Forest peered at the screen to see the photo the detective wanted to show him. ‘Yes.’
Before Angel’s uncle could string together a question, there was a sharp tug on his line. He quickly bent down to pick up the rod and busied himself with the fish he had hooked. Moralès went over to the forensics technicians, who were now waiting for him on the dock. He touched his phone screen to life again to scroll through the photos he had taken the previous day.
The younger of the two technicians beat him to it. ‘We can confirm, without a shadow of a doubt, that the boat has been used since we examined it the other day.’
‘Hmm,’ his colleague concurred.
‘We know the victim’s brother brought it back here from Rivière-au-Renard with one of his friends…’ Moralès explained.
‘I mean it’s been used for fishing.’
Moralès compared what he saw of the boat now to the photos on his screen. Perhaps the forensic technician was right.
‘How can you be so sure at first glance?’
‘Everything had been washed down with fresh water, probably because the fishing season was over. Now there are traces of salt all over the place.’
‘Hmm. Fibres, too.’
‘Elastic bands as well; the kind they use for lobster claws.’
‘Hmm. Better check the hours on the engine log.’
Moralès looked at them both in turn. ‘Can you check for prints and then clean everything when you’re done?’ He handed them the key and waited while they got to work.
The forensic technicians set off in separate directions without a word. The younger one went towards the stern, while his colleague took the key and opened the wheelhouse door.
On the main wharf, it looked like the fishing was going well. Sébastien was having a whale of a time. Moralès wished he had the Saturday off too, in spite of the drizzle.
‘I’ve already lifted some prints in the wheelhouse,’ the older of the technicians said, motioning for Moralès to come inside. ‘We’ll run them when we get back to the lab and let you know if we find a match.’
Moralès ducked inside and sat on the captain’s swivel seat. What did Angel think about when she sat there? The wheel, levers, buttons, compass, duo of screens and trio of VHF radios: none of it revealed anything about her. The screen on the left was bolted to a shelf; the computer keyboard and mouse had been pushed to the back of another shelf below.
The technician came over, holding a spool of thin cord. ‘This is the stuff the lobster trap was attached to.’
He led Moralès outside to join his younger colleague, who was taking measurements at the stern. ‘The victim was sitting over there, on the deck, with her back against the wheelhouse,’ he said, standing and pointing to the bow. ‘There was a length of line tied around her legs. That was attached to the anchor chain, which was piled here, on the open tailgate. You can see where it was sitting, from all the scuff marks.’
‘Hmm.’
‘The other end of the anchor chain was attached to the lobster trap, which was stuffed with blankets and a concrete block. The trap itself was suspended over the water from this metal rod here at the stern, by the same kind of cord my colleague just found in the wheelhouse.’
He crouched and pointed to the rod that held the tailgate latch when it was closed.
‘Hmm.’
‘So, how long did it take for the waves to soak the blankets in the trap? We’d say ten, fifteen minutes, maybe longer. Depends how big a swell was running. The cord holding the trap above the water wasn’t very strong, so it snapped under the weight of the wet blankets. The trap plunged into the water, dragging the anchor chain overboard, then the line, and then the victim, who was slumped over there. Suspending the trap with a cord that would take a while to break would have given her enough time to go sit over there and tie herself up.’
The forensic technicians exchanged a look of satisfaction and gave each other a high five, like two baseball players celebrating a home run.
‘Why?’ Moralès asked.
The technicians were putting away their equipment.
‘Existential questions are not within our jurisdiction, detective.’
‘Hmm.’
They left Moralès to lock up the boat and sauntered back to their van.
‘How about we stop for doughnuts on the way back?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
They got into their van and drove away.
Moralès looked at his watch and paused for a moment. He wanted to hang on to the key, but he didn’t feel like giving Jacques Forest an explanation. He waved to his son and Forest from a distance, and hurried back to his car as if he had an urgent matter to attend to, an excuse to forget he still had the key. He jumped into the driver’s seat and drove away in a cloud of dust.
Annie Arsenault looked up from the window as Moralès approached. She smiled. Again. In spite of herself, perhaps, if she was as used to weathering heavy storms and staying afloat as he suspected. She had cried a lot, but didn’t seem as fragile as she had the last time.
She came out onto the porch, closed the door behind her and apologised. ‘My husband and sons are in the house. Maybe we can sit outside on the deck.’
Moralès remained standing on the steps and leaned against the handrail. ‘I only have one question.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Who’s using the Close Call II to go poaching?
The smile froze on her lips.
‘Her uncle Jacques?’
She shook her head. ‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Jimmy? With the Babin brothers?’
She sighed. ‘Those guys are a piece of work.’
‘Did they threaten her?’
Annie Arsenault took a deep breath and filled herself with all the strength and pride her friendship with the woman had bequeathed her – a woman who had not lacked courage.
‘No. But Angel knew they were poaching with her boat.’
Moralès frowned. ‘Did she see them do it?’
‘Yes. She spied on them once or twice.’
‘She turned a blind eye?’
Annie sighed. If there was one thing all fishers knew, it was that poaching came at a heavy price. Not only did they risk losing their licence, but also all the equipment that had been used for the poaching: the traps, the boat, even the vehicle used to carry it all down to the wharf.
‘She did at first. But she didn’t say anything, because her brother hadn’t had an easy life. But just recently she asked him to pull up his traps.’
‘When?’ Moralès pressed.
‘About ten days ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone threatened to report her.’
‘Who?’
She pinched her lips and turned away.
‘How do they do it?’
‘They take the boat out in the middle of the night. They have a very narrow window to work with: two to three hours after high tide, when the current’s running the fastest and they’re sure no other fishing boats will be out on the water. Their buoys don’t even break the surface, not even at low tide. They keep track of them by GPS.’
‘Where do they go?’
She bit the inside of her cheeks. She wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. ‘Listen, this kind of thing is complicated.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this the other day?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got a husband and kids…’
She didn’t say any more, but Moralès got the message. She was afraid they would end up in the middle of the bay themselves.
‘All right. Thank you. Don’t worry. This will stay between you and me.’
‘I know nothing will happen to us, but…’
She was brave, but she wasn’t naive.
Lefebvre was already there, sitting in the dining room of the auberge with his nose in a file, when Moralès walked in the door. A dessert plate and a potato masher sat on the table in front of him. He looked up briefly and turned his gaze back to the page.