On the wharf, onlookers and their vehicles were backing up and making their way back to the village. Leeroy Roberts had seen them all from the windows of the wheelhouse. That was enough to show who was standing by him.
Moralès hadn’t been aboard a vessel like this before. The wheelhouse was bigger and more comfortable than he had thought it would be. A deep, grey, leather bench stretched along the entire port side below the windows. Charts, papers and pens were strewn across a black console unit edged with wood trim, which ran the length of the front windows to the plush captain’s swivel chair on the starboard side. Six screens displayed marine charts, the position of the nets and images of the aft deck and engine room. A dozen or so VHF transceivers were attached to the ceiling. There was no traditional ship’s wheel, rather an array of joysticks, levers, keyboards, compasses, depth gauges, inclinometers and sounders – all the gadgets you’d expect aboard an ocean-going vessel. Behind the cockpit stood a rack of orange safety jackets. To the rear, by the window overlooking the deck, was another console, formed of more screens and joysticks. In the middle of the space, encased on three sides by a low wall made of wood, was a staircase, descending into the belly of the beast.
Lefebvre whistled in appreciation. A man in his late sixties was standing, quite still, by the stairs, behind the captain’s chair. It was Angel Roberts’ father. His lips were pressed tightly together, either in anger or because he was trying not to cry. Without moving a muscle, he watched Simone Lord approach.
The fishermen here knew that she’d never hesitated to put her own life on the line to save theirs when she was working with the coast guard. They’d come to accept she could be stubborn and difficult, but they’d wished she wasn’t a woman. It would have been easier for them to look up to a man. Later, though, when she became a fisheries officer, they weren’t shy about bad-mouthing her to her face.
‘Hi, Leeroy.’
They shook hands warmly. He looked at her gratefully. He could never hold anything against her. When his wooden boat caught fire fifteen or so years ago, he, his son and his crew would have perished in the fog if she and her colleagues hadn’t come to their rescue. Lord had moved to Fisheries and Oceans after that – she and her watchful eye. Leeroy wasn’t known to be a generous man, but he would remember and show gratitude when he had to.
‘We’re going to find your daughter.’
‘Thank you, Simone.’
She made the introductions. Leeroy Roberts eyed Moralès intently from behind his grey-framed glasses. His daughter’s fate was in this man’s hands. His name wasn’t from around here, and his face was too tanned for the season.
‘Where are you from, then?’
‘Caplan. I work at the Bonaventure detachment.’
That was good enough for Leeroy. You didn’t have to be born here to be a Gaspesian. You just needed to have your heart in the right place.
Moralès felt like an imposter. Angel Roberts was missing and her father was standing here in front of him – with an air of distrust, yes, but also a shred of hope. He wanted to give this man his daughter back, but he doubted that was possible. He hoped this was just a case of a woman who needed a breath of fresh air. It did happen. Husbands and wives sometimes decided to get away from each other without telling anyone. And it wasn’t always because they were having an affair. Often they just wanted or needed to be alone for a while, to pull themselves together or gather their thoughts. Moralès thought it was completely unreasonable for anyone to worry their friends and family sick just so they could ‘gather their thoughts’, but what could he do about it? He thought about Sébastien and his ‘culinary experiments’ and shook his head. He’d have a word with his son later. He’d talk to Marlène Forest about his holiday time later. And he’d call his wife later too.
‘Talk about a sweet setup,’ Lefebvre enthused. ‘I can’t believe all the gear you’ve got. I can see why these boats cost so much.’ He seemed to have completely forgotten why he was on board.
Simone Lord was scandalised. She glared at him, but his insensitive words seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Neither Angel’s father, nor her brother, who had followed them into the wheelhouse and closed the door behind him, paid any attention.
Moralès knew he was going to have to act fast if he didn’t want either of his colleagues to wreck his investigation. ‘When did you learn your daughter was missing?’
Leeroy remained standing in spite of his fatigue. They were talking about his daughter’s possible death and he wasn’t the kind of man to sit down when fate came knocking. He rested a hand on the low wall around the stairwell and turned to face the detective. ‘Yesterday morning, Ti-Guy Babin called my boy Jimmy to tell him Angel’s boat wasn’t at Grande-Grave no more.’
Simone Lord interrupted. ‘And around what time did you set out?’
Leeroy looked at her suspiciously and chose to ignore her. He turned back to Moralès to finish his answer. He was an old-school kind of guy and would only talk to the boss. ‘It was his brother, Jean-Paul, who called him. He’s one of Angel’s deckhands. He must have gone down to the wharf and seen the boat wasn’t there.’
‘And around what time—?’
Moralès cut in – he wasn’t going to let Lord continue. ‘Who’s the other deckhand?’
‘Jacques Forest – Angel’s uncle on her mum’s side.’
Lord was seething, but dropped her question. Érik Lefebvre wandered to the starboard side and sat down in the captain’s chair, turning it from side to side with an annoying squeak. Bruce Roberts leaned back against the door and stared at a stain on the floor.
‘Was Angel the sole owner of the trawler?’
Leeroy nodded, turned to the portside window and looked out across the water at his daughter’s boat, where the crime-scene technicians were busy doing their job. ‘Her home port’s on the south side of Forillon Park, but we brought her back here because I live right there.’ He pointed to a house by the water’s edge. ‘I wanted to feel like she was close to me. At least for today.’
Moralès was thinking. Clément Cyr had said he was the one who had raised the alarm with Jean-Paul Babin, but Leeroy didn’t seem to know that. Or was pretending he didn’t. He decided to ask a different question to check whether the omission was intentional.
‘As I understand it, yesterday your daughter’s deckhand Jean-Paul Babin went down to the wharf to go fishing, but—’
‘No, no, no,’ Simone Lord interrupted. ‘The fishing season’s over.’
Moralès turned to face her squarely, but addressed his other colleague. ‘Constable Lefebvre, would you go and inspect the inside of the boat, please?’
Lefebvre sprang to his feet, keen as can be. ‘Right away?’
The Roberts men hadn’t reacted to the unexpected intrusion, so the detective nodded. ‘Now would be a good time.’
Lefebvre scurried over to the stairwell.
‘Officer Lord here will join you, since she’s the expert.’
The fisheries officer took an indignant step backward.
‘Come on, Simone. I need you down here. I’ve never been aboard a trawler before, so…’ Lefebvre’s voice trailed away as he descended into the shrimp trawler’s bowels. Simone Lord scowled at Moralès as she reluctantly followed suit.
Leeroy nodded to the stairs. ‘They’re your best field agents, are they?’
The man was bitter. That was understandable. His daughter was missing and they’d sent the B-team to investigate. Moralès had nothing to say to that. So he waited, letting Angel’s father pick up the thread of his story where he felt he could.