, you said, you’d lost your credit card. The owner remembered you when I showed him your photo.”

  “Stretching my legs,” Colfax said.

  “Mr. Colfax,” DI Lazarus piped in, “the Jameses’ family farm is a bit under eight miles from Sheffield station. It’s an easy ride.”

  “I know,” Colfax said. “I did it with Freddy and the boys once. And only once.”

  “We also have CCTV of you some four hours later catching the train to London. You’d returned the bike fifteen minutes prior and received your deposit back,” I said.

  “Why would I want to pay a visit to Molly’s parents?” Colfax asked.

  “You do know Molly, don’t you? As well as her sister,” I asked.

  Colfax nodded. “I never said I didn’t.”

  “One of the sisters told you her parents were on holiday. They always waited until after the August bank holiday weekend to avoid the crowds but still get the good weather. Last year it was Sardinia,” I said.

  “I had no such conversation with either girl,” Colfax said. “This is getting ridiculous, Detective Inspector Grantley. You’re reaching for a limb that isn’t there. Don’t fall, you might break something.”

  “Did you use all of the cyanide you took, Mr. Colfax?” Peter asked.

  David Colfax guffawed, as if incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was the dog that convinced me it was you. I remembered the photo. Mr. James said he told one of you about his cat being poisoned when he was a child. He was just confused about which one of you he told,” I said.

  “I’m not following you,” Colfax said.

  “Oh, I think you are. It wasn’t the ‘tall one,’ as Mr. James thought. The tall one was Greg Shafer and he never had a dog. His brother confirmed that. No, it was you.”

  “You’re basing this, what, accusation on something told to you by someone who can’t even remember with whom he was speaking? Come on,” said Colfax.

  “Actually, no. I knew before that. Your fascination with hourglasses spoke volumes,” I said. I looked about the office. There were five hourglasses in view, including one serving as a paperweight on the desk. Lazarus reached for it and flipped it over. The sand started through the neck of the glass, one grain at a time. Colfax watched the hourglass as if transfixed.

  “Every grain of sand goes through the neck of that thing, eventually, doesn’t it?” I said. “But you never know when a particular grain will fall, do you?”

  Colfax, silent, kept his eyes on the hourglass.

  “What was it you said to Mr. James?” I asked. “About your poor dog; his time had come?” I said. “Did you poison your dog too?”

  That triggered something. Colfax looked about to explode. “I loved Goldie. How dare you!”

  “Goldie,” said Peter dismissively.

  “I get that it had a certain brilliance,” I said. “One pill. Who knew when he’d swallow it? That’s the thing: How the hell could you keep calm through it all? That’s what amazes me, Mr. Colfax,” I said. “Knowing that someday, sometime, you were going to get a call or a text telling you Freddy Hayworth had died.”

  “Lots of time to plan his reaction,” Peter said to me, nodding at Colfax.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I couldn’t do it. You’d make plans for the weekend on Tuesday, wondering if Freddy was going to be alive by Friday night to get a pint down the street after work. Maybe you’d be attending his funeral instead. That I couldn’t do. I don’t have it in me.”

  “And you think I do,” Colfax said.

  “Apparently,” I replied.

  “Do you want to tell us where the rest of it is, Colfax? The poison?” asked Lazarus. “You had to keep some in reserve. In case Hayworth went off the supplement du jour too soon. Or do you want us to have this place turned upside down? Things get broken when places are turned upside down, you know. Unfortunate but true.”

  Colfax shook his head, his eyes closed. “Incredible,” he said. He reached for a small silver jewel box on the credenza behind him and set it on the desk in front of him.

  I looked at Lazarus, unsure what to do. Neither of us moved.

  Colfax’s fingers reached into the jewel box. He pulled out a large paper clip and cast it aside. Next, he extracted a capsule.

  I rocketed out of my seat and reached to grab the pill. Colfax leaned back, out of my grasp. Lazarus stood as well. High Noon—in capsule form.

  “Put it down, David,” I said. I spoke calmly, not wanting to upset him even more.

