Anne was a solicitous hostess and fluttered around tying his bib and showing him how to crack open the shell to extract the meat. When the head and some green insides spilled out onto the white lace tablecloth, she spirited them miraculously from view. With no feelers and beady eyes to contend with, he was able to concentrate on getting some nourishment.
As he struggled, Norrich regaled him with stories about growing up in a remote fishing village, where his father had been the only RCMP presence in town. The man grew to be a legend over the course of the lobster. After Norrich had popped the cork on the third bottle, Green decided he’d better steer the conversation to the case before they both sank into a stupor. He had spent part of the afternoon reading Norrich’s reports on his visit to Daniel Oliver’s reserve unit and had been unable to glean a single useful fact about the man. Not only was there no mention of a possible connection to Ian MacDonald’s death, but there was no hint that Norrich had even asked about it. Surely there were tidbits Norrich had picked up that he’d chosen to leave out of his official reports.
Green couldn’t think clearly enough to be subtle, so he plunged straight in. “I saw from the reports that you went out to the West Nova Scotia Regiment to ask about Daniel Oliver. Did you find out anything about his peacekeeping tour?”
Norrich blinked and stared at the table cloth as if trying to remember where he was. “No, it was just a routine inquiry. ‘Did he have any enemies? Did he mention any conflicts?’ That kind of thing. But since Oliver had left the reserves a year earlier, they’d pretty much lost touch with him. Waste of time from the investigation’s point of view, but I met a great group of guys.”
“Did you speak with any of his overseas mates?”
“No, but none of the regiment was overseas with him. He’d served with a battalion from the Princess Pats which was based in Winnipeg, but it had reservists from all across the country.”
“What about his friend Ian MacDonald?”
“Ian who?”
“MacDonald. Served with him in Croatia. He was killed two years after coming home. He was in the same reserve outfit. Did you ask about him?”
Norrich peered at him balefully. Despite the haze of booze, he obviously sensed the implied rebuke in Green’s tone. “Don’t see how the hell that was relevant.”
Which means you didn’t even ask, asshole, Green thought. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Why did Daniel Oliver leave the reserves?”
Norrich picked up a claw and splintered it with vigour. “He developed a serious attitude problem. He picked fights with friends, said none of them knew what the hell being in the army was all about. He was disrespectful of superior officers, derelict in his duties. The way the fellows on the base talked, if he hadn’t left, he might have been in for some disciplinary action. He was becoming a disgrace to the uniform.”
Green filtered his thoughts through his anger, trying for some tact. “I know a few guys who served with the UN police in Yugoslavia, and they had some trouble readjusting when they came back. And we know from highly publicized cases like Romeo Dallaire that a lot of soldiers encountered situations overseas that haunted them when they came back. Didn’t Oliver’s behaviour ring any alarm bells with his regiment?”
Norrich slapped the table impatiently. His plate jumped, and his cuff came to rest in a pool of grease. Wordlessly Anne jumped up, rescued both men’s plates and disappeared into the kitchen. “I think all this stress stuff is a load of horseshit. It’s their job, for Christ’s sake! It’s why they signed up, and if they don’t have the stomach for it, they should just pack up and leave the job to the men who do. Last thing a soldier needs, just like a cop, is a mate who freezes up under fire and secondguesses whether he should act. It’s an insult to all the brave men who’ve ever served their country to pander to these guys and offer excuses. Worse, it makes them doubt themselves. Makes them wonder if they’ve got what it takes to be a hero when the shit hits the fan. A soldier, just like you and me, has to act. Not analyze or feel or whatever other lily shit the shrinks have come up with for our own good.”
His jowls quivered, and he had turned a dangerous purple. In the kitchen, Green heard dishes clattering, and he wondered if Anne was deliberately staying out of her husband’s way. His own very personal outrage threatened to overpower him, and he debated the wisdom of continuing, but in defence of all the police officers and emergency workers he’d known, he tried to find a dispassionate response.
“No one questions their heroism or their ability to act when they need to. But with the guys I knew, it was the aftermath that was tricky. When they had time to think—”
Norrich slapped the table again. “The problem is Canadians are soft! We haven’t had a war on our own soil in nearly two hundred years, and two generations have grown up never feeling the threat of any war. We’ve pampered them at home and at school. Car pools and after-four programs, and when they grow up, welfare and unemployment insurance and health care. What the hell’s left to fight for? So when trouble hits, there’s no backbone. Hell, most of the world sees more trauma—”
The kitchen door burst open, and Anne came out carrying a massive platter mounded with lemon meringue pie. She had a determined smile on her face, but her eyes glittered with warning.
“Enough shop talk, gentlemen. You wouldn’t want a good pie to go to waste in the heat of discussions. Mike, would you like some tea? Or coffee perhaps?”
Green seized on the latter offer with gratitude. A dull ache was beginning to replace the spinning inside his skull. While they had coffee and dessert, Anne skilfully steered the conversation to harmless realms. Although Norrich continued to sputter and huff, his colour gradually returned to a dull pink. As soon as he could respectably do so, Green rose to say his goodbyes.
Norrich had been drooping over his Bailey’s, and he lifted his head in surprise. “Here, I’ll drive you.”
Fortunately he seemed to have exhausted all spirit of argument, for he accepted Green’s hasty refusal and merely propped himself in the doorway to wave goodbye as Green climbed into a cab. Cruising through the neat, tree-lined suburbs towards downtown, Green drew a deep, cleansing breath and glanced at his watch. Just past ten o’clock. There was nothing to do in his hotel room except go to bed, but it was too early, especially with his biological clock still set on Ottawa time.
Part of him longed to curl up in a warm bed and phone home, but Sharon would still be out at work, and a conversation with Hannah would last all of two minutes. Besides, another part of him was restless. Ill at ease. More disturbed by Norrich’s passionate accusations than he cared to admit. Norrich was the last person who would have noticed any troubling undercurrents between the soldiers who were the pride of the nation. Green didn’t relish more alcohol or more conversations with drunks, but there were places to visit and questions to ask that could only be done at night. He fished out Kate McGrath’s business card and punched in her cellphone.
“Kate? How would you like to meet me for a drink? Dress for the trenches. I hear the Lighthouse Tavern is a rough place.”
NINE
Calling the Lighthouse rough was like calling Baghdad unsettled. It didn’t nearly do credit to the place. The raucous blend of music, raunch and shouting could be heard from a block away every time the door burst open to spit another drunken patron out into the street. Green and McGrath pushed through the swinging saloon doors into a dimly lit cave of scarred tables and pockmarked walls, murky with smoke and rancid with the stink of booze and sweat. A bar ran down the middle, separating the pool tables from the strip club. Serious drinkers were propped up along the bar, while others lolled around tables littered with beer, leering at the young girl on the brass pole. She was decked out in leather and