‘I gather you’ve met Louis?’
Moralès said hello to the barman and ordered a beer. The pint glass was on the bar in front of him before he knew it.
‘It’s sad, what happened to Angel Roberts,’ the man said.
Both police officers nodded. Moralès took off his jacket and sat down.
‘It’s not the first suicide we’ve seen around here, though…’
The investigators kept their mouths shut. That was the kind of bait they were thrown all too often, and they knew better not to take it. Seeing that his tactic to extract information from his customers wasn’t going to deliver a result, the barman slipped away discreetly. He reached for the remote and put a baseball game on the TV, then went to enjoy the bohemian charm of the attractive young women sitting at the other end of the bar instead.
‘Baseball, now that’s a real sport!’
‘You play baseball, Lefebvre?’
‘Yessir, I certainly do. You’re looking at the best pitcher in the whole of the Gaspé league. I’m a proud Sainte-Thérèse-de-Gaspé Mariner, I’ll have you know.’
Moralès tried to imagine Lefebvre and his serious little moustache in a baseball cap and team uniform cinched at the waist, squinting from the pitcher’s mound.
‘It’s just a friendly league, but other than jogging, what do you do to keep fit? Don’t look at me like that. Everyone knows everything around here. You’re staying at Corine’s. Word gets out fast.’ Lefebvre drained his first beer and waited for Joaquin to answer.
‘I played a lot of football – soccer – when I was younger. Back in Mexico, with friends, but also in Montreal with colleagues.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I used to ride horses, and I was pretty good with a lasso.’
Lefebvre’s jaw dropped to the bar. ‘Are you pulling my leg, Moralès?’
‘My dad’s brother had a ranch and I used to go there a lot to help him brand and herd the cattle.’
‘That must have been a great way to get women into bed too.’ Lefebvre pretended to twirl a lasso by his side, throw it far and pull a woman towards him. The barman misinterpreted the gesture and came over to see if they needed anything.
‘Two more beers.’ Lefebvre turned to Moralès. ‘It’s my round, cowboy. You do know we have Western festivals out here in the Gaspé, don’t you?’
‘I’ve hung up my lasso for good.’
Louis slid their pints across the bar and sidled back to the women. Moralès was yet to finish his first beer.
‘Right, well, where are things at with the investigation?’ Lefebvre said.
‘I went to see Leeroy Roberts this afternoon. Did you know he’s inheriting his daughter’s boat?’
Lefebvre whistled between his teeth. ‘That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, parents inheriting from their children…’
‘Clément Cyr seemed completely indifferent about losing the lobster boat.’
Lefebvre picked up a pen from the bar and tried to make a note of something on his beer mat, but it was soggy and the ball wouldn’t let the ink flow. He put the pen down again.
‘Leeroy Roberts threw me out of his house. It’s not like he needs the inheritance, but there was something that bothered me…’
Lefebvre reached over to grab an order pad from behind the bar and flipped through the scribbled pages as he swigged his second beer. ‘There are cheapskates everywhere, you know.’
If Moralès had never seen the man work that way before, he would have sworn he wasn’t listening.
‘A decade ago Angel Roberts signed a ten-year contract to borrow the money for her boat from her father,’ the detective explained. ‘She was paying him back in instalments, but the contract stipulated that if she died during the term of the loan, then her boat, her fishing licence and all her gear would go to him. I’m thinking that maybe she paid at the end of each fishing season. And this year’s season has just ended, so perhaps she had already paid off the whole debt slightly early, and didn’t owe her father another penny.’
‘That sounds like a strange arrangement to me. So you’re saying she’d paid back everything, but she died before the contract ended?’
‘Three days before.’
Lefebvre stood, went over to the stage and plucked a wireless microphone from a shelf at the very back and returned to the bar.
‘Can you check the amounts Angel paid her father in the last ten years?’ Moralès asked.
Constable Lefebvre carefully inspected the microphone before placing it on the bar beside his soggy beer mat, the useless pen and the order pad.
‘He pulled a similar financial trick on his youngest son as well. I’d like you to check the transactions between the father and his eldest too.’
‘When Leeroy dies, it’s his sons who’ll inherit.’
‘Just check Bruce’s accounts, will you?’
Lefebvre caught the barman’s eye. ‘Would you bring us a menu?’
Louis sauntered to the till at the end of the bar, grabbed two menus and handed them over distractedly before going to greet some customers as they walked in the door. Without even glancing at it, Lefebvre put the menu down beside the soggy beer mat, the useless pen, the rough order book and the disconnected microphone.
‘Do some digging into Clément’s family as well, so we can get a sense of his mother’s assets, and his stepfather’s too. I want to know if Angel’s insurance might benefit the extended family.’
There was no point giving Lefebvre a pen and paper, Moralès realised. He seemed to remember information by gathering assortments of random objects. It must be a mnemonic thing, he thought.
‘I’m going to pay Clément Cyr’s mother a visit tomorrow.’
The constable stood up again, but Moralès motioned for him to sit down. ‘It’s all right, Lefebvre, I’m done. We can order something to eat now.’
‘I don’t need the menu. I know it by heart.’ Lefebvre sat and raised his glass to his lips.
Louis came over to take their orders. He seemed perplexed that his pad and pen weren’t where they usually were. When he saw them on the bar in front of Lefebvre, he sighed the way a tired parent would after repeating simple instructions to a child, and pocketed the pad and pen, took the menus away and tucked the microphone behind the bar. Suddenly, Lefebvre’s glass was half empty.
‘Same as usual, Érik?’
He nodded. Moralès went for the catch of the day. The barman went to punch their orders in to the screen by the till.
‘Speaking of the investigation, Moralès, I’ve got a personal question to ask you.’ Lefebvre took a deep breath. ‘Right, well, it’s not my place to dictate who you sleep with, but your relationship with Simone Lord…’
‘Relax, Lefebvre. I haven’t slept with Simone.’
The constable was visibly relieved. ‘Oh, good. I mean, it’s no skin off my nose if you are sleeping together. I’m head over heels in love with my Teresita at the front desk and no one at work makes a song and dance about it. So long as there’s no talk of abuse of power or authority, and there’s consent and pleasure on both sides, it’s all right. But when one’s not floating the other’s boat, if you know what I mean, then the waters start to get muddy.’
Moralès was lost for words.
‘When you’re both getting what you want, then it eases the atmosphere and the sexual tension.’ Lefebvre nodded with self-assurance. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it for myself. I’m always more productive after a hard night’s work.’
‘So it’s going well with your doctor friend, then?’
‘Shush. She’s married. Let’s just say it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Moralès burst out laughing. Louis brought their plates out, put some cutlery on the bar for them, and walked away. The detective realised he was ravenous, his migraine had disappeared and the salmon looked delicious.