  “He really was a shit, you know,” Colfax said. The pill remained between his thumb and index finger. He might as well have been holding a knife or gun. “My marriage ended because of him. I never told him that; hell, I never told my ex-wife. I saw them, you see. It ruined her for me. But I moved on; I forgave. Then he did it again.” Colfax lowered his head and shook it. “I loved that girl. He ruined it all.”

  “Which girl?” I asked.

  Colfax stared at me. “Does it matter?”

  “Actually, no,” I said.

  “You’re quite the perceptive one, Tessa. You fascinated me from the get-go.”

  I remained on my feet, as did Lazarus. “Yes, he was a shit,” I agreed. “I’ll give you that. A selfish, narcissistic mess of a man. But you couldn’t let him go. Why?”

  “Life was more fun with than without, if that makes sense. Yes, he walked all over me—all of us—but he threw a great party. Life was a party with Freddy. He made you feel so alive!”

  “Like you belonged,” I said.

  “And I did,” Colfax said. “But there were dues to pay. Hurdles to jump. And we, all of us, kept asking ‘how high?’ Pathetic.”

  “Was it Molly James?” I asked him. “Was she the final straw?”

  Colfax shook his head. “Her sister Sandra. I was mad for her, and Freddy knew it. He had this whole bullshit mantra about free love. Sharing. ‘Take what you want,’ he’d say. Except it was always him doing the taking. Once, Mungo fucked some girl Freddy liked. Freddy was livid. Complete hypocritical rubbish.”

  “It was pretty brilliant, I have to admit,” I said. “The single pill, that is.” Anything to keep him talking.

  “Thank you,” Colfax said. I think he meant it. He was being flattered and liked it. “It seemed a perfect, uh…”

  “Crime,” said Lazarus. “Murder, to be precise.”

  “It very nearly was perfect,” I said.

  “The world is better off without Freddy Hayworth. Had he children, a wife, I’d probably not have done it. He didn’t even like his family. We’re all better off.”

  “Except that you don’t get to make that decision,” I said.

  “Yes and no,” Colfax said. “I do if I’m willing to suffer the consequences. Which, come to think of it, I am.” Quickly, he raised the pill to his lips.

  Lazarus lunged at Colfax, tipping him over. The two of them struggled on the floor briefly, until I grabbed a large hourglass, and hit Colfax on the head with it, felling him. Instinctively, his hand covered the wound. In so doing, he dropped the pill. Peter grabbed it, handling it with care. In the fracas the hourglass cracked. Its sand spilled onto the floor.

  Lazarus got up, looking a bit worse for wear.

  “Careful,” I cautioned him.

  Peter picked up the silver jewelry box, tipped it over and spilled the contents onto Colfax’s desk. Coins, paper clips, a button. Nothing else. The pill went back into the jewelry box. David took a tissue from a box on by the desk and wiped his fingers. I grabbed a bottle of fizzy water from the desk, opened it, and poured it on Pete
r’s hands. I’d no towel to offer. He gave me a look and then wiped his hands on his pants.

  Colfax was down for the count.

  “Thanks, I guess,” Peter said as he brushed himself off. He reached for his mobile. “How did he know when to pay a visit to the Jameses’ farm? And how did you know when he knew?”

  “I didn’t. Semi-educated guess,” I said. “All I knew is somehow he knew. There weren’t that many options.”

  Lazarus looked at me, shook his head, and smiled. “Sometimes, Tessa, you prove your worth.”

  I dipped my head to acknowledge the praise. Colfax groaned as he came to.

  Peter made a call. “Yes, we need an ambulance. A man’s been injured…Whatever, he’ll live, which is more than I can say for the man he murdered…I am the police. The address is…” Peter looked at me.

  “15 Bourne Street, SW1,” I said, and he repeated.

