by Cathy Ace
Bud stood again. “I get what you’re saying, but, whatever the details, how would that change everything for us, in the way John suggested?”
“Let’s keep going, there are lots more photos,” I said.
We kept turning the pages, and it was clear we were taking a trip through time. Freddie was ageing, the gatherings looked more corporate and less glitzily social. The black-and-white photos stopped; the color ones grew sharper, and were less faded.
“Wait a minute,” said Bud, putting out his hand to prevent Sheila from turning the page. “Jack, look at this photo.”
Jack looked. “Hang on, I think I saw one of him earlier on, in the black-and-white section.” He flicked back several pages. “There he is. It’s him, isn’t it?”
Sheila and I looked at the two photos in question. In both of them a tall man with grizzled features had his arm around the waist of the glamourous Nina Mazzo. In the earlier photo he looked to be in his fifties – though it was hard to tell because half his face was obscured by a raised martini glass; in the second he was facing directly into the camera and looked truly ancient – white-haired, with a bowed back. He was a man to whom time had not been kind; Nina looked as though she hadn’t aged at all, but had bloomed.
“That’s Luca Mazzo.” Sheila and I spoke in unison, and shared a smile.
“No, it’s not,” said Bud sounding quite certain.
Shelia and I stared at him. “He’s the man whose photographs are all over the place at Caro Mio,” I replied. “Including wedding photos. Him and Nina.”
Bud stared at the photo, then at Jack, then at me. “You’re certain?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s it, then. That’s what John saw. Lottie must have told him this was Luca Mazzo. Come on, Jack, we three need to get our heads together, now. If he’s been on-island all these years – or was back then, at least – everything makes so much more sense.”
Jack stood.
“No, nothing makes sense at all. What’s going on?” Sheila asked.
Jack took her hand in his. “The guy in that photo is a man we know as…um…who went by a different name in the 1940s. Due to information received from Freddie Burkinshaw, it was believed that certain papers smuggled out of post-war America had somehow reached this island by the early 1960s. Freddie never said how they got here, but he did try to get money out of a few governments at that time in return for him gaining possession of those papers, then passing them along. No one was interested back then, now they are, hence us being here. Freddie was our first point of contact, for obvious reasons, but he assured us he no longer knew of the papers’ location. Bud hoped Wilson Thomas might be able to help. Both men are dead now, and we are none the wiser. Now that we’ve seen this guy in these photos, we have another lead. Him.”
Bud stood with his mouth open. “Secret mission, Jack.”
Jack waved an arm at Bud. “They don’t know what the papers are, so it’s still a secret, right?”
Sheila and I nodded. Vigorously.
Bud stomped about a bit and ran his fingers through his hair several times. “Damn that Freddie Burkinshaw. He must have known about this so-called Mazzo guy all along.”
“Are you telling me that Luca Mazzo is linked to these papers you’re looking for, somehow?” I asked.
Bud’s head-scratching got faster. “There were very few photos of the man you call Luca Mazzo, and those that did exist were of him as a younger man. Military photos. They formed a part of our briefing; his…original name…appeared on the papers we’re looking for, you see. I’m sure that’s him. It’s the eyes, those eyebrows, and those pockmarks on his cheeks.”
“It’s him alright,” confirmed Jack. “Earlobes.” Both men nodded.
“And you’re also telling us that there’s an international kerfuffle about papers relating somehow to the second world war now, in this day and age? Really?” I found it hard to believe.
Bud pounced. “Ah, now that’s where we cannot talk, right, Jack?” Jack shrugged, and looked at his wife with apologetic, worried eyes.
Bud continued, “All I can say is that you’re both intelligent enough to understand that sometimes things that happen during wartime would not be acceptable outside the theatre of war. When peace comes, and there’s a robust rebuilding of bonds between nations in the aftermath, some potential attachments might be better forgotten about.”
“Cait’s right,” agreed Sheila, “and you are, too. We’re both capable of understanding all that, Bud, but that war ended a very long time ago. Why are these papers suddenly important again?”
Bud and Jack exchanged a glance.
