Tiny hoops sparkled in her earlobes. Well, he could see one, at least. She still had her wedding band on her left ring finger. She wore no other adornments. No necklace, not even a simple chain at her neck. Her white dress was torn. Moralès hoped the scrap of fabric the forensics technicians had found on board the lobster trawler would match one of the layers of material the garment was made from. There was a bluish tinge to her body. Her feet were bare. The sea fleas had made short work of her eyes.
The autopsy would tell him the rest of the story. What she had eaten, what she had drunk, the time of her death. Moralès wished he could hold up a hand and make her a promise. Angel, daughter of Leeroy Roberts and wife of Clément Cyr, I will find who did this to you.
But he couldn’t. How many promises were impossible to keep?
Now the boat was approaching the wharf, Moralès stood up. No one had touched the lobster trap or its contents. Forensics would take care of that. The crewmen were getting ready to dock.
It was mayhem on the Sandy Beach wharf. The local SQ officers had closed the barrier to block access to unauthorised vehicles, but they didn’t seem to have done much to stem the flood of reporters and other onlookers. It was going to be a challenge for them to dock.
Moralès walked to the stern, where Simone Lord was standing. ‘Corine’s rented me an apartment with a kitchenette on the west side of the auberge. That’s where I’m going to work.’
She was facing the wharf, holding her diving gear, paying him next to no attention.
‘I’m calling a meeting in ninety minutes’ time.’
She shrugged. Moralès knew he could order her to be there. She knew that too. Neither of them said anything else.
She watched the crew carry out their docking manoeuvres. As soon as she could, she jumped down onto the wharf and went on her way.
Moralès looked around for Lefebvre. He was nowhere to be seen, but he had sent the two monosyllabic forensic technicians. They were there, and ready to get to work. They came aboard and picked up the wooden trap, examined the chain and rope, took pictures, cut the rope attaching the chain to Angel Roberts’ legs, and loaded it all into their van. Then they returned to Angel’s side, accompanied by two undertakers.
‘Looks like you’re needed over there, detective,’ said one of the forensic technicians.
‘Hmm,’ said the other.
Moralès looked at them. They nodded towards the wharf.
Clément Cyr had not only vaulted a metal fence intended to keep onlookers back, but also ducked under the yellow tape the police had stretched between the wharf and the undertakers’ hearse. Moralès watched as the officers on the wharf struggled to intercept the giant of a man. Too distraught to be mindful of his own strength, he could easily floor them if they didn’t watch out. He was clearly in shock.
Moralès hopped over the side of the boat, back onto dry land. He turned for a second and saw his son disembark, taking in the whole scene. Now he wished he had spared Sébastien this experience. He wished he could spare him every painful experience in life. Not just the surface physical pain – scraped knees, scratched hands, bruised legs, sprained joints, sunburn and flu – but also the deeper, emotional pain of broken hearts, sleepless nights, work worries, personal qualms and the infernal tragedies of daily life. Some people said suffering turned boys into men. Moralès had always thought that was a load of rubbish. He looked at Clément Cyr. Suffering was no good to him.
The undertakers zipped what remained of Angel into a body bag. It wasn’t the first time they’d collected a body from this vessel. Balancing it expertly, they slid the bag towards them and onto a small stretcher. Because the tide was out, the boat was sitting low in the water and no one on the wharf could see them at work. But when they carried the stretcher onto the wharf, Clément saw them and screamed that he wanted to see his wife and they had no right to stop him. The police officers securing the area were struggling to restrain him, but when he saw Moralès, the man called his name and calmed down, as if he were sure the detective would understand.
Detective Sergeant Joaquin Morales walked unhurriedly towards Clément Cyr. He was mostly trying to buy some time and give the undertakers the chance to load the stretcher into the hearse, which they had reversed as close as possible to the gangway.
‘I want to see her.’
Moralès wanted to say yes. It was hard to deny a man something like that.
‘What if it was your wife, Moralès?’
He wanted to give the man a word of advice, tell him to keep calm and not to be rough with people, not to touch the body, not to…
‘Come with me,’ he found himself saying.
The undertakers were just sliding the stretcher into the hearse. They stopped what they were doing when they saw Cyr with the detective. Moralès was surprised to see these were the same undertakers he had met some time ago in Caplan: the Langevin brothers. One of them was an insufferable chatterbox. He had to avoid talking to him at all costs. He turned to the other undertaker instead.
‘Would it be possible to open the bag?’ he asked.
From the other side of the stretcher, the chatterbox said, ‘We can’t do that, it’s against the rules. There’s too much risk bacteria will spread. Our code of ethics forbids us from—’
His brother, a thin, upright man, stepped towards Clément Cyr. The fisherman was much taller than him, but the undertaker looked at him the way a parent pacifies a needy child.
The chatterbox turned to his brother. ‘You know full well it’s not hygienic. You said it yourself…’
The quiet undertaker brought a finger to his lips to shush his brother. Now he spoke to Clément Cyr. ‘Usually I tell people it’s important to see their loved ones after they die, because it helps them to grieve.’
The giant’s face cracked with pain. He understood what Langevin was about to say.
‘But it won’t help you.’
Thick tears rolled down Clément Cyr’s face.
‘I can do it. Open the bag and show her to you. But I’d advise against it. I can also take her back to my laboratory, make her a bit more presentable and give you a call.’
‘When?’
‘After the autopsy.’
‘That’s too long.’
The undertaker nodded. He knew that would be the answer. ‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to see, all right?’
The husband acquiesced in silence.
‘She doesn’t have eyes or lips anymore.’
Clément Cyr looked down at the ground, either conjuring a mental image or trying not to.
‘Her body is bloated from the water, and her skin is blue.’
He hung his head as if he might throw up.
‘She’s still in her wedding dress.’
Clément Cyr drew himself upright and lifted his gaze to the stretcher. He wanted to see her.
‘I’m going to show you just her hair, all right?’ the undertaker said.
The giant nodded.
Langevin opened the bag, just a little. The zip opened to reveal nothing but a tangle of wet hair, and Moralès understood that the undertaker had planned ahead for this. That was all Clément Cyr needed to see before he crumpled to his knees in tears. Tremors of grief rocked his body as he knelt there in a daze, mumbling his love for his wife.
Someone from social services came over and crouched beside him, had a gentle word in his ear and pointed to a waiting ambulance. Clément nodded and got to his feet like a disoriented puppet, allowing himself to be ushered into the vehicle and driven away.
Two men stood observing the scene from a distance. Leeroy Roberts and his son Bruce. Now the undertakers closed the bag, slid the stretcher into the hearse and drove Angel Roberts to the morgue.