  Facial recognition didn’t help find the missing Jabirah Rahman. I had asked Tommy about my friend and, as he tactfully pointed out, in order to find someone, you need to know where to look. A railway station, for example. An airport perhaps. I hadn’t a clue where Jabirah might be, assuming she hadn’t been buried in some field. All we knew was she was last seen being shoved into the back seat of a car by her father and brother. Dealing with Ahmed was like playing a game of chicken. He hadn’t yet blinked, although he was clearly uneasy about something. He’d kept reporting to his job. For all I knew he was biding his time, making a connection with some sympathetic airline employee who might help him stow away on a plane to just about anywhere, prior to his actually scheduled departure not much over a week off. Of course, he still insisted his elder sister was in Pakistan with their parents. I, of course, knew he was lying. And he knew I knew. Still, so long as he kept to his story—or lack thereof—I had no way to prove anything.

  When Benazir had told me she hadn’t heard from Jabirah, I feared the worst. Poor Benazir must have felt so alone and afraid. I thought of checking hospitals for young women who’d been admitted. I did ask someone to check around hospitals in the greater London area, but nothing came of it. Should we check the entire country? Why wasn’t her family doing this? What if Jabirah was being held against her will somewhere? The thought made me shudder.

  Finally, I contacted an attaché named Nigel Cullens at the British High Commission in Islamabad. Thankfully, Chief Inspector Vernon had some circuitous connection to the man. I explained Jabirah’s situation in a long email to Mr. Cullens. Both Benazir and Ahmed had mentioned Quetta and an aunt there who was said to be ill. I attached to the email the flight itineraries for Jabirah’s parents as well as their passport numbers. They had flown to Karachi, which meant they’d have arranged internal travel north—air, rail, road, who knew?—to Quetta near the border with Afghanistan.

  The next morning, I had a response.

  Got your email. I’m checking now. It may take a day or two, but I know what to do. Stay tuned.

  Nigel Cullens

  Then I waited. A welcome distraction came as news broke of David Colfax’s arrest for the Hayworth murder. No more whispers about suicide; the son of a bitch had indeed been murdered. The media loved the story. They ran it into the ground. I had a surprisingly sedate phone call from Sofia Hayworth, Freddy’s mother. The gist of it was “I never liked that boy,” referring to Colfax. I refrained from pointing out that I’d heard the same thing said of her late son more times than I could count.

  As promised, two days after his first email, Mr. Cullens wrote again.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Rahman are near Quetta, staying in a private home. The home appears to belong to Mrs. Rahman’s sister, who is a widow, albeit a healthy one. She owns land left to her by her late husband. No signs of a sick aunt. Also, unfortunately, no sign of Jabirah Rahman. She didn’t travel on the same domestic flight to Quetta with her parents. There is no record of her entering Pakistan at all in the past year. Hope this helps. Sorry I couldn’t find this woman for you. Hope she’s okay.

  Time to get real. If Jabirah was dead, what the hell would happen to that sweet, incandescent sister of hers? What if we put brother Ahmed in prison and her parents stayed in Pakistan? Where would that leave a blind school student, still a minor? If, in the name of justice, we could put her brother in a cell, what, in the name of justice, would we be doing to Benazir’s already challenging life? It was easy for me to assure Benazir that she would always be welcome in my home. But my home, sadly, was not her home, at least not to her. Jonathan and I would have gladly considered Benazir family, but we were not her family. So, for Benazir’s sake, I had to believe that miracles do happen.

  Ahmed Rahman knew the fate of his sister. I knew it in my bones. He might be the only person who did—at least the only person I could get my hands on. We had to search Ahmed’s car and flat. Somehow, we needed to accomplish this without upsetting Benazir. So it was a question of timing. There had to be a way to find Jabirah without rubbishing Benazir’s world. I worked it so we pursued the search warrant and were able to serve it on Ahmed not long after Benazir went to school for the day. How long could it take for us to go through everything in a one bedroom flat? Ahmed was scheduled to work from three p.m. to midnight. He was sleeping when we arrived. There were three of us: Lazarus, me, and a Constable Peevey, who’d been helpful in the past. I let Peter pound on the door and announce our arrival. He added a certain flourish to the deed.

