‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you whether DS Moralès is or is not at the station at the moment. It’s a question of making sure the life of a superior officer is not put in danger.’
She eventually returned his driver’s licence and turned back to her computer screen. Sébastien was stunned, and stood there for a moment in silence.
‘If my father isn’t here, could you please let Constable Lefebvre know that Sébastien Moralès is at the door wanting to see him? It’s urgent.’
She didn’t bother to answer, but Sébastien and Kimo saw her sigh and press a button, and heard her reluctantly announce their presence to Lefebvre.
‘Opening the door is not in my job description,’ she added.
The giant of a man was hunkered over an engine. He was busy changing the oil now the season was over, just as Bruce Roberts had been doing on his own shrimp trawler the other day. Moralès took in his surroundings. His head was spinning. Clément Cyr looked up. There was a figure lurking in the shadows beside the tool box, but this time it wasn’t Angel. It was Firmin, drinking a beer in silence as he watched his son work.
‘My old man died because of a conspiracy between Leeroy Roberts and his son Bruce.’
If Moralès told the fisherman to get down on his knees so he could slap the cuffs on him, he would be right beside the tool box, and that would give the man an opportunity to grab a weapon. Ideally, he’d get him to back up, but there wasn’t enough space. If he told him to move forward, it was the detective who would end up cramped between the wall and the stairs.
‘When I found out what had happened, I knew I had to find a way to avenge his death. Because I’m a loyal son, you understand?’
The giant of a man unscrewed a filter and dirty oil began to flow into a metal drum.
‘I didn’t know Angel at that point. I didn’t meet her until a year later. And when that day came, I fell hopelessly in love with her. Head over heels. I couldn’t believe she was the Robertses’ daughter.’
He drew himself upright and stared into space. In the shadows, his father motioned for him to line the drum up properly, otherwise the oil might spill. You couldn’t be too careful.
Moralès was seeing stars. He found the enclosed space, the smell of the oil and the fisherman’s delirium dizzying.
‘What would you have done if you were in my shoes, eh? I put it off. I said to myself, one day I’ll kill her, I’ll do what I have to do, but I’m going to let myself love her a little first. I’m going to fill myself up with her – my body, my head and my eyes. I’ll fill myself up with her so much, I’ll empty her out and there’ll be nothing left of her, that’s what I said. But it never happened. Every day I said to myself, I’m just going to take a little bit more, then tomorrow, I’m going to kill her. But then at some point, I came to see she’d never be empty. Because every day she was more beautiful than the last. That was when I understood I’d never see the end of it.’
The oil had stopped dripping. Clément Cyr put the plug back in and opened a container of fresh engine oil. His eyes flicked to the figure in the shadows, then he poured the oil into the engine. He could hear his old man laughing. He was in a good mood, as always.
‘So I said to myself, I had to bite the bullet and just do it, so Leeroy Roberts would pay the price once and for all.’
‘There’s a marine research camera at L’Anse-aux-Amérindiens. We have the murder on video.’
Clément Cyr turned his head. He seemed surprised to see the detective was still there. Moralès shouldn’t have come down here. He was suffocating. This place felt like a trap.
‘Clément Cyr, you are under arrest for the murder of Angel Roberts. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say may be—’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘I want you to turn around, get down on your knees and slowly raise your hands above your head.’
Moralès took a step closer, but Clément Cyr didn’t step back. He took the time to screw the cap back on the oil reservoir, tidy his tools away and put the empty oil container in the bin. A man of his stature was a particularly imposing figure in a space as cramped as this. He turned to his shadow of a father figure for a second, seeking his gaze, then noticed the detective was pointing his revolver at his chest.
‘No, detective. That’s not how this is going to end. The boat might not be on the water, but you know full well you’re in a fisherman’s territory here.’
Thérèse Roch was proud of herself. Not only had she protected her superior officer and ensured professional secrecy, but she had also played a role in accelerating a key intervention. When Constable Érik Lefebvre and fisheries officer Simone Lord had come out to the reception area, they had understood right away that this was an emergency, raced to their vehicles and hurried to the rescue of Detective Sergeant Moralès, targeting the most likely ambush points. Thérèse Roch knew this because she had tuned in to the police emergency-response radio frequency and was listening as the events played out. The Fisheries and Oceans Canada officer had waited for nearby patrol officers to arrive and taken them as backup to Clément Cyr’s house, while Constable Lefebvre, who wasn’t cut out for field work, decided to make sure everything was all right down at the wharf.
Moralès could pull the trigger and be done with Clément Cyr once and for all. But he knew he would always feel sickened by what he’d done.
‘I came to the station ready to turn myself in, you know,’ the fisherman said.
Moralès couldn’t believe he had been so quick to dismiss Cyr’s confession-of-sorts nearly a week ago. He had thought the man was simply blaming himself for what had happened to his wife.
Cyr tightened the cap on the oil reservoir and wiped his hands. ‘I’ll still go willingly, but not in handcuffs, and not with that gun pointed at me. This is probably the last time I’ll be aboard this boat of mine. I don’t want to walk off it like a criminal. So either we play it like that, or you’re going to have to shoot me. I’d rather die on board here than be carted off in shame.’
Moralès opted to negotiate. ‘Here’s how we’ll play it. You’re going to put your hands behind your head and walk past me. I’m going to keep my gun pointed at you as long as we’re inside. If I get the slightest inkling you’re changing your mind, I shoot. If everything goes calmly and smoothly, I’ll let you put your hands down when we get outside.’
‘And you’ll lower your weapon?’
‘Yes. I’ll lower my weapon.’
Cyr raised his arms and interlaced his hands behind his head. Moralès pressed himself against the wall across from the stairs and the giant of a man walked past him.
‘Could you turn off the lights behind us?’ the fisherman asked, as he moved towards the stairs.
Moralès followed and flicked the light switch as they went up the first flight of stairs. He still felt queasy, but relieved to have talked his way out of the tricky situation. They arrived on the deck above and Moralès turned off the light over the stairs they had just climbed.
‘Does my mother know?’ Cyr asked as he led the way down the corridor between the two flights of stairs.
‘I think she has her suspicions.’
‘Why do you say that?’
They started up the second flight of stairs.
‘When I spoke to her, she asked me why everyone was looking for someone to blame. I came to understand she was talking about you.’
‘What do you mean?’
The men arrived in the wheelhouse. Clément Cyr lowered his arms without turning around, pushed the door open and stepped out onto the deck. Moralès followed him.