He got out of the car and looked out to sea before he went inside. The sky was navy blue. The swell was running high. The crests were whipping hard. That’s what he would say to Cyrille if he were in Caplan. He gazed out over the water. Where are you, Angel? The horizon was narrow when the waves were steep.
He grabbed his case file and made his way to the entrance. His son’s car was parked there. It was getting late and Sébastien must be tired of waiting, he thought.
A woman’s laugh. That was the first thing Joaquin Moralès heard when he stepped inside. A bright, carefree laugh. A touch on the shrill side, the way it goes when a woman is enticing or being enticed. Frivolous, playful, unbridled. A laugh that lingers, fizzles in the breath, then quickly comes back for more.
Moralès walked towards the dining room. There she was, sitting on one of the red bench seats. She first emerged to him in profile, head tilted back slightly, unpretentiously. In jeans and a long-sleeved top. Hair held back by a colourful bandana. Beer bottles on the table. And Sébastien, sitting across from her.
His son stood when he saw him walk in. ‘Hey Dad! Long day? I picked up some beers at L’Anse-à-Beaufils. Do you know the brewpub there?’
Moralès grumbled to himself. It made him uncomfortable to see his son apparently courting a woman other than his partner. All of a sudden, he felt irritated by Sébastien’s presence – and his music, which he insisted on taking everywhere he went. He wouldn’t say no to a beer, though.
‘I’ve bought all the fixings to make a seafood pizza. I was waiting for you to get here. Sit down and relax. I’ve got this.’
Moralès felt like a fool for grumbling. Ridiculous.
Corine got up as well. ‘Good evening, Joaquin. How are you doing?’
His name sounded almost glacial in the young woman’s mouth. He returned the greeting.
She turned to Sébastien. ‘Want to try the amber ale?’
‘I’d love to.’
She didn’t smile at him the same way she smiled at Sébastien. It made him feel old. He watched Sébastien pick up the dough he must have prepared earlier, and press it down. Moralès took off his jacket and sat down at a table with his papers to make a note of the new information he’d gathered. Corine came back and opened the beers.
‘Here you go, Dad.’ Sébastien came over with two glasses of amber ale and put one on the table in front of his father. The two youngsters went off into a quiet corner and tried to whisper so they wouldn’t disturb him.
Moralès turned his attention to the Close Call II and drew up a timeline of events. He dug out the paper he had used to take down the deckhands’ details, added that Jacques Forest was Angel’s maternal uncle, and wrote a few lines about the others Annie Arsenault had told him about. He picked up a fresh sheet of paper. Like it or not, he could hear Sébastien and Corine chatting, laughing, saying everything and nothing. She said she’d better go have a shower before dinner. Nah, you’re all right, he replied. She stood and took three steps, said he shouldn’t hold it against Kimo, for the dance. She’s a sweet girl who’s had her heart broken, that’s all. I’m not sure the shower can wait, he joked. She laughed.
Moralès pushed his chair away from the table and went over to check on the pizza dough.
‘Are we bothering you, Dad?’
‘No, of course not. I just wanted to see how the dough was doing.’
‘Corine was just wondering if she should go freshen up before dinner.’
The auberge owner cringed. ‘Don’t say that to your dad, it’s embarrassing.’
Moralès punched the dough down to get the air out, covered it again, then returned to his seat.
‘Dad, you haven’t even tasted your beer!’
It was true, Joaquin had forgotten all about it. Now he took a sip. ‘It’s nice.’
Now he had to put his notes in some kind of order. Who could have taken the bed linen and the wooden lobster trap? He had made Jacques Forest swear not to mention that to anyone. On the blank page, he wrote Annie Arsenault’s name and the date of their meeting. He added that she and Angel had gone to school together, planted a shared garden and built a fence around it, and that Annie made her own herbal tea. That she’d be harvesting the rest of their produce alone. What else? Moralès took another sip of his beer. Weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow, he heard Corine say. We should hike up to the lookout on Mont Saint-Alban. Have you ever been? No, Sébastien explained, this was his first time on the Gaspé Peninsula. Good job he’d bought some hiking boots. We can invite Kimo if you like, she offered. Joaquin was trying his best to concentrate.
‘Right, I’m off to have a quick shower now,’ Corine said, and left the dining room.
Sébastien came over and sat beside his father. ‘Making progress?’
‘Slowly.’
‘We’re bothering you, aren’t we?’
‘No, I just don’t have an office at the police station.’ He took another sip of beer. ‘This is really tasty, actually.’
‘So we are bothering you.’
Joaquin looked his son in the eye. What was going on with Maude? He didn’t dare ask.
Sébastien recoiled at the question he saw in his father’s gaze. Not now. He wasn’t ready. He needed time and distance. Alcohol, perhaps, and music.
Both father and son were weighing each other up. Joaquin didn’t feel like having to explain himself either.
‘I think the dough’s ready,’ Joaquin said. ‘I’ll put the pizza together.’
They stood.
‘You grate the cheese, I’ll take care of the rest.’
Joaquin tossed and stretched the dough while Sébastien took out the seafood and washed it. Without realising it, his father was muscling him out of the kitchen.
Sébastien decided to leave him to it. He was taking the cutlery to lay the table when Corine came down the stairs with a spring in her step, humming to herself.
‘Oh, there she is. Doesn’t she smell nice?’
She burst into the kind of laugh that wells up like a wave, peaks and washes up gently on the beach. Moralès put the pizza in the oven.
‘Corine, you wouldn’t have a conference or meeting room here by any chance, would you?’
‘Why?’
‘Because my dad needs somewhere to work.’
Corine turned to Moralès. ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. They don’t have any space for you at the police station, do they?’
‘Not really.’
‘There is a spot right at the other end of the building. It’s a holiday apartment I rent out in the summer. It’s empty now. It’s above the bar; can you see where I mean? There’s a sign on the door that says Le Chalet. The key’s in the lock. You can set yourself up in there. No one will bother you. There’s a kitchenette with a table, a mini fridge and a coffee maker. There are two adjoining bedrooms, so you can each have one if you want to bunk down together.’
‘Oh, that sounds perfect. Thank you.’
Moralès felt awkward sharing the table with the youngsters, so he ate quickly and went upstairs to move his things.
Half an hour later, against all odds, Sébastien came upstairs with his own luggage and put it in the second bedroom. Moralès had thought his son would have rather stayed longer with Corine and chosen another room to have more privacy. He put his pen down and tidied his papers.
Seeing he was winding down, Sébastien reached into his bag and pulled out two cold beers.
‘You didn’t tell me the Gaspé was craft-beer paradise!’