Entry Island

They sat in the minibus on the crest of the hill, looking down on the Cowell house and the lighthouse beyond. L’île du Havre Aubert, the nearest of the islands in the archipelago, was almost obscured by the flurries of rain that blew in across the bay. Blanc sat in the front passenger seat, the window down, his cigarette smoke whisked away by the wind. Lapointe was hunched over the steering wheel munching on a sandwich that left crumbs clinging to his moustache. Crozes, Marie-Ange and Sime sat in the back. Two of the team were still out, tramping door to door and no doubt getting soaked. Marie-Ange’s crime scene assistant was taking photographs before they moved the body.

‘As soon as the Cowell woman is washed and changed I want you to ask her why she didn’t tell us she’d just split with her husband.’ Crozes was chewing absently on a fingernail.

Sime washed down a mouthful of baguette with coffee from a plastic cup and nodded. For some reason it was almost a source of comfort for him to know that Kirsty Cowell’s had not been a happy marriage either. It gave them something in common. It also gave her a motive for murder.

‘You should maybe have a word with the nurse first.’ All heads turned towards Marie-Ange. She shrugged. ‘She’s not a local, but she’s familiar enough with the island and everyone on it to know where most of the bodies are buried.’ She smiled wryly. ‘So to speak.’

‘Are you thinking of any bodies in particular?’ Crozes said.

She trapped him in the gaze of her green eyes and he looked momentarily discomfited. ‘We got to talking after she examined Mrs Cowell. Seems there’s a fisherman lives somewhere up near the school had a real grudge against Cowell. Claims he stole his father’s boat.’

Crozes made a thoughtful moue with his lips and turned to Sime. ‘You and Thomas better talk to him, then, Sime. If you think it’s worth it we can bring him in for formal interview.’

Thomas Blanc flicked his cigarette out into the early afternoon and saw it snatched away by the elements. He scratched his tonsure. ‘Suppose Mrs Cowell was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘Why would this guy attack her if it was Cowell he had the grudge against?’

The minibus rocked as a sudden gust of wind lifted up over the cliffs and hit the side of it with the force of a physical blow. A moment of sunlight washed across the island, as if in the stroke of an artist’s brush. And then it was gone.

‘Well maybe he had something against the wife, too,’ Crozes said. ‘That’s what you guys need to find out.’

Chapter six

I

The island health centre was located in a white-trimmed yellow hut that stood on the right-hand side of Big Hill Road fifty metres up from the island grocery store. To call it a road was a misnomer. It was an unmetalled track full of potholes. The sign outside the centre read Centre de santé et de services sociaux des Îles, even although no one on the island spoke French. Further evidence of the schizophrenic nature of the province to which the island belonged was to be found in street names preceded by the French Chemin, and followed by the English Road.

The nurse was in her late thirties, an embodiment of that schizophrenia. She was a native French-speaker from Cap aux Meules, but spent every other week living and speaking English on Entry Island. Sime noticed that there was no ring on her wedding finger. She perched on the edge of her desk and looked worried. ‘You won’t tell anyone I told you this, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ Blanc said. He was more comfortable now that they were speaking French again. ‘Anything you tell us is in complete confidence.’

She wore jeans and a woollen jumper and folded her arms defensively across her chest. Dark hair showing the first signs of grey was drawn back severely from a high forehead and a face devoid of make-up. ‘His name’s Owen Clarke. A bit of a brawler. I mean, nice guy and all, but turns kind of sour with a drink in him. I’ve treated injuries inflicted by those big split knuckles of his often enough. Nothing serious. But these are hard men here. Some of them spend six months at a stretch fishing away from home. You can’t blame them for letting off a bit of steam now and then.’

‘What sort of age is he?’ Sime asked.

‘I guess he’s in his forties now. Got a teenage boy called Chuck. Not a bad kid, but looks to be following in his father’s footsteps. In temperament, I mean. Not on to the boats. Like most kids on the island these days, all he wants is to get off it.’

She glanced from the window, almost longingly Sime thought. On a clear day she could probably see home on Cap aux Meules from here.

‘Strangely enough it’s the mother who rules the roost in the Clarke household. Owen’s a big brute of a man and Chuck’s not far behind him, but Mary-Anne’s the pack leader.’