Raw Bone (30 page)

He was hungry, but too exhausted to cook. He retrieved some ancient biscotti Marcello had given him, poured a double grappa and sat by the cottage window to look for birds. When biting through the biscuit proved too difficult, he dipped it in the grappa until it was soft. That proved to be delicious. He poured another drink.

After two doubles and several biscotti, he moved to the sofa and propped up a cushion so he could gaze out the window. The rain had settled into a light but steady mist that hung in droplets from branches and buds—tiny sparkling crystal balls that in turn grew too big, fell and disappeared from view. Chickadees flitted between the trees closest to the window. He imagined for a moment that they knew he was in rough shape, and that they would stand by him in the lonely stone cottage, no matter the weather.
How pathetic
, he thought.
Now, I’m relying on chickadees to keep me going
.

Woodland Cemetery, eleven a.m. That such a small cluster of solemn mourners was gathered at Jennifer Grant’s graveside only added to the heaviness of the scene. Most were huddled under umbrellas, perhaps praying not for her salvation, but for a short service.

As MacNeice approached with Dylan by his side and Vertesi close behind, he studied the black silhouettes against a grey sky. He was having difficulty breathing and couldn’t risk taking a deep breath for fear of coughing.

The scene was a set piece: a dozen people gathered between two mature maples, leafless branches shivering in the rain. Dylan had his head down, his new black coat, purchased for him by Children’s Services, buttoned to the neck. Under it, he wore dark blue cotton pants, pressed with a sharp crease, probably by Dylan himself. On his feet were black crosstrainers, a reminder to everyone that he was a kid and that what was unfolding shouldn’t be.

The Anglican minister stood under a large umbrella held by a woman behind him, who wore a large Tilley hat that shed the rain onto the shoulders of her coat.

Dylan’s mother was being interred in the plot her parents had purchased for themselves, never thinking their daughter would precede them. The funeral, at least, had caused Dylan and his grandparents to meet in order to discuss how it would go. Dylan had successfully argued that her remains be cremated and that there be no church service or visitation.

His grandparents were standing close to the minister, huddled under an umbrella beside their surviving child, Robert, who stood out in the rain, his head protected by a black baseball
hat. As beads of water gathered at the front of the peak, he’d look down to the grave and they’d drop off. Tom Smylski and his mother stood together under another umbrella, Tom grim-faced and focused on Dylan. Next to Tom was Coach Knox, head down and casting only brief glances in Dylan’s direction. Next to him, Mercy’s principal and vice-principal stood erect, dignified and patient in the rain.

To the right, separated from the others, stood Graham McLeod, glistening in his weather-beaten Barbour and brown wide-brimmed hat. He nodded at MacNeice before turning his attention to the small rectangular hole in the ground.

With everyone else gathered on one side, Dylan chose to stand on the other, MacNeice and Vertesi on either side of him. Dylan glanced about briefly before catching the minister’s eye and nodding for him to begin. Instead of opening the book, the minister recited from memory a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye that MacNeice recognized as the one Kate’s mother had read at her funeral.

Next, the minister opened his book, and as the familiar words of interment rang out, the boy’s shoulders started shaking. He hoisted them up—hoping perhaps it would be mistaken for shivers in the rain—and the rain coursed down the back of his neck where his coat collar gaped. MacNeice took off his scarf and wrapped it around the boy. Without looking up, Dylan whispered, “Thanks.”

MacNeice put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder and pulled him to his side. At first the boy resisted, but then he surrendered to the needed comfort. Across the way, everyone who didn’t have their head down was watching him, and before long, most of them were weeping too.

Jennifer’s parents and her brother appeared frozen in anguish, unable or unwilling to look away from the small hole in the ground. McLeod turned away from the grave, toward the horizon, possibly unable to face the final reminder of his own failure to save her. Even the minister’s helper was moved to tears, her hand trembling, sending a shower off the edge of the umbrella that narrowly missed the Book of Common Prayer and splashed onto the minister’s shiny black shoes.

