Then he had an idea. He would call Lefebvre and tell him to meet him at the auberge. That should light a fire under him. Moralès slowed down, picked up his phone, dialled the number, glanced at the screen – no signal – looked up, saw the curve in the road, braked, yanked the wheel, stayed on the road by some miracle, swore … and accelerated.
He picked up the longest knife, wiped the blade meticulously and set it aside. Then he reached for the steaming-hot cutlery holder, pulled it out and dropped it on the bar with a bang.
Sébastien observed Renaud in silence. He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket again. The stream of texts, calls and emails from Maude was both erratic and unrelenting. Questions, accusations, sweet nothings, fits of rage.
He asked for the bill. Renaud went to the till, rang up his customer’s meal, printed the bill and handed it over. Whistling, he cleared the empty plate and full glass, and put the clean cutlery away. Sébastien paid and donned his jacket.
‘You have a nice time in Gaspé now, let me tell you.’
Sébastien said goodbye to Renaud and went outside, He walked down to the water, then along past the chalets on the shore to the café by the wharf. He saw the dirt track his father had described and started along it at a stiff pace, tormented by Maude’s messages and Renaud’s insinuations. He felt like listening to some music, but realised he’d left his earbuds on the kitchen counter. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, only to realise he’d quickened his pace since he turned under the railway bridge and was breaking into a run, driven by the unvoiced anger that was boiling deep inside. He couldn’t go on like this. He needed to get away. To lose his bearings. To drink, dance and run, become breathless, sweat it all out, get all these questions off his chest. His feet felt heavy from the wine at lunch, but he didn’t care. His father had once told him that running helped you to not lose your footing. His father. The wind was biting through Sébastien’s clothes and whistling its way into his too-long hair.
A familiar vibration in his pocket demanded his attention, but he focused on running – the pounding of his feet on the ground, the firmness of his calves, the bend in his knees. His father, unfaithful? Sébastien regretted not being able to listen to his music. He picked up the pace. You grow up certain that the values you’ve learned are good and strong. But what if that isn’t the case? Could you build a life on a foundation of lies? He tried to focus on his running – the tensing of his thighs, the movement of his hips, the tightening of his abdominals. His pulsing torso, pearling sweat and burning lungs. He should have put his earbuds in his jacket pocket.
The cemetery gradually came into view. Sébastien ran faster. He’d had enough of the questions running through his mind. He ran past the cemetery, old house and woodpile. How many hours, how many kilometres did a man have to run to overcome his inner turmoil? He kept going and turned onto a trail in the woods. His legs were hurting. His life was a mess. He was out of breath. This wasn’t the solution. He looped around and retraced his steps, slowed his pace and walked through the cemetery to cool down and catch his breath, so he wouldn’t be going into the fisherman’s bedroom dripping with sweat. Sébastien looked at the window above the woodpile. Two container ships. That was it. He took a deep breath in. Then he put one foot on the stepladder.
Kimo’s car was parked in front of the auberge. She and Corine had put some music on and were making something to eat when Joaquin walked in, still unnerved by their potential abduction. They said hello and gave him friendly but distant smiles. Moralès went straight up to his room to call Lefebvre.
‘Yes, I managed to reach Corine about fifteen minutes ago,’ his colleague explained. ‘Turns out they were just in the car. They forgot to report that they’d finished combing their area and were going home. Oh, and I tracked down that sex offender too. He’s living with his brother in Rimouski now. He found a job there as a security guard and he was working the night shift on Saturday. Nothing to worry about, in the end.’
Moralès wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or exasperated. Lefebvre had made him hurry for nothing.
‘Never believe a clairvoyant, that’s what I say. Seriously, a “naked monster”? What a load of codswallop.’
‘Did you get the warrants, Lefebvre?’
‘Yes, they just came in. It’s Wednesday tomorrow. We’ll see if there’s been any activity in her accounts in the last three days, then we’ll go from there. I’ll check what insurance she had and get the notary to do a will search.’
‘Any word from Simone Lord?’
Lefebvre whistled between his teeth. ‘She often gets a bee in her bonnet, but I’ve rarely seen her this hot under the collar. I don’t know what you did to get her knickers in a twist, but this afternoon we’ve been daring each other to see who can last the longest with her in the meeting room.’
‘And?’
‘Thérèse Roch’s the clear winner. I’m not surprised. She’s untouchable.’
‘What about the searches?’
‘I don’t think the weather today’s helping. Don’t worry, though. If Simone finds something, we’ll know about it, all right.’
Sébastien scaled the little stepladder and thrust the sash window open. Cyrille Bernard slowly turned to look at him. What was he doing here? He jumped down into the room. It smelled of marijuana. Beneath the sheets he could see the thin silhouette of a man who was struggling to breathe.
‘Mr Bernard? My father, Joaquin Moralès, asked me to come.’
He moved closer to the man’s bed. All he could hear was a whistling ‘heee…’ sound – the laboured in-breath of a dying man. Sébastien felt awkward. The man scrutinised him through his pale-blue eyes.
‘He said I should tell you what I saw through the telescope.’
Beside the bed was a wooden chair, clearly placed there for visitors. Sébastien was too restless to sit down, so he stayed standing. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, like a teenager who couldn’t make up his mind. The old man sat up a little.
‘Heee… Tell me, then. What did you see, son?’
Sébastien was ill at ease in this antechamber of death. ‘Not much. Two container ships.’
Cyrille Bernard gave him a cynical look. ‘Is that all?’
‘They looked like they were heading towards New Brunswick.’
‘Heee…’
‘That’s all I saw.’
The old fisherman shook his head in disbelief. ‘Heee … young people today. You’re still of an age to be counting your rights and your wrongs.’ Then he closed his eyes.
Sébastien felt his anger boiling over. ‘There was nothing else to see, all right!’ he protested.
Cyrille didn’t even bother opening an eye. ‘Well, you’re not going to see anything if you watch the sea like an accountant, are you? Heee…’
The insult was like a slap on the cheek. Why did everyone have to lecture him about the way he saw things? What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to make something up?
Sébastien sat and inched the chair closer to the bed. He leaned in and spoke to the man in a voice he hoped was soft enough to contain his anger. It wasn’t.
‘OK, then. I saw a patch of water that was teeming with life. The birds were diving beneath the surface and emerging with fish in their beaks…’