‘What’s the story with your father-in-law?’
Clément Cyr composed himself. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You seemed to be suggesting—’
‘It’s water under the bridge. We’ve settled our differences.’
Moralès sensed a lull in the man’s temper; he had got the better of his anger and was probably regretting the outburst. The detective wanted to knock him off balance again, but knew that would be harder to do. He tried another angle.
‘I’d like you to tell me if you know Kim Morin.’
‘Yes, she teaches yoga in town.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with her?’
Clément Cyr sighed in exasperation. ‘She’s nice enough, but she’s a bit of a pain. She’s obsessed with the sea. So she hangs around the wharf and flits around from boat to boat. Once I thought I’d be polite and invite her aboard to show her around. After that, she never stopped coming back, as if we were the best of friends.’
‘Is that the case?’
‘No. I’m a fisherman. I spend all my time working with men. I don’t have any female friends.’
‘Have you seen Kimo again in the last few days?’
‘I’ve run into her in town. She says she wants to console me or something like that, but she just gets on my nerves.’
‘Why?’
‘Because nothing can console me.’
‘Mr Cyr, were you faithful to your wife?’
The man swept a hand angrily away from his face, as if trying to get rid of something obstructing his view. ‘Look, I can’t be guilty of everything!’
Moralès wondered who he was talking to. ‘What do you mean?’
Cyr couldn’t take any more of Angel’s scornful gaze or the shadows floating around this shambles of a home. ‘That’s enough. Leave me alone, now.’
Angel’s exhausted husband looked down at his powerless hands. Nothing made sense, and nothing could change that. Joaquin Moralès understood that the widower was troubled by his wife’s death. It would be strange if he wasn’t. He resolved to make sure social services kept an eye on him. The detective stood, but his reluctant host remained seated.
‘I spent the night alone at the auberge, if that’s what you want to know. I like to let my hair down a bit, just like my old man, but I’m an honest person.’
Moralès nodded, turned his back and saw himself out. Before he got into his car, he went over to Clément Cyr’s garage and peered through the window. He saw buoys, nets and waterproofs, a diving suit that would be too small for Cyr, snow tyres for the vehicles, a couple of bikes and camping chairs. Nothing resembling a boat. The detective walked around the back. Behind the garage were a number of metal cages for fishing lobster strung together. On the other side, he saw Annie Arsenault, kneeling in the vegetable garden, planting garlic. She looked up, nodded to Moralès in greeting and returned to her bulbs and cloves.
The detective returned to his car. He opened the driver’s door and cast a glance towards the house. Through the kitchen window, Cyr was watching him with a hostile eye.
A different ringtone to the one he heard when Maude was calling caught his attention. Sébastien reached into his pocket for the phone and checked the screen. It was a local number. He answered the call.
‘Ah! Let me tell you, this is Renaud Boissonneau on the line.’
‘Hold on a second, just bear with me.’
Intrigued by the call, Sébastien reeled his line in, hopped down from the wall and propped his rod up against it.
‘I’m all ears, Renaud.’
‘I suppose you’re in Gaspé with your father?’
‘Rivière-au-Renard, actually. We’re both staying at the Auberge Le Noroît, but I’m on my own at the moment. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, let me tell you, I’m calling to see how the investigation’s going.’
‘Sorry, what investigation?
Sébastien had been so absorbed in his fishing efforts, he realised everything else that was going on had completely slipped his mind.
‘The investigation about that young fisherwoman found dead in Gaspé. They’re talking about it on the radio all the way over here. Was it your father who fished her body out?’
‘The coast guard did, but he was on the boat. Why?’
‘And are they saying it was a murder or an accident?’
Sébastien scratched his head. Renaud Boissonneau was only calling him to stick his nose into the investigation.
‘I could always wait and read it in the paper, but nothing’s better than hearing the news right from the horse’s mouth, is it?’
For a moment Sébastien was taken aback by the server’s shamelessness, but then he had an idea. ‘Tell me, Mr Boissonneau, is it true that my father has had affairs with women in the Gaspé, or is that just gossip you’ve made up?’
A surprised, uncomfortable silence trickled down the line. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Let me tell you, I’ve never told or even dreamed such a wretched tale. No, sir. Your father is as sensitive to women as any Mexican police inspector, I imagine; no more and no less. And that’s all perfectly understandable for a hot-blooded man. But don’t you worry, he’s as faithful as your mother would want.’
A wave of unease welled in Sébastien’s throat. He had no idea whether his parents had spoken to each other or whether his father knew Sarah was moving into a condo in Longueuil. He had no desire to even think about it, especially as the fish weren’t biting, Maude was whirling around his mind like a nauseating carousel and the sleek, choreographed movements that made the other anglers look so Zen, for him were all discombobulated and made him look like a ridiculous puppet.
‘But let me tell you, the last time I saw her, she was really the one fishing for reasons not to come. Men like you and your father, you’re perfectly able to dance with other women without taking them to bed.’
Sébastien couldn’t deny that.
‘And let me tell you just one thing, these investigations break my poor little heart too, you know. So anyway – that fisherwoman, are you telling me it’s an accident or a murder?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Boissonneau.’
‘I’m not asking for myself, you know, it’s just in case I have any customers who are curious…’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t. My dad’s doing his detective work, and I’m out fishing.’
A disappointed silence travelled down the line. ‘It’s all right if you don’t want to answer, we won’t be any worse enemies than before.’ Then Renaud Boissonneau surrendered his weapons and changed the subject. ‘So what are you fishing for?’
‘I’m trying my hand at mackerel.’
‘Ooh, have you caught any? Chef says it’s not easy to cook a fish as hefty as that. Have you found a good recipe?’
‘Listen, if ever I find one, I’ll call you back, all right?’
‘Okey dokey. And tell me, before you hang up, is it true people in Percé eat like northern gannets, or is everyone here just pulling my leg?’
At the end of the line, what sounded like a bistro full of customers burst out laughing around Boissonneau. Sébastien ended the call.
‘You’re the detective’s son. I saw you on the wharf yesterday.’
Sébastien looked up. A pickup truck had rolled to a halt behind him. The truck bed was loaded with buoys, lines, waterproofs and fishing rods.
‘You’re not fishing in the right spot. Your dad’s investigation isn’t going to wrap up overnight. As early as you can tomorrow morning, come and meet me at the Grande-Grave wharf. That’s where they like to bite.’
The truck drove away, and Sébastien watched it disappear behind the fish-processing plant.