Only Alexander Knox, the only adult here who knew Dylan well appeared stoic. With his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat and the rain streaming down his face, he stared at the small pit and its surrounding carpet of synthetic grass, brilliant green in the grey, brown and black surroundings. As the ashes were being lowered into the ground, MacNeice caught an exchange of glances between the coach and Jennifer’s brother. Though brief and non-verbal, it
was something private, a split-second communication that both could assume had gone unnoticed.

When the service was over, MacNeice suggested a trip to the Secord Dairy with Tom Smylski and his mother. No one said anything on the drive. Once inside the dairy, however, the boys ordered banana splits. When they were finished, they asked for two more. Tom’s mother rolled her eyes in mock shock but didn’t object. As they dug into their second sundaes, the two friends chased funereal gloom with sugar-induced nervous laughter. Mrs. Smylski shook her head, uncomfortable or embarrassed that the detectives might consider the behaviour inappropriate. But MacNeice understood. Dylan’s hysterics were likely the first time he’d laughed since life, as he knew it, had ended.

After they dropped a very sleepy Dylan at his foster home later, the image of Knox at the cemetery still haunted MacNeice. Taping a man with a live grenade at his throat and wheeling him into a park to be discovered by chance by anyone—a mother with a baby stroller, a couple of teens, or firefighters, paramedics and cops—suggested someone frozen to the core. Rationally, he didn’t believe a high school basketball coach could work up the hatred for it, but his intuition and experience suggested otherwise.

As Vertesi pulled up in front of the stone cottage, MacNeice asked, “What would Dylan’s basketball coach have in common with a greengrocer in Dundas?”

“Knox lives up on the east mountain—that’s a long way to go for a cucumber.”

MacNeice got out of the car and watched as Vertesi reversed out of the gravel driveway, negotiated the potholes and broken pavement and disappeared down the road. It was late Friday afternoon and the rain had stopped. There were even faint patches of pale blue sky breaking through the cloud cover. He closed his eyes, cautiously breathing in the smell of damp
undergrowth. Chickadees and juncos chattered in the trees about him. He heard a tractor-trailer gearing down for the lights at Main and Mountain. MacNeice listened, loving the music of it—
clung-chunk, verrrr
;
clung-chunk, verrrr
;
clung-chunk, verrrr
—until the highway was quiet and the songs of eternally positive birds reasserted themselves. He opened his eyes and, for a moment, the world seemed brighter.

He was into his third grappa when the phone rang. It was Wallace, asking whether he was ready for full duty or still needed time. “I’ll be fine after the weekend, sir.”

“The British consul-general has requested your presence this Monday at his residence in Toronto—10:30 a.m. You are to meet a British colonel, one Sir Giles Tremain Lyttelton CBE, of the Special Air Service. If that mouthful means anything to you, perhaps you can enlighten me?”

MacNeice told Wallace that Aziz had called the British embassy to ask about the whereabouts and history of Jacko Mars Bishop. “As he is a triple murder suspect who served in the SAS and told me that the name he was using was false, we gave the embassy a detailed description, including the list of tattoos and that he likely was from Glasgow. We also provided three black and white photographs taken from security cameras that tie him to the murder of Sherry Berryman.”

Wallace said, “If you’re not feeling strong enough, Mac, I can send Aziz along to meet Sir Mucketyduck.”

MacNeice laughed. “I’ll go, and take Aziz with me.”

He’d just put down the phone when a vehicle braked outside. MacNeice went to the door to find Marcello retrieving a stack of aluminum foil containers from the trunk of his car. He carried them past the detective. “Fiza dropped by. She said you were here but probably surviving on Kraft Dinner. Here you go: lasagna, ricotta ravioli, roasted root veggies and grilled garlic rapini. You can freeze the pastas.” He disappeared into the kitchen and just as quickly reappeared to shake MacNeice’s hand, bumping his shoulder.

