‘I assume that’s Clément’s father?’
Simone shook her head. She couldn’t believe the detective’s ignorance. ‘No. Fernand is his uncle. Clément’s father died fourteen years ago and Gaétane Cloutier got together with the guy’s brother after that. Fernand Cyr.’
Lefebvre got up and went to rummage around in the kitchen cupboard.
‘How did he die?’
The constable returned with three glasses, but neglected to pass them to his colleagues. He seemed happy just to line them up beside his own can as Simone answered Moralès’s question.
‘Fishing accident. His boat capsized not far from L’Anse-au-Griffon. He drowned.’
‘His name?’
‘Firmin Cyr.’
Lefebvre burst out laughing. ‘Firmin. Firmin and Fernand … Well, their parents had a sense of humour!’
Moralès tore a page out of his pad and made a note of this rough family history. Taking it upon himself to imitate the detective, Lefebvre tore a page from his own pad. Then he hesitated, decided he’d rather make a photocopy of Moralès’s notes, and folded that page and pushed it aside.
‘Does Clément Cyr have any brothers and sisters?’ Moralès asked.
‘Not that I know of,’ Lefebvre replied.
‘So, the couple went for a drink at Clément’s mother’s and stepfather’s place at the end of the afternoon,’ Moralès summarised. ‘Then he and Angel went to Leeroy Roberts’ place for dinner.’
‘The two families don’t get on well,’ Lefebvre said.
‘I’ve gathered that. Do you know why?’
‘Old quarrels.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
Officer Lord was compulsively doodling, the tip of her blue pen never leaving the page.
‘Simone?’
His voice snagged on something. Moralès cleared his throat while she raised an eyebrow in his direction.
‘Officer Lord, are you aware of any particular disagreement between these two families?’
Her concentration on her doodling didn’t waver. ‘You do know I’m just a fisheries officer…’
‘Precisely. Would the disagreement have something to do with fishing?’
‘When the cod moratorium happened, there were plenty of disputes over fishing grounds. That was a good fifteen years ago.’
Moralès wanted to ask her about the moratorium, but he wasn’t going to indulge her. He could do without the attitude, and would do his own research. He carried on. ‘Around six in the evening, they arrived at Leeroy Roberts’ place for dinner. Bruce, the eldest son, who owns the shrimp trawler, was there. So was Jimmy, the youngest. He used to have a scallop trawler, but he sold it. Now he works at the processing plant in Rivière-au-Renard. Why did he sell it? Debts?’
Simone Lord shook her head. She tore off the page she’d been making notes on. Her peculiar handwriting looked like scattered islands of drawings. ‘Lobster fishing wasn’t going well in the area. Scientists explained to the lobster fishers that the lobsters were scarce because of the scallop trawlers dragging the seabed. Marine deforestation, that’s what they were doing. Destroying the lobsters’ ecosystem. So, the owners of the lobster trawlers joined forces to buy and tear up the scallop trawlers’ licences. Since then, the lobster fishing has bounced back.’
‘So, Jimmy Roberts basically sold his fishing licence to his sister?’
Simone started to fold her page as she spoke. ‘Not just to his sister, to the group of lobster fishers she was a part of.’
‘Did the scallop boat owners get bitter about it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. They were paid well.’
Lefebvre tore another sheet off his pad and made notes here, there and everywhere, in an order all his own.
‘And the couple ended up here, at the bar downstairs, at the end of the evening. I have the list of people who were here that night. I’ll send it to you. Then, around eleven-thirty, Clément Cyr drove his wife home. He was back at the bar by around one. When he went home, around ten the next morning, his wife’s car wasn’t in the driveway. We all know how the rest of the day unfolded.’
Simone Lord kept turning and folding her sheet of paper. That was her way of being present without being subservient.
‘There are three possible windows of death,’ Moralès continued. ‘Between eleven-thirty at night and one in the morning, when Clément Cyr was with his wife before he returned to the auberge. Between one and ten in the morning, when Angel Roberts was either alone or with her killer or killers. Or after ten in the morning, if the discovery of the boat was staged and Angel Roberts was dumped in the water in the last three days. Did the searches turn up any clues?’
Lefebvre finished his drink and stood up. He was getting itchy feet. ‘Nothing. But the autopsy report should help us to narrow down the day and time of death.’
‘In the meantime, what are the possibilities?’
‘Right, well, we can rule out the accident theory,’ Lefebvre said.
‘Yes, we can rule out an accident.’
‘Let’s be honest, it looks like suicide.’ Lefebvre returned with a packet of nuts he had found on the counter.
‘Let’s explore that idea. Angel Roberts goes to her boat, sets out from the dock, motors fifteen kilometres or so, then turns the engine off. She fills a trap with blankets, drags it to the stern, ties herself to the trap and throws it overboard, and lets herself get dragged down to the depths.’
With a mouthful of nuts, Lefebvre agreed that could be a possibility. ‘The knot was in front of her, so she could have tied herself up.’
‘But forensics said she had an arm behind her back. Do you really think she tied herself up then twisted an arm behind her back?’
Simone Lord stopped doodling for a second.
Lefebvre sat down again. ‘Maybe she had to scratch her back,’ he suggested.
Moralès glanced at the constable’s flotsam of notes and shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that? So, in the middle of the night, she goes to her boat, casts off her moorings and says to herself, “Well, I’ve been married ten years, fishing season’s over, so I might as well kill myself”? Seriously? Why go to the trouble of tying herself to a lobster trap? She was a long way from shore. All she had to do was throw herself overboard. That would have meant certain death.’
‘Because she didn’t want her body to wash up on the shore?’
‘She could have just tied herself to the anchor. And she kept her wedding dress on. Why?’
‘I suppose it might be a ritual or something.’
‘An esoteric trip, really?’
Lefebvre wandered over to a shelf filled with board games in the corner of the room. ‘Women can be like that, sometimes.’
Simone Lord threw daggers at him, but chose not to say anything.
Moralès continued floating the possibilities. ‘She sets out to sea, contemplates the moon shining on the water…’
‘Well, I suppose she might have had a bit too much to drink.’
‘And she decides to “marry the sea”? Do you think that’s plausible?’
‘How should I know?’
‘A wedding ritual with the sea on the night of the equinox? Is that something you’ve ever heard of?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a thing.’
Moralès looked at Simone Lord, who was still silent, focused on her page. He had a vague sense that her silence, perhaps even her whole attitude since the beginning, might be hiding something.
‘I don’t know a thing about the women of the sea. Throw me a lifeline, Officer Lord.’
‘Now you want me to help you?’ She didn’t turn away from her page.
‘How many female fishing boat skippers are there out there? Maybe two or three in the whole of the Gaspé? Why do they do what they do? Why devote their lives to such a tough job?’