‘I would have been happy to respect your jurisdiction, but you chose to disappear for the last two days. I asked Constable Lefebvre where you were. Nowhere to be found.’
‘All you had to do was call my office.’
‘While we were busting a gut on a homicide investigation, Officer Lord, you decided to stop answering your phone and swan off on a little boat trip with your fishing friends.’
In her fury, she didn’t see Sébastien come in, walk around her and disappear into the kitchen.
She took two steps towards Moralès and stabbed an accusing finger at him. ‘Well, you just hit the nail on the head. You were supposed to be working on a homicide, not poking your nose into a poaching sting. You wrecked my whole bloody investigation because you want to control everything.’
Moralès opened his arms to the sky, desperate for someone or something to back him up. ‘En la madre! Look who’s talking. How dare you throw control back in my face now?’
In the background, Sébastien put some music on so he could pretend he couldn’t hear them.
‘You knew from the very first day that Jimmy Roberts and the Babin brothers were poaching aboard the Close Call II and that might well be a motive for murder, And did you think to share that information with me, Officer Lord? No, because you were too busy keeping your own little investigation to yourself. A police officer was assaulted last night because you’re too damned proud to work properly with a man. Now get out of my sight before I decide to share my version of the story with your superior!’
Sébastien had turned up the volume while his father made his point, and just as Simone Lord was about to lay into him again, she realised the cheeky so-and-so had chosen a tango number that echoed their back and forth. Moralès kept his mouth shut as it dawned on him how ridiculous his outburst had been. He was ashamed of the threat he had made.
Officer Lord let three bars of the music go by before delivering her parting shot calmly. ‘You’re an autocrat and a misogynist, Moralès. That beating you took, I wish I’d been the one to give it to you.’
With that, she turned on her heels and left. Sébastien came out of the kitchen and stood beside his father. Together, they watched her storm out of the auberge, get into her truck and slam the door shut.
‘That neck of hers is something else,’ Sébastien said.
‘I know.’
‘A hell of a temper, too.’
‘She sets my head in a spin.’
‘What vertebra is it that sticks out a bit when she leans her head forward?’
‘I think it’s the C3.’
Simone Lord’s truck pulled out of the parking area.
Sébastien looked at his father and smiled softly. ‘I couldn’t find the case file. I looked everywhere.’
‘En la madre!’
‘Do you think someone might have stolen it?’
‘I’ll ask Lefebvre if someone at the station picked it up for safe keeping. Do you have my phone?’
‘Yes. The battery’s dead though, so I’ll plug it in for you. Go have a shower. I’ll rustle up a fish soup for us. Then I’ll get some more groceries for dinner tonight.’
‘OK. Thanks, chiquito.’
Joaquin headed upstairs. Sébastien returned to the kitchen and took stock of the fridge, then started preparing the soup. His father looked exhausted. He’d settle his differences and voice the reproaches he had come here to share with him another time. But he would never tell him that Sarah hadn’t called back.
There was a strong turnout. Only creaks and sniffles broke the silence in the congregation. The sound of prayer echoed off the domed ceiling of the funeral home.
Leeroy Roberts was sitting to the right of the urn, with his son Bruce by his side. Even though there was space for two other people in the pew, Jimmy Roberts was sitting behind them. Alone. Neither his ex-wife, nor his children, who must obviously have known Angel, were there. The Babin brothers had chosen to sit a row or two behind, flanked by their wives and children. They seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to an elderly woman who was obviously their mother.
Moralès had arrived a little late and hadn’t managed to find anywhere to sit, so he was standing at the back of the packed room with around twenty others. He took a step to the side for a clearer view.
To the left of the urn sat Clément Cyr, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed, seeing nothing but ghosts through the tears. In the pew beside him sat a petite, energetic-looking woman and a man with a similar build to Clément. Probably his mother and uncle Fernand.
Behind them was Jacques Forest, sitting beside a woman Moralès could barely make out through the crowd. Earlier, when he got out of the shower, the detective had listened to his voice messages. Apparently, Forest had been struggling to sleep last night, and he heard the ambulance drive past his house and turn off towards the national park. He got into his truck and went out to see what was going on, and noticed Moralès’s car in the trees beside the road, he said. So he went over, noticed the doors were unlocked and saw the file was on the front seat. Worried the documents might fall into the wrong hands, he had taken them home with him.
The detective hadn’t managed to get through to him earlier, since Forest was probably already on his way to the funeral service. Moralès didn’t want to be insensitive, but he did want to get the file back that day. He especially wanted to make sure word didn’t get out about what had happened. Jacques Forest obviously shouldn’t have taken the file, but it had been a faux pas for the detective to leave it in plain view in his car.
The service was over now. People stood and waited while Leeroy Roberts stepped forward, picked up the urn and carried it down the aisle. A man weighing the gravity of his loss in his own hands. He held the whole life of his daughter – her first words, her hopes and dreams, her first bicycle, her lobster trawler – in that little container, and there was nothing to balance the other side of the scale.
Moralès thought about the Robertses and the Cyrs. The two clans couldn’t stand the sight of each other, in spite of their shared grief. What could have caused so much bad blood between these families? The procession filed out through the double doors at the rear of the Langevin brothers’ funeral home.
Moralès raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw the woman walking by Jacques Forest’s side. It was his boss, Marlène. The resemblance between them was striking. As he caught her eye, it dawned on the detective that Lieutenant Marlène Forest must be Angel’s aunt – her late mother’s sister. As his boss walked outside, Moralès wondered why she hadn’t told him she was sending him to investigate the disappearance of her niece.
The crowd filed out in a procession of tiptoes, whispers, crumpled tissues, buttoning-up of coats and children happy to see long-lost friends and relatives again.
Moralès noticed Corine and Kimo in the corner of the room, waiting their turn to step out into the fresh air. Kimo’s lips were pursed. She seemed to be using Corine as a screen – to protect herself from getting too close to other people. Corine caught Moralès’s eye, gave him a nod of greeting, then whispered something in her friend’s ear. Kimo’s eyes were scanning the crowd. When her gaze landed on the detective, she nodded coldly and turned away. Seeing a gap open up in front of them, the two young women weaved their way through the others to a side door, clearly choosing not to say goodbye to the families. As Moralès crossed the threshold, he saw them striding away through a sea of parked cars.
Meanwhile, the tide of friends and family marched on towards the cemetery. Moralès chose not to join them. He had seen Érik Lefebvre and Simone Lord among the crowd. If anything of significance for the investigation happened, Lefebvre would let him know. A few people were waiting for the mourners to return from the cemetery on a small circular patio planted with perennials and dotted with benches. The funeral home was built on a hill, embracing a partial view of Gaspé Bay. The sun felt pleasantly warm, and Moralès decided to sit for a while too.