Moralès thought about what he had just found out. Forest’s revelations may have cast Leeroy Roberts in a new light, but that didn’t necessarily make the circumstances of Angel’s death any clearer. He looked down at the case file, which Forest had kept close to hand. The man reached out and opened the file.
‘I know I’m not supposed to, but this is my niece we’re talking about, and the file was right there. So I had to have a look.’
He turned the file so the detective could see. One photo had been moved to the top of the pile: the one of the knot in the line used to tie Angel’s legs.
‘There was something about this photo that bothered me. I spent a long time looking at it and trying to put my finger on what it was. Then it jumped out at me.’
Forest stood and went to fetch a length of cord from the kitchen counter.
Moralès raised a hand. ‘The forensics technicians have already filled me in. It’s a bowline and sailors use it a lot because it’s strong and it won’t slip.’
Undeterred, Forest brought the rope over to Moralès. ‘I know. I read that in their report. But I’ve been fishing with Angel for years, and she’s always had a peculiar way of tying that knot. She always did it backwards. Every time I saw her do it, it made me smile. She made me think of a child who learned to always tie a double knot in her shoelaces and never lost the habit when she grew up.’
He held the rope behind his legs and sat down again.
‘Now if I were to tie a bowline around my legs, I’d do it like this.’ Forest showed Moralès what he meant. ‘Then, when the trap pulled me overboard, the knot would end up at this angle, see?’ He turned the end of the rope to face the floor.
Moralès compared the two knots. Could Angel have changed the way she tied that knot on the night of her death? Not likely, especially as her senses would have been dulled by the sedatives and it was dark. She would have done it instinctively. It would have been a reflex.
Forest pointed to the photo.
‘She didn’t tie that knot. Someone else did. Someone who thought that was the way a person sitting there would tie it – to make it look like a suicide. Someone who didn’t know that Angel would never have tied that knot that way.’
All was calm at the water’s edge. The sea lapped gently at his feet, then his ankles and calves. Soon it was up to his knees. He stopped before it reached the top of his thighs, though. The sand beneath his feet made for a comfortable platform to stand on. This was a sheltered spot, with the waves breaking more than a hundred metres offshore. It was his first time wearing fishing waders. He had Forest to thank for those, who had also given him a lure for striped bass and shown him this prime location.
It was turning out to be a beautiful afternoon, with the sun perched high and proud in the sky. There were eight of them on the shore in Barachois. Three teenagers skipping school, two retirees, two deckhands whose seasons were over, and him. Other than the youngsters, they had all found their own way there. They were all fishing in silence. One of the deckhands had brought a dog, who was now lying on the sand having dutifully inspected the contents of everyone’s buckets. They were all wearing rubber waders, like him. Sébastien cast his line over the water, secretly imitating his companions’ every move.
It was a truly exceptional spot. Rising from the sea to the south, like a secret the Gaspesians kept for themselves and a select few guests, was the hidden face of Percé Rock no one would ever see on a postcard. Sébastien reeled his line in.
If he were to build a life for himself in the Gaspé, Percé was where he’d choose to live. Maybe he could get work in a restaurant out here, find a little house. He cast it out again.
The others were swaying to the rhythm of the gentle shorebreak. He looked down at his own body and realised he was naturally doing the same. The sea was coaxing him into its tranquil flow. Again, he reeled in.
Kimo’s body had felt warm against his on Saturday night. He had buried his nose in her hair and taken a deep breath, filling his senses with the scent of her. How big a deal was infidelity for him, for Maude? He cast the line.
Suddenly, to Sébastien’s left, one of the other anglers yelled, ‘They’re biting!’ With a tug on his line, he set about winding in the spool. Sébastien could feel the adrenaline rising. He gave his own spool a turn and felt the line start to tighten.
He wasn’t expecting to see her there. Sitting in the room beside the interview suite, Simone Lord didn’t say a word. Moralès looked at Lefebvre, who shrugged. He didn’t like to get involved in other people’s squabbles.
The detective had briefly returned to the auberge for a bite to eat and another dose of painkillers, but the headache wouldn’t go away. The end of this day couldn’t come soon enough. He still had to catch up on his reports and was hoping to read everything over again that night.
He pushed the door open to find Jimmy Roberts, somewhat the worse for wear after recent events, waiting in a sky-blue plastic chair on one side of a table. An identical chair sat empty on the other side.
When he saw Moralès come in, the young man got up and stood with his arms by his sides and head slightly forward of his shoulders, in a posture resembling that of a schoolboy who had copied an assignment from the smartest kid in the class and was about to be given the just punishment he deserved.
‘Are you doing better, detective?’
Moralès wasn’t going to answer the question. He motioned for the man to sit down, then took a seat across the table, read him his rights and asked him if he understood them.
Jimmy Roberts nodded. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who put up the money for your scallop trawler?’
Caught off guard just the way the detective had hoped, young Roberts reacted without thinking. ‘My old man.’
Realising he’d given away more than he’d planned, he let out a deep breath and shook his head. Moralès could see his shoulders slump. He had already laid down his arms.
‘When I was sixteen, I got my first girlfriend, and, guess what? I got her pregnant. I loved her. We thought we were so mature, and we kept the baby. I got married when I was eighteen, and I asked my old man to lend me the money to buy a scallop boat I’d found for sale. You know, an arrangement just between me and him.’
He shifted in his chair. Moralès said nothing, just waited to see where the confession would lead.
‘My dad didn’t want to lend me the money, but my mum persuaded him. The thing is, he charged me a stupid amount of interest, way more than all the banks. But I wasn’t in any position to be borrowing from a bank. At that age, you’re clueless. You’re just proud of your new boat and you’ve got no idea your old man’s screwing you over royally. Even if it does cross your mind, you don’t dare admit it. But me and my wife, we were living like paupers.’
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, toyed with it and put it down on the table.
‘When the lobster fishers’ association offered me a deal for my boat, I couldn’t believe it. The figure they gave me was more than enough to pay off my debt and all the interest. There was even money left over for me to go back to school and do my skipper’s course so I could go work on the big commercial ships. You can’t do anything without the right qualifications these days.’ He shook his head. ‘But at the same time, my wife told me she wanted a divorce. And since I’d bought that scallop boat while we were married, I was on the hook for giving her half the amount I sold it for, wasn’t I? I told her, look, I’ll pay my old man back, then we’ll split the rest in two. Anyway, she wouldn’t hear a word of that and dragged me through the courts. Since the money came from my old man and there were no papers anywhere that said the boat was full of debt, I had to give my ex-wife half of the entire amount. What I had left was only just enough to pay back my dad. He insisted on getting his hands on the full amount, with all the interest over ten years, even though I didn’t keep the boat that long. The bloody shark even tried to get me to give him a percentage on the sale, but I said no. Ever since, he’s treated me like I’m his employee, not his son. I don’t think he’s actually disinherited me, but he wouldn’t think twice about doing it.’