He sat for a long time on the beach, haunted by that word – loyalty – without knowing what to make of it. He stood and decided to stretch his legs a bit. It was a mild day, but he was cold. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he walked out along the point. Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his palm, and in a mechanical gesture he checked the message on the screen. There was no text, just a black-and-white photo. He didn’t understand. So he unlocked the screen, zoomed in on the image – and had the wind knocked out of him.
In a heartbeat, the horizon vanished and everything in Sébastien’s view turned monochrome. The sea, the sand, the sky, all turned to white in one static image that stood out from the black ultrasound screen. Ink welled in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Sébastien opened the attachment, closed it again, and opened it once more, hesitant both to delete and to save it. He really didn’t know what to make of that photo of moving pixels in Maude’s belly.
Leeroy Roberts opened the door warily and let him in, but kept him standing in the hallway. He wasn’t going to invite the detective into the kitchen or the living room. He’d sailed the seas for long enough to know that time could turn a man into a traitor.
Moralès regretted not bringing Constable Lefebvre along, but, then again, his colleague’s presence might have riled the man even more, and they may have had to take him down to the station. Anyway, it was too late now to backpedal. He was here now, and Roberts wasn’t happy. The entryway was longer than it was wide. A closet with triple sliding doors occupied one entire wall. On the opposite side, two decorative chairs flanked a small round table topped with a Tiffany-style lamp. The French doors at the end of the hallway beckoned to an open-plan kitchen with dark wood cabinets, separated from the dining area by a marble counter.
Leeroy noticed the detective’s eye wandering behind him as he outlined what he knew about the agreement he and Angel had signed when he funded the purchase of her boat.
He held his head high and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I don’t see what the problem is. Each party knew what they were signing.’
That moment had been the biggest affront of Leeroy’s life. Talk about adding insult to injury, after his wife had forced him to pay for their daughter’s studies at the marine institute in Rimouski. Plus the apartment, the car, and all the rest.
She had always hated fishing, had Irène, but she was the one who had put up the money for her husband’s wooden boat, using her father’s inheritance. She didn’t approve, but she loved him and so she had said yes. When they gazed at the stars at night and she saw the light of the moon reflected in the sea, she used to say it was fool’s silver, that it was drawn to a lure like a fish to a shiny spoon. That had always made him see red.
She had never set foot on any boat of his, and Leeroy had taken that to heart, so much so that he had sworn he would prove her wrong and show her how lucrative fishing could be. And he had done exactly that. When their children had each decided in turn to go into fishing, Leeroy was comfortably well off. He could afford to drive nice cars and trucks and strut around on the wharf.
But then one day, Irène had insisted he put up the money for the kids to buy their own boats. He didn’t want to, but she reminded him that at first she herself had been reluctant to put her hand in her pocket for him to buy his wooden boat with her father’s money. Then she had told him that he had believed in fool’s silver, whether he would admit it or not, and he had no right to stop their children from chasing the lures he himself had dangled before their eyes. So yes, he had put his hand in his pocket, but he had reserved the right to draw up the contracts his way.
Leeroy Roberts looked at Detective Moralès. He had children, so there must be a wife. He must know how those kinds of thing could tear a man apart.
‘I told Angel she should choose another way to make a living, that fishing wasn’t a woman’s job. It’s sad to say, but I suppose she decided her own fate. Don’t take that the wrong way. She was my daughter and I’m heartbroken. But sometimes I just wonder what young people get into their heads. We raise our kids to work hard so they won’t want for anything. How come they end up making such crazy choices?’
‘The other morning, when you were telling me about your children, you neglected to mention this contract,’ Moralès said.
‘I wasn’t hiding anything from you. You asked me if I was the one who’d told Jimmy to bring the Close Call II back to her wharf, and I said yes.’
‘But you didn’t tell me the boat belonged to you.’
‘You should have realised it; I’d never have touched someone else’s boat.’
‘I’m sure you’ll agree that the contract you had your daughter sign was less than scrupulous. Talk about making her pay a heavy price…’
‘Listen, Angel would never have had that lobster boat if I hadn’t stumped up the cash.’
‘Were you aware that your son Jimmy was using the Close Call II for poaching?’
If they had been outside, Leeroy would have spat on the ground. Instead, he stood tall and proud, arms folded, eyes boring deep into the Mexican’s. ‘The sea’s not your jurisdiction.’
Moralès wished he had brought the man in to the station for proper questioning.
‘As I understand, the cod-fishing grounds have been closed for a long time. You wouldn’t get much now for all those licences you rounded up, would you? With that in mind, it seems to me that a lobster-fishing operation would be a nice thing to inherit.’
Leeroy Roberts paled with anger. ‘Listen, detective, I’ve spent my life trying to prove I’m a good fisherman. When your wife pays for your first boat, that sticks to you like a port-wine stain on your face. Everyone in the bloody Gaspé knew I was sailing under her thumb. I looked like a profiteer, not a fisherman. So I worked my socks off to show them all, and especially my wife, that I could make my own money. When the fishing season ended in the gulf, I used to go down to the Magdalen Islands to boost my quota. I used to fish so late in the year, one time the fisheries officers even thought I was drug running. I’ve made my money honestly, and here you are accusing me of killing my own daughter? Do you know what it feels like to see your own child devoured by the fish in the sea? Get out of my house, detective. Go look for your murderer somewhere else.’
Moralès carried the weight of the last few days back to the auberge. He went up to his room, left the case file on his bed and stood for a moment in the kitchenette. Simone’s little origami creation was still there, on the corner of the table. Right then, he realised he didn’t feel like dining alone again. He hesitated at first, then called Lefebvre. The constable picked up on the second ring.
‘Got any plans for dinner?’
‘No, why?’
‘Want to meet me at the Brise-Bise?’
‘I’m on my way.’
Moralès hung up and called his son, but the line must have been busy because the call went straight to voicemail. He left Sébastien a message and drove off to meet Lefebvre at the pub.
The line was busy because Sébastien had had enough of this tide that kept sweeping him away. He picked up his phone and dialled the number. She answered, and as he heard the gentle hello on the other end of the line, at last he could breathe again.
‘I’m calling to say I’m sorry.’
Lefebvre was already there and happily knocking back his first pint when Moralès walked into the Brise-Bise. His colleague was seated at the bar, in the same spot the detective had chosen both times he’d been here before, in front of the tap handles.