‘Turns out Angel Roberts had alcohol and sedatives in her stomach. A whole boatload. But death was caused by drowning. I’ve photocopied the autopsy report for you.’
Moralès sat down and opened the file Lefebvre had copied for him, while the constable, powerless to resist his urges, stood and went over to the counter to stare at a sugar bowl that had caught his attention.
‘Shall we get to work, Constable Lefebvre?’
‘That’s all I ever do, Detective Sergeant Moralès.’
He brought the sugar bowl back to the table and put it down beside the file, a pen Moralès hadn’t seen, the plate and the potato masher. Then he sat down again. ‘Let’s remind ourselves of the series of events. There’s the drink at Angel’s in-laws’, followed by dinner at her dad’s place and the soirée at the auberge. Angel isn’t feeling well because she’s drunk too much, and her husband drives her home. There, the couple has an argument and Clément Cyr goes back to the bar. Meanwhile, Angel gets into her car, goes down to the Grande-Grave wharf, hops aboard her boat, casts off her mooring lines and leaves the dock. When she’s a fair way offshore, she takes some sedatives, ties a rope around her legs and attaches it to a lobster trap filled with blankets and a block of concrete that she then suspends over the water with a length of cord just strong enough to give her time to pass out before it snaps so she won’t panic when she gets dragged overboard to her death.’
‘What makes you think that’s how it happened?’
‘There were no signs of violence, and she left a note for her husband before she went, so he wouldn’t worry.’
Moralès cast Lefebvre a questioning glance.
‘I suppose the note was ambiguous,’ the constable admitted.
‘Suicide notes are rarely literary masterpieces,’ Moralès replied.
Lefebvre stood and went over to the counter by the till. ‘Shall we close the case, then?’
Moralès shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
The constable leaned forward and then drew himself upright again. He returned to the table with the reservations book and added it to his little collection, beside the sugar bowl, his copy of the report, the dessert plate and the potato masher.
‘Why not?’
Moralès remained tight-lipped. If he told Lefebvre about the poaching, he would be falling over himself to relay that information to Simone Lord. It was more than likely that she knew what was going on, although why she was hiding the information from him, the detective wasn’t sure. In any case, he wanted to ask her himself, so he could catch her by surprise and gauge her reaction.
‘I still have one or two leads to follow up. Any word from Simone?’
Lefebvre shrugged as he leafed through the reservations book. ‘She’s busy with an investigation, so I’m told.’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be working on this investigation?’
‘What do you want me to say? Women aren’t always at our beck and call, Moralès. It’s the same for me. Thérèse Roch doesn’t work every day, you know. Do I chase her home at night? No, I don’t.’ He kept flipping through the pages. ‘I wouldn’t dare. Did you know she lives with Dotrice Percy?’
‘The woman who said she saw a naked monster?’
‘Yes. I figured that out the other day when I went to see the seer. Don’t you think it’s strange to say I went to see the seer? Isn’t she supposed to be the one who sees me?’ Is that like a mise en abyme, you know, one of those images within an image?’
He thought for a moment.
‘If she had seen my future in a crystal ball, I’d have been able to say I saw the seer who saw me. Anyway, turns out they’re housemates. That explains why Dotrice always manages to sneak into the station, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not the one who’s going to blow the whistle on my sweet Teresita.’
‘I need to see Simone urgently. Find her,’ was all Moralès said.
Lefebvre closed the book and gave Moralès a knowing wink. ‘Ah, I knew she’d got that Mexican blood of yours pumping.’
‘Officer Lord?’
Lefebvre stood and put his jacket on. ‘Who else do you think I’m talking about? I know you find her outrageously sexy, Moralès. I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
And with that, he walked out the door of the auberge.
Sébastien returned around mid-evening. Soaked to the skin, but smiling.
‘I’ve got fish. Are you hungry?’
His father was still sitting in the dining room and had almost finished writing his report for the day. Sébastien took the fish out of the newspaper he had wrapped it in as he made his way to the kitchen.
‘I think I’ll try my hand at striped bass tomorrow. Jacques told me about a place he knows…’ He might as well have been talking to himself.
Why would that happy young woman have taken her own life? Moralès just couldn’t wrap his head around it. He wanted to be sure the poachers had nothing to do with it before he closed the case, before he called his boss and told her he was on his way back to Caplan.
Sébastien busied himself in the kitchen, boiling pasta, sautéing vegetables and flouring the mackerel, going on about spoons, bait and tides as his father pored over his report on the other side of the serving hatch.
Moralès cleared the table as his son brought out two plates and sat down.
Sébastien continued his enthusiastic monologue throughout dinner. ‘Dad, you wouldn’t believe it, seals basically have their own built-in fishing lures on their bellies, like an army general’s rack of medals!’
The fish was a bit overdone. Joaquin didn’t mention it.
Sébastien reached into his jacket and turned his phone on. It started vibrating like mad to deliver the backlog of text messages that had piled up. Moralès saw his son’s face harden as he glanced quickly at the screen and put the device back in his pocket.
He wasn’t particularly paranoid, and he wanted to trust her, but when Simone Lord took the Babin brothers and Jimmy Roberts down a peg on the wharf that first day, it had been obvious to Moralès that she knew them. Could she be covering up their poaching, or at least turning a blind eye? Moralès had a hard time believing it, but it wasn’t impossible that they were blackmailing her. Maybe they had some kind of hold over her. Alternatively, she might not have a clue what had been going on. That would almost be worse, Moralès said to himself.
Sébastien ate quickly, then announced he was heading upstairs for a shower before going into town. ‘Well, Gaspé’s not exactly Montreal, but Corine’s invited me to a thing tonight at the Brise-Bise. I have to get going. OK if I leave you to do the washing-up?’
Once Sébastien had driven away, Moralès got into his own car. He wanted to go and see what was happening at the Grande-Grave wharf after dark. If Angel Roberts’ boat wasn’t there, he would be making a call to Fisheries and Oceans Canada. He wasn’t going to be doing anything too daring. He’d had his fair share of adrenaline rushes and broken ribs in his younger days as an undercover officer. As he grew older, the idea of getting beaten up somehow seemed less appealing.
He had a flask of hot soup and his case file beside him on the passenger seat. You never knew how long a stakeout might be. He could easily park at the side of the road and walk down to the wharf and back a few times throughout the night. He’d have something to read while he was warming up in the car, and it would keep Corine from poking her nose into his papers. Corine. He had crossed paths with her that morning. Rounding the curves in the road, his mind drifted to the young woman, and to Sébastien. He still hadn’t had the chance to talk to his son. The time would come. Soon.