Honor Role Page 9

  While I loved reading and cherished a home full of books, I also enjoyed using the public library. Something about the possibility in so many untapped stories all there for the choosing, all free. One drowsy, gray Saturday, I stayed in bed to finish a novel. The house was quiet. When I opened my laptop, I knew there would be emails from work. I was in no rush to read them, no rush for the day to begin, which is a certain sort of sublime. I trod downstairs for coffee and an egg. The weather forecast was encouraging, provided one was patient: afternoon sunshine. There was shopping to do, so I dressed, grabbed a bag, and headed out. Halfway down the front step, I turned back to get a novel I’d finished, thinking I could walk all the way to the Paddington library and hit Tesco on the return.

  The walk was pleasant. I kept at a good pace. At the library I dropped the read into the returns bin. As I turned, I saw Ogueri and Chika.

  “Ogueri!” I said and smiled. “Hello, Chika!”

  Ogueri knew my voice. “Detective Inspector Grantley!”

  This made me laugh; Chika joined in. She gave me a hug.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Ogueri.

  “I like to read too, Ogueri,” I said.

  “Oh, okay. That makes sense,” said Ogueri. “Do you read detective novels?”

  “Not often, young man. I get quite enough of that in my day job.”

  “Well, what have you read lately?” asked Ogueri.

  “Don’t be a nosy parker, son,” Chika said.

  “Well, I just returned a novel I liked very much. You might not care for it; there was a lot of boys and girls kissing,” I replied.

  “Oh brother,” said Ogueri. “No thanks.”

  “What about you?” I asked him.

  “It’s not as much fun for me reading the stuff Jonathan and I read because I can’t see the pictures,” said Ogueri. “That’s where Jonathan comes in. He describes everything; he’s really good at that. Jabirah’s good too, but she’s busy. I’m starting to read mysteries,” Ogueri said, glee in his young voice.

  “We’re working through Nancy Drew even though the librarian said Ogueri might be a bit young,” Chika said. “I told her nicely to think again.”

  I laughed. “Any more comments poked in the books?” I asked Ogueri.

  “Yep. Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase, page ten of every volume,” he replied.

  “Really? What did they say?”

  “Just ‘help,’ like before. It’s not nice to hurt books,” Ogueri said.

  “I totally agree,” I said.

  “Someone should be arrested,” he added with conviction.

  Chika and I smiled together.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said.

  “And with that, we have to go, Ogueri,” piped in Chika. “Hair appointment in twenty minutes,” she explained. “If I’m late, I get punished.”

  “Oh, Mum…” cried Ogueri. “A crime has been committed!”

  Chika and I both covered our mouths to keep from laughing. “I could bring Ogueri home after we sort this out,” I offered. “We should really talk about how best to investigate this misdeed.”

  “She’s absolutely right, Mum,” said Ogueri.

  “He could even help me eat a pizza at that place he and Jonathan like near the house.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that, Tessa,” said Chika.

  “He’d be doing me a favor, Chika, seriously,” I said.

  “Can I, Mum, please?” pleaded Ogueri.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, looking at me, wishing it so.

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “I’d like his company very much.”

  Chika eyed her son. “Ogueri?”

  “Oh yes, please!” he replied.

  “You be good, okay?” she instructed.

  Ogueri nodded and allowed her to plant a kiss on his forehead.

  “I’m off,” she said. “Thanks so much, Tessa. I owe you.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said as I took Ogueri’s hand.

  Ogueri and I shared a double-cheese pizza, diet be damned.

  We talked like friends. My six-year-old chum knew that his parents were worried about money. In turn, he worried about them. Ogueri was nervous about starting at a new school in September. He even talked of our neighbor, Ken.

  “Guess I’ll never be a pilot,” said Ogueri, in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Maybe you’ll run the airline he works for.” I stroked Ogueri’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Ogueri asked.

  “Absolutely nothing, I’m just so happy you could be my lunch date.”

  “Me too,” he replied, “but after this we’ve got to find the bad guy.”

  “That we do.”

  Back home, we found Jabirah in the garden watering flowers she had planted. A yoga mat was unrolled on the grass. On hearing us enter, Jabirah joined us in the kitchen. I’d just put the kettle on and pulled a second mug from the cupboard.

  “Isn’t this your day off?” I said to her.

  “Drama at home,” she said. “Good place not to be right now.”

  “I didn’t know you do yoga,” I remarked, nodding at the rolled mat under her arm.

  “I don’t. I was praying.”

  “You okay?” I asked. No comment on the praying. To each her own.

  Jabirah nodded and groaned. “My brother’s looking for a suitable bride. Pity the woman who wins that prize. I feel like I should send out a warning to the world! One of those public service announcements, you know? ‘Beware!’ ”

  I laughed and served us tea. Ogueri got a generous portion of a chocolate bar. He sat on the chair next to me. Jabirah and I split a tasteless slab of something that billed itself as an “energy bar.”

  “How do you know you’re praying toward Mecca?” I asked Jabirah.

  “What?” she replied.

  “When you pray. Aren’t you supposed to face Mecca? Or is that some urban myth?”

