He passed the sign welcoming visitors to the national park, arrived at the toll booth and cursed: since the end of the tourist season there had been no camping allowed in the park and the barrier up ahead was closed after nine at night. There was no way to drive any further.
Moralès was reluctant to go back to the auberge. The police had been milling around the lobster trawler for the last three days, so the poachers must be getting antsy. He didn’t know how many traps they still had in the water, but they must be keen to pull them up. Maybe they had already collected them all. If they hadn’t, there couldn’t be many left out there. He should have tried harder to reach Simone Lord and alert the fisheries officials. It was eleven-thirty already. No one would want to help him on a risky stakeout at this time of night and at such short notice. Not to mention he hadn’t opened a file about the poaching or requested permission to mobilise other officers.
He turned around and drove away from the toll booths, but just before he left the park, he noticed a dirt track on the left, between the road and the sea. He turned onto the track and saw that it led to a special pump-out station for emptying the waste from motorhomes. He parked at the end of the track in a little clearing in the trees and got out of the car to see if he could find somewhere to keep watch near the toll booths. Instead, he found the entrance to a walking trail. He took a few steps forward, then a few more. The ground was soggy and slippery from the rain. It was a dark night, but his eyes soon got used to the half-light. The trail led to a string of rustic plots for tents overlooking the sea. Moralès walked to the edge of the cliff.
About six hundred metres to the east, he could see the silhouette of a boat floating still in the shadows. He felt a rush of adrenaline, but soon saw that the boat wasn’t the same shape as Angel Roberts’ lobster trawler. Perhaps it was just a couple trying to enjoy a romantic night on the water at the fringe of Forillon National Park.
He walked back to the tent plots. Rustic camping areas like this were intended for people who liked the peace and quiet that came with having to leave their vehicles at the trailhead and hike in with all their gear, and it wasn’t uncommon for several different clusters of tent plots to be connected by scenic trails that also led to the main points of interest for visitors. Maybe there was a path that hugged the water’s edge and would take him nearer to that boat, ideally all the way to the Grande-Grave wharf. He reached for his phone, turned on the torch function and soon found a trail that seemed to lead the right way. Then he walked ahead, into the darkness.
They made it there eventually. He didn’t really know why there had been such a delay. If he’d known it was going to take their trio that long to mobilise, he would have stayed with his father a while longer to ask how the investigation was going.
Corine and Kimo had had dinner together and he had gone to pick them up around ten. He didn’t really know why the two of them hadn’t joined him and his father to eat. Kimo lived right beside the auberge, a bit further back from the road, towards the shore. Maybe they had secrets to share with no one other than themselves. That was possible, Sébastien supposed.
He parked the car and the women got out. Corine gave him an almost consoling look. Kimo seemed so intent on giving the world the cold shoulder that Corine was worried her friend would put a damper on their evening. Kimo certainly seemed to like making things complicated. Especially her love life, Sébastien thought.
He wondered how she found the head space to do yoga. He watched her walking ahead and felt the urge to touch her. If only he could get her to dance with him. What the hell, he thought, and did a pirouette on the side of the street, took a bow and looked Kimo straight in the eye before they went into the pub. ‘Vamos a bailar! Come on, let’s dance!’
It was the echo of a woman’s voice, Joaquin Moralès was almost sure of it. He couldn’t see the boat very well though, especially since it had no lights on and the night was as dark as a bear’s cave. He had followed the trail until he was about level with the vessel, then forged his own path towards the cliff edge. Luckily the vegetation wasn’t too dense. Still, his clothes were soaked through and his shoes were muddy. He was starting to feel the cold as well, but wasn’t too concerned. Since he could barely see anything, he listened.
He could hear a few low voices, but one stood out above them all – a woman’s. It was the intonation. It reminded him of Simone Lord when she was giving orders. He tried to see if it was a Fisheries and Oceans Canada vessel, but still he could only see a vague silhouette. What was that boat doing there at this time of night?
If Simone Lord had been planning a nocturnal mission to catch the poachers red-handed, she would have mentioned it to him, wouldn’t she? This was his investigation, after all. He stopped, realising she would say exactly the same thing: ‘This is my investigation, Moralès!’ Unless she was in on it with the poachers. No. Moralès refused to believe that was possible. He heard the voice echoing again. It was only a murmur, but even the slightest sound carried over the water. He closed his eyes, listened, and then it dawned on him. It wasn’t a voice. It was the muffled cry of a night bird. Moralès felt ridiculous. Old and ridiculous.
He tramped his way back to the path, troubled by how easily that woman could work her way into his mind. Was there any truth to what Lefebvre had said? Could there really be a spark between him and Simone Lord? He was haunted by that little bump beneath the skin at the nape of her neck. And oh, the scent of her. The aroma of damp earth, salt and a soupçon of woodiness.
Moralès found himself back on the path. It was barely any further to the wharf at Grande-Grave than it was to his car. It would be silly to turn around now, with the Close Call II just a few hundred metres away. Anyway, if he retraced his steps, staking out the area from his car would be pointless. The poachers couldn’t come or go that way because the barrier was locked. The only way to shed light on what they were doing was to press on towards the wharf.
Sébastien had left his phone in his jacket pocket. He wanted to keep his hands free and feel unencumbered. The music was hitting the spot. He felt like a rum would go down nicely too, and made his way to the bar. That morning he had gone for a run with his father on a trail in Forillon Park. Then he had gone to meet a fisherman who’d helped him land his first mackerel and made seals leap out of the water. Later he had eaten dinner with his father and had a beer with the girls. Now he was going to dance.
He ordered a shot of rum. And thought about Maude for a second when he saw a bottle of gin behind the bar. He always used to drink gin with her. It was strange how living with someone had changed the way he defined himself. He realised he had done the same thing as his father.
The barman slid the glass of rum in front of him. Sébastien knocked it back in one. ‘Another one.’
The barman nodded.
Could he really just leave her this way? After all these years, all those promises and plans, all those photos of her still on his phone?
The barman put a second glass of rum on the bar. Sébastien paid for his drinks. He knocked the second one back as swiftly as the first. Yes. He could. The alcohol burned his throat deliciously. He felt like he could roar. He span gracefully on his heel and swaggered over to the dance floor.
Now, where was Kimo?