He reached into the bag again for his Bluetooth speaker and put his music on. Then he opened the bottles and took two glasses from the kitchen cupboard.
‘What’s this music?’ Joaquin asked.
‘Control Machete. Do you like it?’
Joaquin Moralès looked at his son. His eldest was here, now, with him. And that was a good thing.
Thursday 27th September
It had been a late night for both of them. Sébastien had taken it upon himself to show his father the dance moves for Control Machete, but Joaquin had shaken his head: his son’s movements were too jerky, even for Mexican hip-hop. Dancing was all about seduction; that was no secret. Even birds knew that.
‘You have to let your body sway more gently, chiquito. You’re taking the music into your ears, but you have to let it fill you up. Your movements are coming from your arms and your feet, but you have to let them come from your belly, from the centre of your body, and let them roll out. Wait. Let me show you.’
That was how, at fifty-two years old, Joaquin Moralès ended up dancing with his son in the middle of the night in the kitchenette of a seaside holiday apartment. He still didn’t know what Sébastien was running away from or had come here to find. But who was he to judge? Joaquin was wading his way through muddy waters of his own. What was he trying to escape? And where were his desires coming from?
They had turned the music up loud. Corine’s room was a distance away and the auberge was otherwise empty. They had drained the beers and every last drop of their strength. They had turned out the light and spent a long while contemplating the already-waning moon as it illuminated the estuary and sprinkled the water with silver sequins. The moon was a liar, that’s what Cyrille had said. It gave Moralès the shivers to think that the same moon might be shining on Angel Roberts’ white dress.
Father and son had then gone to bed at last, happy to be together, out here on this peninsula, as far as the road would take them.
In the morning, Sébastien had joined his father for his morning run. When Joaquin had said he was getting up early to go back and explore a trail in Forillon Park with his running shoes on, his son had jumped at the chance to tag along.
Now Sébastien went over to the coffee maker and poured himself a refill. It had been a week since he made up his mind to confront his father and get things off his chest, but he still hadn’t done anything about it. It was hard to find the right time. The day before, when he was on the road, he had resolved to get it out of the way as soon as he arrived. He had even made an effort to remember his arguments, but these had soon been dissolved by the fog, the scenery, the walk in the woods and the sweat that had soaked Kimo’s top where it clung to her hips.
Now might be the right time, he thought.
‘Dad?’
Joaquin looked up from his papers. He had been working since breakfast.
‘I … er … Can I have a word?’
Joaquin put his pen down and pushed the case file aside. He had never been very good at father-son chats, but he would try his best. Because Sébastien was his son and he loved him.
‘Of course. Sit down.’
Sébastien would almost have rather he had said no. In fact, if his father had got angry, it would have buoyed his spirits. The moment he sat down, he regretted it. Standing would have given him more presence. Sitting across from his father made him feel like a child again. How could he explain that he’d spent his whole life being submissive?
‘It’s about … er … Maude. But not just about Maude. Er … About her and—’
He was interrupted by the vibration of the phone on the table. Joaquin glanced at the screen. The call was from the Gaspé police station.
‘That can wait,’ Joaquin said.
Sébastien had seen his father’s eye wandering.
‘No, no. You should answer. It must be important.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, Dad.’
The detective took the call.
‘Officer Lord here.’ She sounded serious. ‘We’ve found Angel Roberts.’
Without a word, Moralès looked at his son, who had heard the voice on the other end of the line. In an instant, a gallery of images illustrating the love between a father and his son, something they never talked about, flashed through their minds. Childhood hugs, cheers of encouragement in team sports, episodes of teenage rebellion, outbursts they never thought themselves capable of, moody silences filled with loathing – but also painful apologies and infinite forgiveness, because loving your child, loving your father, was something stronger than yourself. All these emotions that made a family and were woven into the intimate filial fabric welled up between this father and son because a woman was dead. Because she was someone’s daughter and someone else’s wife. Because she had left people grieving and her story would forever sink into memory.
‘Where?’
‘Apparently she’s anchored somewhere off Gaspé Bay.’
‘Anchored?’
‘Looks like her body’s attached to something underwater.’
Moralès knew what anchored meant, but there had been no sarcasm in Lord’s voice, so he said nothing.
‘We’re going out there to get her. We’ll be waiting for you on the coast-guard boat in Rivière-au-Renard.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Sébastien got into the passenger seat without asking any details. They said nothing on the road, and nothing more when they arrived at the wharf. He followed his father aboard the coast-guard launch. Moralès simply nodded to Simone Lord and didn’t explain why his son would be joining them.
‘They spotted her from the coast-guard plane. They’ve given us her position. We’ll be there in two hours.’
They went into the wheelhouse while Sébastien stayed out on the aft deck, watching the seamen cast off the mooring lines.
‘That’s the spot,’ Simone said, leaning over a large paper marine chart and pointing to an area off the tip of the peninsula, just outside the mouth of Gaspé Bay.
The boat left the wharf.
Simone Lord moved her finger on the chart. ‘Angel’s dock is here. She probably followed this trajectory for about eight nautical miles before going into the water here. Her boat was carried away on the currents and found here.’ She moved her finger much further south. ‘We were looking in the right general area, but we didn’t think she’d be that far offshore. The sea was calm this morning. Perhaps that made it easier for the guys on the plane to spot her. Unless the body only went into the water recently. Or maybe it was there all the time and only just resurfaced. We’ll retrieve her and bring her ashore at the Sandy Beach wharf in town. Constable Lefebvre said the hearse would be waiting there.’
Moralès was silent, saddened by the sombre reason for this outing. He looked out at Sébastien, being buffeted by the wind and the rolling of the boat. Stray locks of hair were whipping around his face. He hadn’t said a word. He had just gone along with his father as if it were any other day, even though it had been months since they spent any time together. Joaquin had never told his son how this kind of death haunted him. Sébastien turned, saw his father and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Joaquin gave him a sad smile. There was so much to say, but he preferred to respect the silence and let the time go by.
Sébastien stayed outside in spite of the cold. He had felt relieved when his father’s phone rang earlier. The boat was sailing down the coast off Forillon Park. The big, loud birds – northern gannets and gulls – were slowly circling overhead, while the razorbills and seals kept their distance. The boat rounded the headland and veered to the south. After twenty-five minutes heading offshore, they slowed down and started to sail in increasingly concentric circles.