MacNeice offered him a grappa.

“No,
grazie
. I have to get back—we’re booked solid tonight. You take care, eh. We miss you.”

Within minutes Marcello had come and gone, but the smell of food had taken over the house. Cutting a generous slice of lasagna, he was struck by how lonely he felt.

He opened a bottle of red wine and poured a large glass. Across from him, the other chair was tucked tight to the table. With his foot, he shoved it out and—call it a trick of the wine—for a moment he could believe someone was about to sit down. Not Kate surely. And now, not Sam.

He could hardly blame her. She had almost died because of him and her apartment was in ruins. “Fair enough,” MacNeice said aloud, and cut another piece of the pasta.

Still, this cottage he loved, this nest that had known years of overwhelming tenderness, seemed unbearably cold. Filling his glass again, he set his mind to fighting the drift the wine was taking him in. After rinsing the plate, knife and fork, he put them in the dishwasher. He poured another glass of wine and went into the living room to lie down on the sofa and count his blessings.

Just after midnight, he was awoken by the telephone. How long it had been ringing he couldn’t tell, but when he picked it up, his voice wouldn’t work. He coughed and tried again to say hello.

On the other end of the line, a voice said, “Mac … is that you?”

He swallowed hard—his throat was dry, his head spinning. “It’s me … yes, it’s me.” He couldn’t tell if his words were loud enough to be heard on the other end.

“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.

He put the phone down and sank into the sofa. Had he dreamed the phone rang, dreamed his voice hadn’t worked? Who was the voice?

There was an empty grappa bottle and glass on the coffee table
. Is it possible
, he wondered,
that I finished a nearly full bottle of grappa in one evening?

He went into the kitchen and splashed water on his face. He was awake. Or was that a dream too? Was this alcohol poisoning? The cork for the red wine was sitting on the counter; he picked it up and shoved it into the bottle—that small act had to be something only an awake person would do. While his head hurt, he knew it wasn’t due to the concussion or the broken nose. Even fine grappa in quantity can give you a hangover. He went back to the sofa.

When morning came splintering through the trees into the living room, it flickered and teased the thin skin of his eyelids until he opened them. He let his head fall to the right and once again saw the empty grappa bottle. He was still wearing the black suit from the funeral. Certain now that he was awake, he nonetheless still felt disoriented.

No one had come. He must have been dreaming. Swinging his legs to the floor, MacNeice pushed himself up to face the window. On a branch he kept meaning to remove for fear it would swing in the wind and smash the pane, was a female cardinal. She was watching
him, turning her head from side to side, masked eyes behind a vermilion beak. Seconds passed before the male—fast flashing red—passed by and out of sight. The female didn’t appear to notice but he knew she had—the two were inseparable. She flew off when MacNeice stood up.

He put the glass in the dishwasher and took the bottle out to the recycling bin beside the driveway. Returning to the door, he saw a small folded piece of paper on the threshold and picked it up. He went to the kitchen, turned on the espresso machine and sat down at the table.

“Knocked several times. No answer. Walked around to the garden, saw you asleep on the sofa—happy to see you were okay. Fiza”

Nestled in the heart of Rosedale, the home of the British consul-general wasn’t any more stately than its neighbours. The only signals that its inhabitants weren’t investment bankers, plastic surgeons or corporate lawyers were the security cameras, the high black iron fence and the small handsome coat of arms above the gate and over the front door.

Andrew Portman met them there. A career diplomat in his mid-forties, the consul-general was accustomed to dealing with much kinder issues than multiple homicides, yet Portman appeared buoyant—and proper. He took their coats, handed them to an attendant and waited for him to leave the foyer before he said anything more.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’ll take you into the drawing room to meet with the colonel after I establish the ground rules.”

“Mr. Portman, why are we meeting here at your residence and not downtown at the consulate?” Aziz asked.

“Ah, you’re British,” he said with a smile.

“I’m a Canadian now.”