She shrugged, this time without any contempt. What could she say? She didn’t even know the answer herself.
‘Maybe they’re obsessed with the sea?’ Érik Lefebvre dropped a Monopoly box on the table beside the jetsam of his empty nut packet, three unused glasses, empty pop can, notepad, pen and torn-off sheets of paper.
Moralès raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d like you to look into any groups with, er, interesting beliefs we should be aware of in the local area.’
‘OK.’
‘Go have a chat with Dotrice.’
‘You’re the one she wants to see, though.’
‘You take care of it.’
Moralès stood and went over to the map he had pinned to the wall. Meanwhile, Lefebvre couldn’t wait to get his curious hands on a decorative inukshuk that was sitting on a high shelf.
‘Is there a reason why she might have chosen that spot? Is it a significant place for fishing?’
Simone Lord replied half-heartedly. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘For her?’
‘It was completely by chance that we found her. The trap had snagged on a raft of dead tree trunks that was half floating in midwater. The chain was long, but it was probably just meant to weigh her down. It would have been easier just to use the anchor, though,’ Simone explained.
‘Why might Angel Roberts have wanted to take her own life? Let’s take a closer look. Was she in therapy? Any reasons why she might be depressed? Any abuse or addiction? Is there any history of suicide in her family?’
Moralès turned to Érik Lefebvre, who was now turning the inukshuk over in his hands; the stones were glued together. ‘Call her doctor tomorrow. Don’t take no for an answer.’
‘OK.’
They both returned to their seats at the table. Simone was still folding and refolding her paper.
Lefebvre still couldn’t take his eyes off the inukshuk. ‘Can you believe that, Moralès? You’re supposed to balance the stones on top of each other, not stick them together!’
An awkward silence fell around the table. It was hard enough to get answers from the living, so it was better not to ask too much of the dead.
Moralès picked up where he had left off. ‘What if she was murdered? She goes down to the wharf. How? In her own car?’
‘Maybe she had arranged to meet someone.’
‘At one in the morning?’
‘A lover, or at least someone she knew.’
Could Angel have pretended she wasn’t feeling well so she could go and meet her murderer?
‘So, she and a mystery person go aboard the lobster trawler. Why?’
‘I don’t know. But still, they go aboard and head out to sea.’
‘What next? She just lets someone tie her legs to a lobster trap and slide her overboard?’
‘Maybe she was drugged.’
‘Who would have drugged her? Her mother-in-law over drinks? Her family over dinner? Someone at the bar? Her husband?’ Moralès hated that vile moment when loved ones became suspects.
‘We’ll get the blood test results tomorrow or the day after,’ Lefebvre said.
‘So, when she gets to the wharf, she goes aboard with her killer,’ Moralès continued to speculate. ‘They set out to sea and after a while, she passes out because she’s been drugged. The killer ties her legs to a makeshift anchor, pitches her overboard and lets the boat drift. But how does he get back to shore?’
‘It must be three or four in the morning at that point,’ Lefebvre added. ‘The boat is fifteen kilometres offshore and the water is only about four degrees Celsius. There’s no way he could have swum back to shore. Maybe he brought a dinghy. Or a kayak. Or some kind of inflatable. That would have been strange, though. She would definitely have smelled a rat.’
‘Or a second boat picked him up.’
Simone cracked a wry smile.
‘Do you have something to add, Officer Lord?’
‘You’re just clutching at straws! You don’t have anything concrete to go on.’
Moralès leaned back in his chair and looked her square in the face. ‘Every suspicious death is the end of a story, Officer Lord. My job is to find the beginning. There are only so many possible reasons. Someone gets all wound up about something, whether it’s revenge, money, love, gang business or wounded pride, and ends up so convinced they’re right that they’ll kill to have the last word.’
Exasperated, Simone Lord put her pen away and closed her clipboard.
Lefebvre sighed and placed the inukshuk on his notepad like a paperweight. ‘Well, I’m on board with the suicide theory.’
Simone had made a hasty exit, and Lefebvre had gone off to make photocopies of the meeting notes. Now his hands and the chairs around the table were empty, Moralès saw the door to the holiday apartment opening.
Sébastien tiptoed in sheepishly. Looking at his son, Joaquin was moved. The whole day came flooding back to him, especially the striking vision of Sébastien standing watching him, pretending everything was all right as Joaquin leaned over the dead woman in her bridal gown.
He had never known how to talk to his boys, and now, here in this seaside holiday apartment kitchenette, he regretted that. Too busy reconstructing other people’s stories, he had always lacked the words to tell his own. No, not his – theirs. Sébastien had driven for more than twelve hours to come and see him. It had been four days since his son arrived, and Joaquin still didn’t know what had motivated the trip. Cyrille was right, he had to talk to him before it was too late. Joaquin cleared his throat. He started to say something, then lowered his eyes.
Where Lefebvre had been sitting, an empty pop can still stood, along with a notepad, a scattering of papers, three untouched glasses, a game of Monopoly and, in the middle of it all, a glued-together inukshuk. Is everything all right? he wanted to ask. What’s going on with Maude? All the questions were on the tip of his tongue. Did she break your heart? Is it your job? What’s troubling you? In the spot Simone Lord had vacated, he saw an origami creation that looked like a seabird, adorned with graceful drawings in blue ballpoint pen. What did she know that she wasn’t saying?
Moralès looked up. ‘Are you hungry?’ he ended up asking.
His son nodded. ‘Yes, I’m starving.’
Father and son walked into the Brise-Bise and sat at the bar with their backs to the southwest-facing window, in front of the tap handles showcasing the local brews. Neither of them had said a word on the drive over here. They had listened to music instead. The barman came over. It was the same guy, with short hair and a long beard, as the other night. Louis. Behind him, the dishwasher was loitering impatiently, waiting for the next bin of dirty dishes.
‘We’ll have two amber ales.’ Joaquin decided for them both. If they had nothing to drink, they wouldn’t be able to eat.
Louis served their beers, handed them each a menu, and went to lean his hips against the bar a few steps away, beside the dishwasher. The Moralèses could hear the gist of their conversation. Seems like they’ve found the missing woman. You know Clément, the tall guy who trawls for shrimp? He’s here a lot when there’s a live band playing. Yeah, I know the guy you mean. Turns out it was his wife. Oh, I didn’t know he was married.
Sébastien waved the barman over. As he approached, he pulled his notepad and pen slowly from his apron pocket. ‘Is your investigation going well?’ he asked, playing the journalist.
A waitress came down the stairs from the mezzanine with a bin of dirty dishes, which the dishwasher promptly whisked away to the kitchen.
‘We’ll have the catch of the day,’ Joaquin replied.
If he was disappointed not to glean anything about the investigation from them, big Louis didn’t let it show.