Jack replied, “The world turns, alliances shift, the balance of power is amended, or upended. Sometimes the world changes rapidly, and that’s happening now. In many places. Those papers are more important now than they have been since 1945. And more dangerous. Our orders are to find them and destroy them, with proof of destruction. That’s why there are three of us here – a witness for each of the three nations is required.”
I was puzzled. “Three, Bud? For Britain – John; for Canada – you and Jack. Who else is involved with all this? What other country?”
Jack didn’t look at Bud; he studied his fingernails.
“I’m here representing Sweden, not Canada,” replied Bud.
I took a moment to digest that fact. “Hang on, I know you were born in Sweden, and that your parents emigrated to Canada when you were very young. I know you have a Swedish passport as well as your Canadian one. I also know you’ve been involved with various ‘international operations’ in the past. But I’m at a loss to understand why Sweden would choose you to represent them in this matter when I’m sure they have their own, more than competent, intelligence officers.” I was beginning to get that grumbly tummy thing that happens to me when I feel I’ve been sidelined or let down. And I didn’t like it at all. “How could the Swedish government be certain you’d put their interests ahead of Canada’s if it came to the point where those two things were in conflict? You’re a Canadian, now, Bud; you left Sweden before you were old enough to even know what it means to be Swedish.”
“Calm down, Cait,” said Bud gently. “I’m here because I had a good ‘in’ on the island, other than Freddie – Wilson Thomas. He was known to me because of the work I’d been doing just before I retired. Canadian drug traffickers and gangs, especially those in Ontario, had close links with groups here in Jamaica. They also had links with shipments made through Gothenburg, in Sweden – the biggest of all the Nordic ports. We relied upon a complex network of people on the ground with good local knowledge. Wilson was my liaison here on the island. That’s why me. And because of my Swedish citizenship, and a few other reasons I really can’t talk about, I am able to represent Sweden, as well as Canada, in the international arena. Indeed, not only am I allowed to – by each country – but they each trust me to act in their interests when the chips are down. That said, had I been sent here to represent Canada rather than Sweden, I’d have done that. And, on this occasion, there’s no question of the needs of one of those countries conflicting with the needs of the other. Both need the same outcome – destruction of the papers. I hope, Cait, if there’s only one thing that can be said of me with certainty, it’s that I am an honorable man. As for why Sweden – or Canada, or the United Kingdom – needs a representative here, that I cannot say. Sorry.”
I knew he’d never tell me about the “few other reasons”, so I didn’t bother pressing him about it.
He rested his hands on my shoulders. “Jack and I must go to see John now. We have to discuss this between the three of us, and get in touch with our respective leads on the case. The food should be here soon; give us a shout and we’ll come and get something to take to John’s bungalow if we can’t join you here, okay?”
Sheila and I each got a kiss before Jack and Bud left, but after they’d gone we looked at each other with matching glum expressions.
“I feel as though I’ve been slapped in the face with a dead fish,” I said. “And after a month of some of the best and freshest seafood in the world, I have to admit I’m a bit sick of it.”
Sheila hung her head in mock shame. “Sorry. I ordered conch curry tonight – do you think you’ll cope?”
“No goat?”
Sheila smiled, “Yes, I saw how much you loved it, so I ordered that too.”
“Thanks.”
Girls and Grief
“They threw me out,” said Lottie as she plopped herself onto a chair beside me. “I suppose they were quite polite, but I was given the old heave-ho nonetheless.” She looked around. “No food yet?”
Sheila checked her watch. “It should have arrived by now. I wonder if one of you could pass me my phone? Or do it for yourself. It’s the last number I rang.”
Lottie volunteered to call, picked up Sheila’s phone and redialled. We watched as she waited. She seemed to not be as wobbly or slurry as when she’d left us a little earlier – which was good.
“Hello there,” she said into the phone, “I’m calling from the Captain’s Lookout estate. We ordered some food for delivery and we had rather expected it to have arrived by now. Is there a problem? Is someone on the way?” She listened. “Yes, that’s right…No, not at all…Oh, you’re so sweet…Thanks, that would be lovely…Oh no, thank you, I have a boyfriend.” She giggled. “Yes, he is. And yes, he does. Thanks, bye-ee.” She replaced Sheila’s phone on the side table. “Delay in the kitchen, be here in half an hour. Okay?”