  Jabirah pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and opened one of the apps. She handed it to me. It took me a second to get what I was seeing. On the screen was a compass, which was pointing a certain direction.

  “You’re joking,” I said. “There’s an app for Mecca?”

  Jabirah laughed and nodded. “Duh. What isn’t there an app for?”

  “We’re supposed to be discussing a crime, Detective Inspector,” Ogueri said, his tone chastising.

  “You are absolutely right, young man,” I said. “My bad. Why don’t you bring Jabirah up to date on what we know so far.”

  And so Ogueri filled Jabirah in on the culprit with the needle leaving messages in books.

  “It seems to me that we need to find out who else has checked out these books,” Jabirah said.

  “Good luck with that,” I said. Both of them looked at me waiting for a finish. “I expect that sort of information is private.”

  “Even for a policeman—I mean policewoman?” Ogueri said.

  “A policewoman without a warrant, yes,” I replied.

  “What’s a warrant?” he asked.

  I told him, as he ate another piece of chocolate and we commenced the case of the needle-pointed novels.

  Later that week the Obinnas left to visit family in Nigeria. I was more nervous than they were about their traveling to Lagos. They insisted the violence was largely in the far north of the country, nowhere near where they would be. Jabirah was there when they struggled down the stairs with their luggage.

  “Be careful anyway,” I said. I hugged each of them.

  “Tessa, it’ll be fine. The Muslims are up north,” Ben said. “That didn’t come out right, Jabirah; I’m sorry.”

  “I too am horrified by what is being done by these murderers who call themselves Muslims,” said Jabirah. “They’re murderers, not Mus
lims.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Jabirah. We will miss you,” Chika said. “All of you.” She kissed Jonathan’s forehead, which he immediately rubbed off.

  I didn’t act rushed, but I was eager to be out the door. At any moment Peter would arrive. We’d been assigned a new matter; Peter promised to brief me on the way to wherever we were going. He pulled up just as the Obinnas Ubered away.

  Peter brought me up to date as we headed west, then north to Kensal Green. “Some sicko’s been killing family pets in the area. Grabbing and stabbing. He must know the area, because he leaves the bloody corpse on the doorstep or somewhere on the property of the owner. You can imagine how well that goes over.”

  “So he knows which dog belongs to which house,” I commented.

  “Or cat,” added Peter.

  “Disgusting. He’s a local, then.”

  “I’d say so.”

  Traffic wasn’t bad. We made good time.

  * * *

  —

  After my circumspect summer holidays I got back to work. Peter, not surprisingly, had mostly ignored the matter of Freddy Hayworth, which I didn’t appreciate but didn’t say. Instead, I picked up the thread with a visit to another of Freddy’s gang of merry men, one I hadn’t yet met.

  “No, no,” insisted David Colfax, who was seated in his cluttered office. “I loved Freddy. I’m usually better with words.”

  “You loved him, but sometimes you didn’t like him?” I sat across from Colfax.

  “I suppose that’s it. He could be maddening, but also kind, generous, great fun. We grew up together. I can’t remember a time when Freddy wasn’t in my life.” He pondered this a moment. “Let me check on that tea.” Colfax rose from the clutter of his desk and made for the door. “Hilda!”

  “Just coming,” replied the unseen Hilda, her voice chiding.

  Colfax’s office was up the stairs to the back in a well-tended elderly brick four-story off Sloane Square. The ground floor held an antiques shop, Colfax & Goodyear, which, per the sign above the window, had been in operation two years shy of a century. A family business, Mr. Colfax explained, started by his great-grandfather, who had become successful reselling furnishings from great estates that had downsized after the First World War. “Death or death duties,” Colfax said. “Dynasties gone. Demise is our bread and butter, to be honest.” Mr. Goodyear had long ago been bought out, but the name stuck. The shop was something out of a Harry Potter novel, chockablock with furniture, lighting, knick-knacks of every variety, artwork—the mostly beautiful leavings of the upper classes. David Colfax managed the business from this untidy room, which was likewise cluttered with posh paraphernalia and a vase of luscious fresh flowers. Books were stacked here and there. Clocks in all sizes peppered any available space. They lined the mantel above a long-decommissioned fireplace, framed by matching ornate hourglasses. Paperweights and more hourglasses held in place sundry documents on the desk. Photos in antique frames perched on a table behind, including ones of Colfax as a child and others as he aged, often with dog. The happy group photo with Colfax, Scott Kramer, Mungo Kenroy, Freddy Hayworth, and Greg Shafer was there as well: the same snap Kramer gave pride of place in his office.

  When Colfax turned his attention to me again, he was holding a tray bearing a gleaming china tea service, which he placed over papers on his desk, toppling a small hourglass that was holding down more papers. He upended the hourglass, turning it so the sand began its escape.

  “You’ve got three minutes,” he said with a smile as he nodded at the hourglass and poured for us. “Like an egg.”

  “Such lovely things. The hourglass is beautiful.” I looked around the room. There must have been five hourglasses of various sizes perched on tables or ledges. “They all are.”

