The door was open. Lefebvre gestured to them. ‘I’ve got some answers for you, Moralès.’
Proud of himself, Lefebvre slapped a palm on the desk and inadvertently knocked two sheets of paper onto the floor. ‘Oops!’ He bent down, picked up his papers, resurfaced, dropped one of the sheets into the recycling bin, retrieved it, looked at it intently and put it on top of a pile to his left. ‘Where was I?’
Moralès was wondering where he could stand so he could close the door behind them. Every time he came in here, the office seemed to get smaller. As files and random objects accumulated, it began to look more and more like a lair.
Simone found a solution. ‘I can see how you thrive in this environment, Lefebvre, but I’d rather we do this in the meeting room. My update won’t take long.’
Lefebvre looked up in surprise. ‘Is that right?’ He frowned and threw Moralès a questioning look. ‘I suppose if that’s what you’d rather…’
As the two men sat down in the other room, Simone Lord stood tall and clasped her hands behind her back to report on the search efforts in the last few hours. ‘Our people have combed the area between Gaspé Bay and Bonaventure Island several times, to no avail. The fog has hampered our efforts severely. The skies are clearing, but time is ticking. The Zodiacs haven’t found anything along the coast. We’re specifically looking for any white objects that might be part of a wedding dress. We’re not leaving anything to chance.’
She spoke in a monotone with a professional detachment, looking only at Lefebvre. Uncomfortable being the sole object of her attention, he didn’t know what to do with his eyes. His attention flitted between the fisheries officer, the marine chart pinned to the bulletin board and the detective.
‘We’re planning to keep this pace going on the search for two more days,’ Simone continued. ‘The chances of finding Angel Roberts alive are getting slimmer by the hour.’ She fell quiet.
Lefebvre tried to pick up where she left off, taking pains to sit up straight and adopt an official tone, as if Simone Lord had imposed a decorum he was obliged to follow. ‘With respect to—’
‘Ahem,’ Simone interrupted. ‘The other aspects of this investigation do not concern my area of expertise, so I’m going to leave you now and return to my duties.’ Without further ado, she left the room.
A bewildered Lefebvre stared at Moralès. ‘I think you two are going to have to kiss and make up after your little tiff if we’re all going to work together, don’t you?’
Moralès wasn’t sure if he felt pride or shame. He did feel a bit sheepish for having taken her down a peg, but did he really have to apologise?
‘So, where are you at?’ he asked the constable.
Lefebvre sighed. ‘With respect to the will…’ He rummaged through his papers, failed to find the information he wanted, gave up and looked at Moralès. ‘There isn’t one. There’s nothing at all. The notary said everything goes to her husband. She hasn’t used any of her bank cards since last Thursday evening; she spent enough for two bottles of wine at the government liquor store. Her finances are in very good shape. Almost too good. You have to wonder how she managed to pay off her lobster trawler so quickly.’
‘Does she have any debt?’
‘No.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Not much. Clément Cyr was twenty years old when his father died. He inherited his old man’s fishing licence. He’s making a comfortable living, but he bought a new shrimp trawler three years ago.’
Moralès mulled that over for a moment.
Lefebvre took advantage of the time to rummage through his papers again. ‘Do you have a will? I’ve never thought about it myself, but the notary said I should look into it, since I don’t have kids.’ He pulled a paper out of the pile. ‘See, he wrote his rate down for me. Do you think it costs the same everywhere or do people shop around?’
Sébastien parked in front of the general store. Corine was waiting for him.
‘We’ve got time for a walk on the beach before Kimo gets here. She’s teaching a yoga class. She should be here in half an hour. Have you been to the Gaspé before?’
‘Never.’
The sun shattered the sea into a crazed mirror of blinding fragments.
‘In 1970, the government expropriated land from three thousand people on this part of the peninsula to create the national park, did you know that?’
Sébastien shook his head. Corine skipped towards a shuttered general store with an old-fashioned sign out front that read WM HYMAN & SONS. The ancient clapboard building had been tarted up with a lick of fresh paint.
‘For two centuries, the Gaspesians were treated like slaves by the Robins, who came from the island of Jersey, and the Hymans, who were from Russia. Exploiters, they were. Instead of paying the fishermen, they gave them vouchers to exchange for goods. This used to be their general store. The building might look historic, but it hasn’t been closed that long.’
Corine led Sébastien onto a gravel path as she continued her story. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a lookout overhanging the cliff, surrounded by bushes. Little islands of spruce were dotted here and there, the trees huddling together to resist the relentless onslaught of the wind. The bushes were blushing with autumn colour.
‘In the summer, you can see the fishing buoys all along here,’ Corine said.
Down below, Sébastien saw an inaccessible pebble beach, invaded by mocking gulls. The shadowy forms of rocks beneath the surface were all that tainted the crystal-clear water. The seabed was a blue so clear it looked almost green. The cliff with its layers of limestone traced a daring arc out over the water. Where the waves had toiled to shape the shore, spruces sprouted from the concave curve of the stone, taking root against all odds – clinging to the cliff like thrill-seeking mountaineers.
Between this copse of black spruce that veiled the easternmost point of Forillon Park, and Haldimand Beach on the south shore of Gaspé Bay, the ocean drew the eye and swallowed it whole. Sébastien took a few steps to the side of the lookout to try and see above the spruce tops.
‘Don’t go over there! There’s poison ivy, you’ll be itching all week.’
‘Is there a trail that goes to the end of Forillon Park? Can you walk all the way out on the headland?’
‘Yes, the path to Land’s End will take you to Cap-Gaspé. But today, we’re going up to the lookout at Cap-Bon-Ami. It’s at the top of the mountain. The view will take your breath away. You won’t regret coming.’
Corine glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better get going. Kimo will be here any minute. If you’re keen to see the sea we’ll take the walking path back to the wharf.’ She flashed him a smile full of energy and set off along a path that snaked along the clifftop.
Sébastien envied her. He envied her joy and lightness. That was all he wanted. To be happy. She gambolled along ahead, daring him to keep up with her. Caught up in her own momentum, she sprinted away and was out of sight by the first corner in the path. For a brief moment he could hear the crunching of her shoes on the gravel and the swishing of the long grass against her legs, and then the silence returned, broken only by the pounding of the shorebreak against the rock face below.
Sébastien was happy to let her take the lead. He was taking his time. The squawking of the gulls, the cooing of the chickadees and the tumbling of the waves were all he could hear as he inched closer to the edge of the cliff, which glistened in the sea spray.
Suddenly, he felt rather than heard his phone buzzing in his small daypack. He hesitated. Should he take the pack off, open it and read the text message? No, Corine would be waiting for him. He continued along the path, past an old fish-curing hut, onto the walkway beside the old general store. Down in a dip mid-way between the store and the wharf, he noticed a tiny isolated cove, where the sea was sweeping a narrow shore lined with round, polished pebbles. He went to take a look.