‘The guys don’t like seeing you sniffing around the Close Call II.’
‘Which guys? The Roberts brothers?’
Louis shrugged. ‘I’m not one for getting myself into hot water, but you’re in fishing territory here. Don’t go making too many waves with your investigation.’
‘Would anyone in particular have a vested interest in that boat?’
The barman handed Moralès his receipt. ‘Be careful. That’s all I’m saying. When all’s said and done, we’re no different here than anywhere else. We like our peace and quiet.’
Wednesday 26th September
Sébastien’s phone rang, and again he ignored it. He loaded the stuff into his car. Some for him, the rest for his father. He was trying to take his time and go with the flow, but he couldn’t. His movements were stiff and choppy. He had woken early and gone for a run, kept going until his muscles ached. And he had run past Cyrille Bernard’s window without stopping. What would they have said to each other? He had followed a trail for a long time, then retraced his steps in the half-light of a milky dawn, a haze that seemed more opaque where the sky met the sea.
The previous evening, he and Joaquin had exchanged silence over the phone. You couldn’t really call it a conversation. His father had reminded Sébastien he was waiting for him in a village near the town of Gaspé. He had given him the address of the auberge, adding that they would be the only guests staying there. Sébastien had been sitting outside. The drizzle had stopped and the sky was filled with high clouds torn into strips, letting the stars shine through. After a pause on the line, Sébastien had said he would come.
His mind was made up. He was going to settle the score with his father. That was why he had come here, after all. He locked up the house, got behind the wheel and drove onto Highway 132, heading east. He couldn’t see the sea that morning. A tenacious mist had settled over the bay during the night, turning the red cliffs pale and the horizon opaque and colourless. These days, the bitterness was so thick it felt like he was walking around in a cloud. No wonder he couldn’t see clearly.
Sébastien drove through the village of Saint-Siméon, then the town of Bonaventure. The sea was still hiding in the fog. He had seen plenty of colourful adverts for the Gaspé Peninsula. In summer, the daisies, lupins and other meadow flowers must really brighten up the landscape, he thought. Today, everything was monochrome. Little Anglican churches popped up here and there with a ghostly, abandoned air about them. The hodgepodge of buildings, closed shop fronts and faded or broken billboards along the road made the drive feel a bit creepy. Sébastien saw a few big trucks coming the other way, carrying gigantic wind-generator blades that flexed when the wheels ran over a pothole, of which there were many. The road surface was in such poor condition, it looked like a mosaic of ruined asphalt.
The decay in some of the villages was an assault on the eyes. There seemed to be no light at the end of this tunnel of overcast sky. Sébastien had put some music on, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t remember what he had to say to his father. He tried to rehearse by voicing the blame out loud. That didn’t help.
Sébastien drove through the village of Sainte-Thérèse-de-Gaspé. The wind was starting to pick up. He pulled into the first rest stop he saw on the approach to Percé. A number of wide, straight wooden staircases invited him to visit a bijou beach edged with red cliffs. The mist seemed to be rising a little, and there was a hint of late summer floating on the mild autumn air. The waves rolled low and heavy onto a shore lined with pink pebbles and beige sand. The sea was throwing itself at Sébastien’s feet. This must be September’s way of smiling on the Gaspé, he thought. He got back in the car and kept driving.
He must have laid eyes on it dozens of times in travel guides. He’d seen so many photos, he’d ended up dismissing it as a cheesy tourist trap. But in spite of himself, as the town of Percé drew nearer, Sébastien was surprised to be crossing his fingers that the lingering fog would lift enough for him to make out the iconic Percé Rock as he drove by.
The wind was blowing harder now. As the mist drifted away from the shore, the sea became an ocean and the sun came out to paint the water blue. Cresting the summit of the well-known and aptly named Côte de la Surprise, he saw it as the horizon opened up. The Percé Rock. It was pink. Or rather, green and pink.
Sébastien drove into a town that tourism had only recently deserted, hypnotised by the rock, which looked like it was leaning back on its elbows in the shallows. He decided to find somewhere to park. He turned onto the Rue du Quai and pulled up by the museum. As he got out of the car, his eye was drawn to Bonaventure Island, sitting offshore like a giant beached whale. His ear picked up the clinking sound of the waves rolling pink and green pebbles on the shore. He got back into the car.
On the other side of Percé, the road climbed, hugging the headland. Sébastien kept going. Coin-du-Banc, Bridgeville, Barachois. Pointe-Saint-Pierre, Saint-Georges-de-Malbaie, Prével, Bois-Brûlé, L’Anse-à-Brillant, Douglastown.
As he drove into the town of Gaspé, his phone rang. It was a local number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, my name’s Corine. Are you Joaquin Moralès’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a ground search in the park to look for the woman who’s gone missing, and I want to go and help. So there won’t be anyone here when you arrive. Do you mind if I give you the code for the door and leave you to make yourself at home? Just go upstairs and choose any room you like.’
‘Where’s the search happening?’
‘Do you want to help?’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’ve arranged to meet a friend and we’re going up to the lookout at Cap-Bon-Ami, but she’s not free for another hour. I thought I’d go down to the water at Grande-Grave before I head out there. Are you nearby? Would you like to join us?’
On the way back out of town, Sébastien stopped at a sports shop to buy a pair of hiking boots.
‘Hello, Ms Roch! Could you open the door for me, please?’
She didn’t bat an eye.
‘Constable Lefebvre is expecting me.’
The receptionist passed Moralès a folded piece of paper. It was addressed by hand to ‘Detective Moralless’. He glanced at Thérèse Roch. She was still tapping away at her computer keyboard, oblivious to his presence. Intrigued, he unfolded the paper. The words he saw were in small, forward-slanting handwriting and followed by a local telephone number.
Detective Moralless,
I have some confidential information to share with you. I SAW some extraordinary things the night Angel Roberts disappeared. Call me.
‘Thank you, Ms Roch. Now, would you kindly…’
The outside door flew open to reveal Simone Lord.
‘Hi Thérèse! Having a good day?’
The receptionist glanced at her, nodded and pressed the button to buzz her in. The fisheries officer breezed right past Moralès as if he wasn’t there, but he seized his chance and slipped through the door behind her. Simone Lord held herself tall as she walked. She was wearing an autumn wool sweater with a round neckline.
She didn’t say a word or throw him even the slightest look of contempt. He followed her into the small meeting room. Lefebvre wasn’t there. She turned around to leave, and Moralès walked right into her. He caught her full in the chest and the damage was done. He couldn’t help but breathe in the earthy, breezy scent of her. She shoved him away and he dutifully stepped aside. She hurried down the corridor to Lefebvre’s office and he followed her.