‘Gladly. But the only guests were the deckhands. This kind of thing is like an office party. The wives stay home.’
Corine finished her wine and carried her empty glass to the sink behind the bar. ‘Will you be wanting to stay here?’
Moralès nodded. ‘I live in Caplan. Constable Lefebvre at the Gaspé detachment told me you could put me up while I’m here for the investigation.’
‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
Moralès obediently fell into step. He couldn’t stop his eyes wandering to those heels in their slippers, flip-flopping up and down as she led him across the dining room.
‘Feel free to bring your own food in and make yourself at home in the kitchen.’ Corine showed him the cooker and opened a fridge. ‘There’s enough in here already to throw three or four halibut fillets in a pan with some vegetables. Oh, and look, some lobster as well! You’re welcome to all that, if you’re hungry. I’m having dinner at my mum’s tonight.’
Moralès was already salivating. He’d barely eaten a thing all day.
‘Want to pick a room?’ She led the way through a door behind the reception desk to a narrow staircase.
The detective followed her upstairs.
‘This is my apartment,’ Corine said.
Moralès averted his eyes, discomfited by his hostess’s openness. She turned left and went along a corridor and down three steps. The maze of rooms, corridors and levels seemed to defy both logic and fire-safety regulations.
‘I know it’s a bizarre layout. This used to be a corner shop and the former owner had a whole cottage moved from somewhere else and placed alongside it. And two extensions were built after that. They were designed by a crazy old English woman who wanted all the rooms to have a sea view – all except the servants’ quarters. But the place still has a certain charm, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it’s all very charming.’
Corine opened a door with the number 9 painted on it. ‘How about this room? It’s got two windows and a nice big bathtub, see. You can pick another one if you’d rather. Rooms nine to fifteen are all clean.’
‘This one’s perfect.’
‘The quickest way down to the bar is via the emergency exit here.’ She turned on her heels, descended a spiral staircase, turned right at the bottom, passed the toilets and somehow emerged in reception, between the bar and dining room.
Simone Lord was there waiting for them. She said hello to Corine and made her way over to the bar. Moralès followed. Again, he found his eyes wandering to the intriguing protrusion at the nape of her neck as she bent over to pour herself a glass of water.
Corine picked up a pen and scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the code for the front door. The room keys are hanging on the wall behind the reception desk, if you want to lock your room. But don’t worry, it’s just you and me, and I’m not the nosy type. I’m sure you’ll be all right. How’s it going, Simone? I’m off to my mum’s. I’ll leave you two to work in peace.’
While she’d been talking, Corine had grabbed her jacket, put it on and made her way to the entrance. She was just heading out of the door when Érik Lefebvre arrived and held it open for her. ‘Thanks a lot, Corine. Just keep track of everything and send the bill to the detachment, will you?’
‘Yes, of course, it’s not the first time. Have a good night.’
Moralès took a seat at the bar. The wall of windows at the end of the room looked north over the estuary, where the river met the sea and the pale late-afternoon light slipped into the water. Cyrille Bernard must have told him a hundred times that the Gaspé was an ageing land, with its mature soil and wrinkled pebbles. That wasn’t the way Joaquin Moralès saw it, though. Since his son had set Celia Cruz playing on a loop in his mind, these Gaspesian shores had been sparkling with Joannie’s unbridled locks, Simone’s intriguing neck and Corine’s alluring heels.
He discreetly thumbed the band on his wedding finger. All these years, and the ring hadn’t lost its shine. But the inscription engraved in the metal had worn away a little, weathered by their marital storms, perhaps, or smoothed by the rising tide of monotony.
The first week after his wife had come to Caplan and turned right back around again, he had tried dozens of times to call her. The second week, he had spaced the calls out; perhaps she thought she’d lost the upper hand with her husband and, ironically, might get it back by renewing some contact with him. Nothing. Next, he had written to say he was leaving her time to think and giving her the leisure to reply when she was ready. He hadn’t heard a word from her.
The sea turned a pastel shade of blue as the wind dropped a few more knots. Lefebvre found his way behind the bar while Simone Lord perched herself on the stool Corine had vacated earlier.
Simone filled them in. ‘The coast guard is trying to cover as broad an area as possible between the shore – the wharf at Grande-Grave, to be precise – and the place where the Roberts guys found the boat. They’ve put three quarters of their resources into the search, but let’s not get our hopes up too much. If she went overboard, Angel Roberts has probably been dead for a while. When a fisherman – or woman – decides to take their own life at sea, they usually go someplace where they know the tide won’t wash a body ashore.’
Lefebvre eyed the bottle of wine Corine had left on the bar, the two empty glasses by the sink, then his watch.
‘We’re still on duty,’ Moralès said.
Where did they go, the women we loved? Why did they surround themselves in silence?
Lefebvre leaned on the bar. ‘Do you think it’s suicide, then?’
Simone Lord took a sip of water before she replied. ‘That’s probably the conclusion you’ll have to draw if they don’t find the body.’
Moralès had nothing to add. If his wife came out to join him now, today, would that make him happy?
‘The local wildlife conservation officers have joined in the search efforts too. There’s an emergency plan in case someone gets lost in the forest. They’ve set that in motion. Apparently they’ve called in all their employees and each of them has scrambled a team of citizen volunteers who know the park inside out. There aren’t that many of them, but they’re efficient. They’ll be out looking until sundown. Then they’ll start again in the morning. They’re starting out at Grande-Grave and combing the woods nearby. The officer I spoke to told me they’d have more people helping tomorrow.’
How come he couldn’t remember things like that about Sarah’s body?
‘It’s a waste of time. Forensics said Angel Roberts went overboard,’ Moralès replied.
‘Right, well, everyone knows we’re looking for clues, not just a victim,’ Lefebvre said. ‘I checked all the things you asked me to. No one at the train station, bus terminal or taxi rank had seen her. I’m still waiting for the court order so I can check her bank account.’
He missed his wife’s company. Or was it just female company he missed? Joaquin had to admit, he could have asked for holiday time and gone to see her. That was another way to look at it. But he had stayed here.
‘Detective Sergeant Moralès,’ Simone piped up, ‘would Your Highness deign to join this conversation, or is that too much to ask? Do tell us if we’re bothering you, and we’ll go inspect the cellar.’
Without batting an eye, Moralès turned his attention to Lefebvre. ‘As soon as you have the warrant, cast the net far and wide on Angel Roberts. We need to know the state of her finances, and what she’s insured for. I want to know who stands to inherit. It’s probably her husband, but you should still ask the notary to do a will search. We also need an asset statement for the husband and any other beneficiaries. A victim always has a value, and that might be monetary or symbolic. If we can figure out what Angel Roberts was worth, so to speak, that could put us on the trail of a potential killer.’