‘Which means?’
Lefebvre smoothed his pencil moustache with a suave touch. ‘I have summer flings with tourists who get stars in their eyes at the sight of my police badge.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I spend my whole year hunting down burglars, fraudsters and murderers, so when the tide of women in bikinis flows into town, I keep my eyes open. Plenty of women want to take home saucy souvenirs from their summer holiday, you know. You’d be surprised. In a way, I suppose you can say I’m doing a service … And catering to some needs more than others.’
Joaquin burst out laughing.
‘It keeps me on my toes, and it’s a great way to test my police gear. All the women ask me a bunch of gruesome questions and want me to slap the cuffs on them.’
Proud of his little speech, Lefebvre finished his sandwich while Moralès poured what was left of the bottle into their glasses.
‘So is that son of yours unlucky in love as well?’
‘I think so. He’s in a long-term relationship, but he’s dancing with other women.’
‘Sounds like he’s going the right way about making it all go wrong.’ Lefebvre drifted off into thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but when you’re in love, you only have eyes for one woman. You’re blind to all the others. You don’t notice their little movements, the way they laugh, even their dresses blowing in the wind. The only woman who treads that red carpet is your own. It’s like she’s bottled all the beauty in the world. When you go twirling a bunch of girls across the dance floor, that pops the cork and lets the beauty flow away.’ Lefebvre stood up. ‘And when that happens, your marriage is over.’
Moralès didn’t move. He was taking his time to finish the wine and let what Lefebvre had said sink in. Maybe that’s what had happened when Catherine breezed through his life. She had shaken the bottle and popped the cork. And now all the beauty he had once seen in Sarah was floating away.
‘Right, well, I’m going back to my desk,’ Lefebvre announced. ‘Mind if I leave you to do the washing-up?’
Tuesday 25th September
‘Good morning, Joaquin! Sleep well?’ His name was a song on Corine’s lips. ‘I’ve drawn up the list of people at the party you asked me for yesterday.’
She placed a sheet of paper on his breakfast table. Moralès picked it up and leaned in for a closer look, trying to hide the fact that he had stolen a glance at her heels, covered in thin socks inside her slippers. He had woken early and gone for a run in Forillon Park. Back at the auberge, he had showered, eaten a hearty breakfast and taken his papers downstairs to set up a makeshift office in the dining room. He scanned the list of names.
‘They’re organised by boat,’ Corine explained.
‘Do you have a minute?’
Corine smiled and sat down beside him.
‘You told me Clément Cyr slept here, the night Angel Roberts went missing at sea.’
‘Yes. In room two.’
‘Did he sleep alone?’
She blushed, reluctant to answer. ‘That’s a delicate question.’
‘Delicate for whom? For you?’
‘It’s just that I run an auberge in a small village. If I start gossiping about what goes on in these rooms, I’ll lose half my business.’
Moralès promised to keep her answers to himself and repeated the question. ‘Did he sleep alone?’
‘I think so, yes.’
Something seemed off. What – or who – was she trying to protect? Her auberge, or Clément Cyr? Or someone else?
‘Corine, are you aware of any amorous or sexual relationship between Clément Cyr and a person other than his wife? Any encounter that might have happened here, or somewhere else?’
‘To my knowledge, he’s a faithful man.’
Moralès knew that was all he was going to get for now. He scanned the paper she’d given him, quickly found the names he was looking for and pointed to them. ‘I see Bruce Roberts and his father were here the night Angel went missing.’
Corine nodded.
‘Did they stay late?’
‘Leeroy only stopped in to say hello. Bruce stayed until about half past one, two o’clock.’
‘And Jimmy?’
‘He wasn’t here. He doesn’t have a boat anymore. He doesn’t mingle much with the others. Not since he lost his fishing licence.’
‘Lost? How do you mean? In a card game?’
Corine stared at the list, as if she regretted giving him a document that would prompt her to reveal her customers’ misdeeds. She looked away, and was saved from her awkwardness by a car pulling into the driveway. She sprang to her feet and made for the door.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, my friend is here. We’re going out to help with the search and…’
The rest of her sentence was lost in the wind. Moralès watched Corine walk up to the driver, who was now standing beside the car. She kissed the woman on both cheeks and drew her into a long monologue. The woman nodded to show she’d understood. Moralès turned his attention back to the list of names, and a moment later the two women breezed into the dining room.
‘Detective Moralès, this is Kimo. She lives next door.’
The young woman shook his hand firmly. Moralès’s phone rang. He remembered there had been a message waiting when he got back from his run, but had forgotten to listen to it. He didn’t answer. Kimo was wearing leggings and a fitted workout jacket that did nothing to hide the lean strength of her body. Tiny pearls studded her earlobes. Her eyes looked a little red. Her short, boyish hair was damp.
‘Looks like you’ve been for a swim.’
‘Yes, in the bay.’
‘I went for a dip myself on Sunday, in Caplan. The water was freezing.’
‘The water stays warmer for longer in the bay than anywhere else on the coast, and I’ve got a good wetsuit.’
‘Kimo won the silver medal in the Gaspé triathlon last year,’ Corine said.
‘That was two years ago.’
‘Same difference. She teaches yoga classes in town.’
‘Are you ready?’ Kimo was clearly keen to get going.
The two women said goodbye to Moralès and drove off. He checked the list Corine had given him. Kimo’s name wasn’t on there.
Sébastien Moralès poured himself a coffee and called his father’s number. He had got out of the wrong side of the bed again. The previous day, he had done as he was asked and received the mattress delivery, then gone to buy pillows and sheets to make up the guest bed. After a nap, he had made dinner for two, in vain. Sébastien had tried several times to reach his father, also in vain.
As a boy, he had always thought his father’s sudden absences were mysterious and somehow heroic. He used to tell anyone who would listen that he wanted to be a police officer too. A detective. Because it was in his blood. That dream had evaporated in his teens – perhaps around the age of fourteen, when Detective Moralès discovered his son’s first joint and gave him a guided tour of the local prison to scare the living daylights out of him.
Today, Sébastien wondered what the real reason for those hasty departures might have been. He was puzzled by Renaud Boissonneau’s allegations. Was his father really an unfaithful husband? If he was, Sébastien wouldn’t be able to blame paternal mimicry for letting Maude walk all over him. He refused to believe it.
‘Holà, chiquito. How are you doing?’
Sometimes it could be awkward to give an honest answer. ‘Not bad. You? Where are you?’ Not to mention that he’d feel like a complete idiot hunkering down in that new guest bed in Caplan, waiting for his father to come home so he could deliver his little speech about pride, if Joaquin was hard at work between a frisky Gaspesian chiquita’s thighs.