“Oh, I say, ol’ chap, who have I reached here?”
“Jack Taggart.”
“Dreadfully sorry, I think I have the wrong number.”
Jack hung up and saw Holly approaching. She was pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair and Jenny was walking beside her. She gestured for Jack to wait.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I appreciated seeing at least one face in the crowd that I recognized.”
Jack introduced Holly and Jenny to Natasha, Danny, and Susan.
Holly looked at the elderly woman and said, “This is Jack’s mom. Mom, this is...” She stopped, not knowing what to say.
Jack was taken aback for a moment as the realization sunk in, then he stuck out his hand and said, “You’re Jack Taggart’s mother...”
She politely took his hand and tearfully said, “George couldn’t be here today. He’s too sick, you know. I must get back to him.”
“I understand,” said Jack.
“I think we should go,” said Holly. “Thanks again for coming. Thanks to all of you.”
As Holly wheeled Mrs. Taggart away, Jack heard her ask, “Who was that, dearie? You didn’t tell me his name.”
Jack felt a flood of emotion at Holly’s response. It made him feel better but also caused him to bite the end of his tongue to keep from crying.
“A friend of the family, Mom. Just a friend.” Natasha kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Guess you were right, coming here.”
Jack’s cellphone vibrated again.
“Sorry, have I dialled the same wrong number again?”
“You have,” replied Jack, and hung up. He then walked Natasha over to her car so that she could drive to work.
“Jack!” Susan yelled. “Why don’t you come to our place now? I’ll make sandwiches for lunch and you can stay for dinner. We’re having a roast with Yorkshire pudding. There will be lots.”
Jack’s reply was interrupted by a car horn. He saw that the driver had protested his annoyance at being cut off when a green van with tinted windows pulled out from the curb in front of him. A fist, with the middle finger pointing upward, briefly extended out the van window.
Jack accepted Susan’s invitation before kissing Natasha goodbye and walking back to his own car.
Albert Dawson stood beside the bed and brushed the hair back from his wife’s face. At eighty-six years of age, Esther was two years younger than her husband. She couldn’t ignore the pain in her hip any longer and reluctantly decided to follow the doctor’s advice and stay off it for a few days. It was almost noon and the warm sun coming through the window added to her dismay.
Albert saw the frustration in her face. “Won’t be long, Essie, and you’ll be up and about. I’ll make you some soup and tea when I come back. Then I’ll read to you.”
“Take your time. I’ll entertain the mailman while you’re gone,” she replied, sounding gruff.
Albert gave his wife a look of loving devotion brought on by sixty-seven years of marriage.
Esther stared back. She was legally blind and could not see his face, but she remembered the look well and sensed it. She imagined it more as his warm hand squeezed her shoulder and in the gentle kiss that followed. Albert then stood upright, using his cane to steady his balance.
In 1944, Albert had been a rear gunner in a Lancaster flying over Germany. He was smaller and thinner than most men, which suited his cramped quarters in the Lancaster just fine. Unfortunately his position also caused him to receive a fist-sized piece of shrapnel to his knee. Pain was something he had long learned to live with.
“Mailman, aye! If he’s here when I get back I’ll kick his ass.”
Essie chuckled as Albert left the room.
Moments later, Albert carefully locked the door to the house and headed down the street.
The mall was only two blocks from their house, but Albert was the sociable type. What would have been a quick stop at an ATM and a drug store for most people took him considerably longer. It was an hour before he returned home and stepped inside.
“Essie! What’s this mail bag doing in the living room?” he yelled.
“Quick, my husband’s home! Hide under the bed!” came her staged whisper from the bedroom.
Albert’s eyes twinkled as he was about to reply, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a man with a knife.
chapter nine
Jack was glad that Natasha was off for the weekend. They spent it together, trying out a few new recipes that they paired with an appropriate wine. It gave them a chance to talk and unwind a little. For a brief period of time, Jack’s brain overruled his heart and told him that the funeral was linked to him in name only.
By Monday morning, Jack was feeling somewhat refreshed and was waiting when Louie arrived at work.
“You’re early,” commented Louie, hanging up his jacket on a hook behind the door. “How did the funeral go on Friday?”
“It went,” Jack replied, then paused and asked, “Molen ... is it set?”
“Told you I would look after it. I did. He’ll get the fake report this morning. Anti-Corruption is handling the investigation. How do you feel about the meeting with Isaac last Thursday?”
“It was okay. I agree with the game plan for Molen, but we need to tread carefully.”
Louie looked at Jack and quietly replied, “I think you need to tread very carefully.”
Connie Crane didn’t arrive at work until almost noon. She had worked all weekend. The murder of an elderly war veteran had enraged her. She knew she might as well work because she was too angry to sleep.
The media clamoured for every ugly detail they could learn. Connie was generous with what she gave them. The details would sicken the public. Anyone with a shred of humanity who knew anything should call. She was right. One tipster was not satisfied to talk to someone handling the tip line. She wanted to talk to the investigator in charge.
Connie took the call and listened to the woman. She sounded like she smoked six packs a day.
“Listen, I’m just an addict,” she said. “I know nobody will believe me, but...”
Connie rolled her eyes. Crack whore! You’re right. I’m busy; let’s get to the point. She interrupted and said, “How much money are you looking to be paid? I don’t work drugs. Not sure what a rock sells for these days.”
“Listen, bitch! I don’t want no money for this! Just because I’m a fuckin’ addict don’t mean I don’t have a conscience! I’m also dying of fucking throat cancer so I really don’t need this extra crap. If you ain’t interested in me telling you who did it, then I’ll hang up!”
“Don’t do that,” said Connie. “Please. I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t slept all weekend and I’m feeling grumpy. What do you have to tell me?”
Connie hastily scribbled notes as the tipster talked. Is this some hooker with a grudge against her pimp — or someone else? She took the details and handed them to a colleague to check out. Wasn’t much to go on. Just a nickname: Spider. The tipster said he hung out at a skid-row bar on East Hastings called the Black Water. A long way from where Essie fell out of bed, crawled over to her husband, and felt his gurgling windpipe. Then heard a