‘I don’t think so,’ Morton replied. The information had come from his father’s birth certificate, which had stated Roscoe’s place of birth as Boston.
‘Because if it was in the villages around here, you’ll need to head out to our sister office in Dorchester.’
‘How far away is that?’
‘About a half hour out on the red T-line.’
Time he didn’t have. ‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
‘You’re welcome—good luck.’
Morton made his way towards the escalators, knowing that it wasn’t luck he needed, just time and access to the right records. That his grandfather hadn’t been born in Boston shouldn’t have come as such a surprise; his entire search for his biological family had been a persistent challenge.
He glided up the escalator on a wave of thought, considering what his next steps might be.
Juliette was distinctly dry when they met thirty-five minutes later. He leant in and kissed her. ‘Entering the Charles River?’ he questioned.
‘Duck Tour,’ Juliette said by way of explanation.
‘And that is…?’
‘A tour of Boston in a bright red amphibious landing craft from the Second World War. Very interesting, too; I’m now an expert on the Boston Tea Party and the Civil War. What about you—how did you get on?’
‘I’ll tell you over dinner. Hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘Do you fancy Legal Sea Foods? It comes recommended.’
‘As opposed to illegal sea foods?’ Juliette asked.
Morton laughed. ‘Well, you are on honeymoon after all—I don’t want you having to get your police warrant card out.’
She laughed. ‘It’s in my bag just in case…’
He took her hand in his. ‘Come on, it’s only just around the corner from here.’
They were lucky to get a table; the large restaurant on State Street was crowded when they arrived. A young Hispanic waiter directed them to a table with a view down the Long Wharf opposite and handed them each a menu.
‘What can I get you guys to drink? We’ve got some great apple sangria on or our local beer is Sam Adams…or we’ve got a nice Californian red wine.’
‘Sam Adams, please,’ Morton ordered.
‘The same for me,’ Juliette added, receiving a surprised raised eyebrow from Morton. ‘What? When in Rome…’
The waiter returned with the drinks and took their food order of clam chowder and lobster bake.
Juliette raised her beer. ‘Cheers. Happy honeymoon, husband.’
‘Happy honeymoon, wife.’
‘Right, now I’ve got access to some alcohol, you can tell me about your day,’ Juliette said.
‘Ha, ha,’ Morton replied, taking a deep breath, before running through his day’s findings, ending with his inability to locate his grandfather’s birth record.
Juliette listened attentively to his story. Then yawned. Then laughed. ‘Sorry—blame the jetlag. Isn’t there a census or something that would tell you where he was born?’
‘Well…I could take another look at the 1930 and 1940 Federal Census,’ he answered.
Juliette set her beer down. ‘You’ve got until the food arrives to look. I’m sure they’ll have Wi-Fi here.’
Morton grinned, took out his laptop and began to search the 1930 census for his grandfather. He started with Roscoe’s full name, exact date of birth, and birth state of Massachusetts. Nothing. Then he opened the search up for all states. Nothing. Then he removed the date of birth completely. Nothing. There were no Roscoe Jacklins in the entirety of the United States in 1930. Then he just tried the surname Jacklin in the state of Massachusetts. Five hundred and forty-five results. Each would need checking in turn for possible errors. But not now—the waiter was heading their way with two bowls of clam chowder.
‘Time’s up,’ Juliette announced. ‘Anything?’
Morton shook his head as he shut down his laptop.
‘Does all this affect the search for your dad?’ Juliette asked. ‘I mean, your grandfather possibly not being born in Boston isn’t connected, is it?’
‘No…I guess not…I just thought that, since we were in his home city, I would try and find out a bit about him.’
‘Another mystery.’
‘Indeed,’ Morton agreed with a sigh.
Chapter Two
10th January 1976, Hyannis, Massachusetts, USA
Rory’s Store, situated on the corner of Main and Pleasant Streets was deserted. Eleven days of relentless snow, where the temperature had struggled to climb above zero, had rendered the dusky streets particularly quiet. The proprietor, Rory McCoy—a beefy man in his late sixties—was leaning over the counter with both hands needlessly holding his glasses in place on the bridge of his nose. A dishevelled copy of the Cape Cod Times was open on the counter. Above him, an ancient heating system rattled hot, dry air into the store.
Harley ‘Jack’ Jacklin watched him in the mirror fixed into the corner of the ceiling that Rory had installed to monitor wayward employees and larcenous shoppers. Jack, handsome with a boyish face, was dressed in faded jeans and a loose-fitting white t-shirt with Rory’s emblazoned on the breast pocket. Jack looked at his watch: 5.56. He was tired and he wanted to go home. The tumbling snow outside caught his attention, falling thick and fast. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for the slow trudge home.
‘Hey, Jacklin,’ Rory growled up at the mirror. ‘I want that whole lot of detergent straightening out before you leave.’
Jack nodded at the mirror, ran his fingers through his short dark hair and obediently turned to the shelves in front of him. Making exaggerated movements for Rory’s benefit, Jack shifted the boxes of Tide detergent, lining them up perfectly against the shelf edge.
He finished and moved on to the next, not quite believing that five minutes could take so long to pass. His actions were slow and deliberate, and his body was angled so that Rory could definitely see that he was working.
‘Okay, home time,’ Rory finally called.
Jack stifled a smile and strolled toward the counter.