  “Police!” Lazarus yelled as he used his fist on the door. He kept pounding. It didn’t take long for Ahmed to greet us.

  “What the hell?!” Ahmed said. We’d clearly awakened him.

  “We have a warrant to search the premises,” I said, handing Ahmed the warrant.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, as he moved aside for us to enter.

  We did a very thorough job, if I do say so myself. By half twelve we had finished with the interior. All three of us walked the small back garden looking for signs of recent digging. We found nothing—inside or out.

  Ahmed observed from the kitchen. He didn’t look especially concerned. Once, he even smiled when I turned to look at him. By three p.m. even Ahmed’s car had been picked apart. There wasn’t anywhere else to search.

  “Are you through now?” he asked as we congregated at the front door.

  “We’re through with this search, Mr. Rahman,” I said. “We’re not finished looking for your sister.”

  “You are wasting your time, Detective Inspector,” Ahmed said.

  “That’s for us to decide,” Lazarus said to him.

  “What are you going to tell Benazir?” I asked Ahmed.

  “About what? Jabirah? She’s in Pakistan. Benazir knows that.”

  “What happens when Benazir figures out her sister is not in Pakistan? We found your parents, but your sister, Jabirah, hasn’t been with them since they arrived. She didn’t go through customs at Heathrow or in Karachi; she didn’t fly to Quetta with your Mum and Dad.”

  “Well, all I know is she’s in Pakistan,” Ahmed said.

  “You’re planning on seeing her later this month then,” I said. Ahmed couldn’t hide his surprise, but he quickly recovered.

  “Yes, actually. I’m looking forward to it,” he said. The little shit.

  I took a step toward him. He flinched and stepped back as if I might strike him, which I wanted to do quite badly.

  “Jesus, Ahmed,” I said, “not only are you a liar, you’re a coward.”

  “I’m not sure what you are, Detective Inspector, other than bad at your job,” Ahmed said. “You know, she’s my sister, not yours. I miss her too. You’re insinuating I would harm my own sister? Fuck you.” He bowed his head as if to hide the tears in his eyes.

  “You missed your calling, Ahmed,” I said. “That’s some act you put on.”

  Ahmed kept his head down. He said nothing, but he shook his head,
which set me off again. I started toward him. Deftly, Lazarus took my elbow.

  The thing is, Ahmed truly was crying.

  I said nothing, for I didn’t know what to say.

  “We’re out of here,” Peter said quietly. Constable Peevey held the door for us and followed us to the car. Ahmed shut the door. I stopped, itching to go back in, if only to mess with him. If anyone needed messing with it was Ahmed Rahman.

  “Tessa…” Peter said. “We’re leaving.”

  “I’m going to get him,” I said. “Mark my words.”

  “Maybe, but not for murder,” Lazarus said as we climbed in the car.

  “He did it, goddammit!” I said. Peevey had started the car and pulled into the street.

  “I think you’re right,” Peter said. “I also think you’re going to have a very hard time proving it, unless we find the body. And how the hell are we ever going to do that? He does contrite very well, you know. Those were real tears in there.”

  “God dammit!”

  “I’m sorry, Tess.”

  “So am I,” I said. “More than I can say.”

  There was neither the time nor the money to go further with the Jabirah Rahman investigation. And, honestly, what more could be done? Possibly we could charge Ahmed with perverting the course of justice, but I knew well the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t go for a feeble charge like that. He was lying. I couldn’t prove it. And so we had a standoff and no sign of Jabirah six months after her disappearance. A sense of powerlessness burdened me. If I couldn’t protect someone I loved, what good was I?

  It was Benazir who started things going again. I hadn’t had contact with her in nearly two months when one afternoon, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. I forgot about the call until hours later, when another came in, which I took. I saw the notification of a missed call and listened to the voicemail.

  “Tessa, it’s Benazir Rahman. I hope you remember me. I’d like to talk with you, meet you, if you can. It’s important.”