Sheila and I smiled at each other. “Did someone ask you on a date, just because you spoke to them on the phone?” asked Sheila.
Lottie’s laughter was throaty. “It happens all the time. It’s the accent, you know. Trying to get a bit of posh tottie is quite a sport, for some.” Her voice had taken on a cynical edge.
I decided to go for it. “It must be quite a challenge to be beautiful, well-educated, bright, and wealthy.”
Lottie looked at me with cold eyes. “Oh really, Cait?” She didn’t sound impressed.
“I mean it as a genuine observation,” I said calmly. “You are all those things, and more. I’m not, and never have been. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live your life.”
Lottie’s dagger-look softened. She smiled, looking tired. “Thanks for asking. It’s…it’s difficult to moan about being blessed with so much of what others want in life. Though I honestly don’t think I’m beautiful, I’m well aware I have more money than most. I was certainly given the chance to benefit from an excellent education, and – no – I’m not as thick as a brick. But when so many want for so much in this world, what right do I have to whine about having it all? It’s not proper. Equally, I’m not at all sure I should be so terribly annoyed by the fact it’s a rarity for me to have a conversation with a man for more than five minutes without him thinking he can proposition me. But I am. The liberties some of them think they can take, without the slightest encouragement from me!”
“At least, these days, you’re less likely to be man-handled,” said Sheila. “Trust me, when I joined the RCMP back in the day, almost every man there seemed to think it was his right to pat me, or paw me, wherever and whenever he pleased. And when they weren’t being handsy they were making the sort of cracks you’d want to smack them for – and their mothers would have done, I dare say. And the propositioning? Saying no all the blessed time became second nature to me – which meant they had me marked out as ‘not liking men’ before you knew it. Which didn’t stop them trying, of course – made it more exciting for some of them, I guess. Honestly, being a woman in a man’s world was a pain in the backside – literally, if they fancied giving you a little pinch or two. Because that’s all good, clean, harmless fun, right?”
I watched as Lottie nodded sadly. “You’d think it would be different in this day and age, but it’s not,” she said quietly. “So many of them don’t even know they’re doing it, and half of those who do – and have stopped – make out they’re so proud of themselves now that you can guess they’re just the same as they always were when they’re all just men together. It sickens me. Getting through those teen years was tougher, though. I’m glad that’s behind me, at least. Now I have a few more tools in my armory. Back then I was so vulnerable – like a turtle out of its shell…utterly defenseless.”
“You didn’t look very happy in that snap taken of you here when you were a teen,” I ventured.
Lottie’s chin puckered. “That year was my last on the island. It was pretty awful. I was sick, Mummy was sick, Daddy and she were having the most terrible time of it, and she was around, but not really ‘present’ for most of that year. She…Mummy had an affair with Freddie, you see. It went on for some time. Daddy thought she was seeing Keith Jackson, Niall’s father, but she wasn’t. She didn’t like Keith at all, but she’d make sure Daddy saw them together whenever she could. I think she was setting up an elaborate smokescreen, to throw Daddy off the scent, so he wouldn’t twig about her and Freddie. Daddy’s always been terribly clever, but she was better at fooling him than he was at sussing out what she was up to. He’s said several things to me recently that tell me he still has no idea about what really went on when he was off on his jaunts and Mummy and I were planted here, twiddling our thumbs.”
“Your mother and Freddie?” said Sheila, sounding stunned.
Lottie chuckled. “He wasn’t always wrinkly and old, like when you met him. He could be fun. Threw fabulous parties. Well, you saw all those photos. He was a good host because he had lots of practice. Mummy played hostess for years, and then things went on from there between them. That final year they seemed rather serious about each other, but then Daddy came to the island, and there were dreadful rows. Freddie let me hide away here, sometimes for days. He was quite sweet – he’d send Wilson in the Rolls to fetch me. He didn’t drive himself, and didn’t have to because he had Wilson to chauffeur him. I loved that car. I wonder what happened to it. A burgundy Rolls Royce, of all things. Anyway, then he dumped Mummy. I was fifteen at the time. He told her she was no longer welcome here, and that he’d made a mistake in taking things as far as they’d gone. I thought at the time that Daddy had found out about them and put the fear of God into Freddie, but I’ve changed my mind about that since then. Mummy…Mummy killed herself about a year later. That photo you saw? That was me just about the time when I was trying to come to terms with Mummy not being happy anymore. She was never happy again.”
