‘Jacques Forest, I’m one of Angel’s deckhands. You must be Detective Moralès.’
‘Yes. Was it you who moved the boat here from Rivière-au-Renard?’
‘No. Jean-Paul Babin called me about half past nine and told me to collect my things. Season’s over, anyway.’ His voice cracked as the last few words came out. He looked away. ‘Jean-Paul Babin’s the other deckhand on the boat.’
‘Yes. But he’s not your boss.’
‘No, Angel is.’
‘Did he tell you who brought the boat here?’
‘No, but it was probably Jimmy. He’s Angel’s kid brother. He used to fish for scallops in the Baie-des-Chaleurs, you know. But he sold his boat three, four years ago. The Babin brothers were his deckhands. I reckon if Jimmy needs help now, they’re the ones he’ll take on. But like I said, the season’s over anyway. No point leaving my things on board, is there?’
‘How long have you been working for Angel?’
The deckhand turned to look out at the bay. The sky was ugly and a sadness hung in the air.
‘Since the beginning.’
His eyes were filled with the kind of pain you could see, and it spilled out across his face as if he were feeling the loss of his skipper physically. Moralès recalled this was Angel’s maternal uncle. The man’s gaze was lost in the foul weather.
‘I used to work marine search and rescue when I was young, you know,’ he said. ‘Down in the States, with a crazy-ass crew. We used to go out to sea in raging thunderstorms to save pleasure boaters who’d got themselves out of their depth.’ A string of gulls battling against the wind caught his eye. ‘I thrived on the adrenaline when I was that age, I suppose. Then one day, I came home. I heard young Angel was buying herself a boat, so I offered my services. She said yes. That was, what, ten years ago?’
Moralès’s phone rang again. He apologised and checked the screen. It was the station in Gaspé again. The phone went back in his pocket.
‘You were at the party on Saturday night.’ It was a statement, not a question. The detective fished Corine’s list out of his pocket and showed it to the deckhand.
‘Yes. I was there until about midnight.’
‘Does this look like a complete list of who was there that night?’
Jacques Forest pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, scanned the list and frowned as he ran through the names, trying to remember.
‘It’s hard to say, just like that, but yes, that was pretty much it.’
‘Are there any people who should have been at the party but didn’t go?’
‘Obviously. Only about half the fishermen in the area ended up coming. Not everyone likes to stay out late, you know. Then there are some who would have been away hunting, and others who’d had a falling-out with their skipper at the end of the season.’
‘Do you know anyone who might have had a run-in with Angel Roberts?’
‘No, not with Angel. Plenty resent her, mind you. She’s a woman in a man’s world, so no one’s going to do her any favours. You know the way we are, us blokes. We love women, all right, but we’d rather they didn’t stick their noses in our business. At the same time, I think everyone respects her. And we’re all reeling from the shock of her … disappearance.’
The phone rang again. Moralès checked and saw the same number as before. He excused himself and stepped away to take the call.
‘Hi, it’s Lefebvre. Turns out there is a sex offender who was released last month. We’re trying to track him down. Do you think I should let the park rangers know so they can inform the search-party volunteers?’
‘No, find the guy first. There’s no point spreading panic.’
‘OK. Did you find the boat at Grande-Grave?’
‘Yes. But I’m busy right now…’
‘Oh, and it’s none of my business, but I wanted you to know: Simone’s beside herself.’
‘Officer Lord? Why?’
‘It wasn’t my place to ask. You’re the boss, you deal with it.’
‘OK. But I’m busy at the wharf. Tell her to stay calm, I’m going to—’
‘She did try to call you, but you didn’t answer, so she asked me where you were. I said you were at Grande-Grave. She should be there any minute.’
‘Lefebvre! You could have—’
‘No, Moralès. I couldn’t.’ He hung up.
Jacques Forest walked up to the detective. ‘If you have a minute, I’d like you to come aboard with me.’
On the road through the park a vehicle was fast approaching in a cloud of dust.
‘Some things have gone missing…’
The Fisheries and Oceans Canada truck thundered down the hill to the Grande-Grave parking area and came to a screeching halt.
Jacques Forest stopped mid-sentence. ‘That’s the fisheries watcher. She’s always sniffing around our boats. I’ll give you my details and we’ll meet up later, all right?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m the one she’s here to keep an eye on.’
Forest gaped in surprise, feeling sorry for the detective, as the door of the truck flew open and Simone Lord stormed towards Moralès, sporting her official Fisheries and Oceans windbreaker.
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, this won’t take long,’ Moralès said.
Jacques Forest waved to Simone from a distance. Then he hurried off to fetch his bag, cool box, blanket and jacket from the wharf and loaded them into his truck.
If there had been more dining establishments to choose from in Caplan, Sébastien Moralès would probably have gone somewhere else for lunch. Maybe not, though. Behind the bar, Renaud Boissonneau was polishing wine glasses with a dish towel as if his life depended on it. He raised an eye towards his only customer, who had his head buried in the menu.
‘Let me tell you, I’m going to recommend the sole. Because there’s plenty left and the chef wants me to shift it.’ He dropped his cloth and hung the glass on the rack.
‘OK. I’ll have the sole, then.’
Renaud Boissonneau scurried into the kitchen to place the order and returned waving a bottle enticingly. ‘Unless you’re allergic, I’ve got a lovely local wine here…’
‘A local wine?’
‘Well, it was local when they made it in France. There’s half a bottle left. It goes off quick, you know.’
‘I’ll have a glass.’
Renaud Boissonneau plucked a gleaming polished glass from the rack, placed it on the bar in front of Sébastien Moralès and poured him a white wine. ‘I’ll leave the bottle here, in case you feel like another.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Renaud nodded and dutifully returned to polishing his wine glasses. ‘So, are you here to give us a dance class?’
‘Not today.’
‘Show us a recipe, perhaps?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re just here as a customer?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Ah, never mind.’
Sébastien took a sip of wine. He wanted to ask Renaud Boissonneau to elaborate on what he had insinuated about his father and that woman, Catherine, but he didn’t know how to go about it.
Renaud, who was clearly preoccupied, leaned across the bar and passed Sébastien a pen and paper. ‘Can I have your phone number, in case I ever have any culinary questions?’
Sébastien Moralès gave it to him without thinking of the potential consequences.
A bell dinged in the kitchen. Renaud collected the plate from the serving hatch and placed it in front of his customer, who picked up a fork and dug in to the sole. Renaud was watching him like a hawk.
‘Very tasty,’ Sébastien said after the first mouthful. Seeing he was satisfied, Renaud slipped Sébastien’s number into his shirt pocket and returned to his wine-glass polishing.
‘So you came to see your father, but he’s not feeding you, then? Because, let me tell you, you wouldn’t be here if he was making your lunch.’