  “One has to have an eye, you see.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. And know where to look,” I said.

  “A century of connections. And a close watch on the Times and Telegraph obituaries. Milk and sugar?”

  “Milk, no sugar.” Colfax handed me a teacup and matching saucer, both so thin as to be nearly translucent. “Thank you.” After a sip, I said, “The clocks are amazing.”

  “So much better than checking one’s iPhone, don’t you think?”

  It seemed a silly remark, but I nodded. David Colfax was handsome in that well-nourished way of the privileged. He stood at average height. He wore a shirt and tie, with gleaming tasseled black loafers breaking the line of his creased pants. The suit coat was hanging on a peg by the door. Quite the dandy, I thought, and wondered if being in Freddy Hayworth’s inner circle came with a dress code, or perhaps periodic inspections by the fashion police. Freddy would have headed that force and written the citations, handing them out, shaking his head with disapproval. Maybe even collecting a fine.

  “Freddy’s time came too soon,” he said, watching the sand flow inside the hourglass.

  With effort, I resisted two Hobnobs on the tray. “The question is, did he pick the time or did someone else.”

  “Indeed, but I can’t imagine,” he said.

  “No one can, it seems. You were part of his inner circle, I’ve been told.”

  Colfax nodded. “I’d say so, and happy to be. You know, Detective Inspector, I was a real shit at school. That’s where I met Freddy. Today I’d be called a bully. I don’t look back in anger; I look back and quiver. With shame. Freddy helped me grow up. That’s the best way to put it. By putting me in my place. By showing me you get better results with sugar than vinegar.”

  “He sweetened you up,” I said.

  Colfax nodded. “That he did. We shared a lot of good times and some bad. He was simply wonderful when my father was killed. Motor accident. I was barely seventeen and the grief came out as anger. Freddy consoled me. Truly. Yes, he stole a girlfriend or two over the years, but if they were susceptible to his not inconsiderable charms, I figured I was well shot of them. Maybe that was some juvenile way of defending my ego, but it worked. That, or I’m in major denial.” He smiled. I returned it.

  “The obvious question is, can you think of anyone who had it in for him? Held a grudge?” I asked.

  “There were lots of grudges over the years. He didn’t always treat women well, but some didn’t treat him too well either. Still, everyone holds grudges at some point, don’t they? Or causes them. I know I have. They fade with time, like most wounds.”

  “Any names? Anyone we should speak with?” I asked.

  “Can I think about it a bit? It wouldn’t be a long list, but I could email it to you.”

  “I’ll give you my card, Mr. Colfax.” Which I did.

  “By the way it’s David. Mr. Colfax died in Royal Marsden Hospital forty-two years ago.”

  “The sooner the better on this list of yours, please, David.”

  That Thursday, Jabirah took Jonathan on a long walk through Regent’s Park and beyond, which I heard about over dinner. They found themselves in Abbey Road. When they reached Marlborough Place, Jabirah led them into the side street and stopped as they reached number 14. The house was polished. Its door, robin’s egg blue, glistened. Its size, location—everything about it said stature. The front door was five steps up, Jonathan made sure to note. Jonathan said he and Jabirah stared at the house for a few moments, until a well-dressed woman came out and started down the steps.

  “Why were you eyeing a stranger’s house?” I asked Jabirah.

  “It was really pretty,” she said, with no further comment.

  The Obinnas returned to us, safe, sound, and rested. Ogueri came to our flat full of the sounds and smells of Lagos. Jabirah planned to take the boys to lunch someplace they liked, but for some reason, she was hesitant to walk them there. She made a couple of remarks about taking Uber, which seemed folly to me.

  “It’s a twenty-minute walk, Jabirah,” I said. “A very nice
twenty-minute walk by the way.”

  “I don’t like the neighborhood,” she responded.

  “What? Why ever not?” I asked. “It’s half Pakistani!”

  Jabirah didn’t respond, which told me all I needed to know. “I don’t mind you taking Uber or a taxi; the money’s not a problem,” I added after a while. “But it isn’t an unsafe neighborhood, Jabirah.”

  “Maybe not for you,” Jabirah answered, sipping tea. “It’s just that I don’t go out much at home and when I do…” she gave a sheepish look.

  “You wear something on your head? Whatever it’s called. Not the one that covers your face and everything. Is that the problem?”

  “You’re talking about a niqab,” Jabirah said. “And no, I don’t wear one of those. I wear a hijab. It wraps around my head and neck. I have to respect my family’s wishes, Tessa.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with my job, you know.”

  “I know that. I’m not trying to preach, Jabirah. But you can wear—or not wear—whatever you want. Remind me what country this is?”

  “Your England and mine are two different worlds, Tessa.”

  “Well, they shouldn’t be, should they? For pity’s sake, Jabirah, what good is a world like yours when half its occupants live like they’re in prison?”

  Jabirah took a while to answer. “Part of me agrees with you, but this is our tradition, Tessa. It’s also a sign of respect. For my culture, my religion, you know? Not just a way of hiding from men. We value modesty. How is that wrong?”