“A burgundy colored Rolls Royce?” Sheila’s tone was sharp.
I was surprised that was her takeaway from Lottie’s revelation.
Lottie looked taken aback too. “Yes, he was well known for it,” she replied. “It was one of the big, old ones. He’d probably had it since the 1960s. The leather upholstery felt so soft, it was like skin…which it is, of course, but you know what I mean. I used to enjoy being driven around in it.”
“And Wilson Thomas was his chauffeur?” pressed Sheila.
This time I could see Lottie was truly puzzled. “Yes,” she replied. “Freddie hadn’t driven since…well, I don’t recall him ever driving. I know he could, because he used to have photos dotted around this place showing him, the car, and his famous chums in various locations all over the island. They would use it to go on picnics. But he stopped driving it. Why, I don’t know.”
“I damn well do,” said Sheila. She pushed herself up out of her chair and hobbled off into the house.
“Something’s made her angry,” observed Lottie. “I hope it wasn’t me.”
“Give me a minute? Can I get you anything?”
“Ting, please,” Lottie said with a smile and a wink. “I need the sugar rush.”
“Back in a minute.” I followed Sheila to the kitchen, where she was standing with her feet planted wide, holding onto the edge of the sink with both hands, her head bent, her body wracked with sobs.
I rubbed her back. “
Sheila, what’s wrong?”
“Freddie bloody Burkinshaw, that’s what’s wrong. The cops at the time told me paint from the car that hit Wendy was found on her scooter. It was an unusual color. Burgundy. Specialized finish. Now I know how the cops worked out who hit her. And now I understand why they did nothing. He was important, and rich – and above the law, it seems. Freddie Burkinshaw’s name was mentioned to me by our family’s lawyer – the guy who helped make the arrangements for me to get Wendy’s body back to Saskatchewan. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, of course. It did when we got here. But even then I didn’t know why his name had been mentioned in connection with Wendy’s death. Now, I do. I’m as certain as I can be that Freddie killed my sister. And here we’ve been worrying about who murdered him. Well, I for one couldn’t care less who did it, or why, or how. I’d like to shake them by the hand, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“This is the first time you’ve mentioned having heard Freddie’s name before you arrived here last week,” I said. “Is that why you came to Jamaica with Jack? Because you’d heard Freddie’s name all those years ago, and then Jack mentioned it when you managed to get him to tell you about this covert operation the men are caught up with? You wanted to meet the man who might have killed your sister? I mean, I know it fits your personality – you’re a direct person, who likes to face problems head on, and I bet you were electrified by the coincidence that Jack was coming here, to Freddie’s estate, but…” I paused as Sheila turned and looked at me. Her face was mottled, her eyes streaming, her mouth a thin line. Not her normal self, then.
“Cait Morgan, you can’t help yourself, can you?”
“What?” I was puzzled.
“What? Analysing, that’s what. Jack was saying to me last night that you seemed surprised you didn’t know about Wendy, or my time in the RCMP, or about the loss of our child; I told him that’s because you’ve never had a real chat with me before – that we’ve never engaged in what most people would think of as a normal conversation. He doesn’t understand that you just don’t care about people, Cait. But you don’t, do you? What happened to you, Cait, to make you such an island? You’re disconnected from the rest of the world. Except Bud, of course. And Marty, I guess. With them you seem to come alive. But why just them? What’s wrong with the rest of humanity? Are we not clever enough to keep up with your amazing brain? Is that it? Always have to be the smartest in the room, don’t you? Jack’s told me Bud talks about you as though you’re so special. Well, you’re special alright, but you’ll probably die alone and lonely, because once Bud’s gone, no one else is going to take you under their wing like some sort of project. So make the most of it.”
