Entry Island

There were fewer people on the quayside for the departure of the ferry that afternoon than had met it in the morning. But it was probable that the weather had more to do with it than any lack of curiosity on the part of the Entry islanders. The Ivan-Quinn was rising and falling dangerously, even in the sheltered waters of the harbour, and Lapointe had difficulty reversing their minibus up the ramp to the car deck.

James Cowell was zipped into a white plastic body bag and lay on the floor between the seats. Nobody had spoken a word on the drive across the island to the harbour with his body lying among them like a ghost. And now everyone was keen to get into the bowels of the ferry and out of the rain. Except for Sime. His jacket already soaked through, he climbed slippery rusted steps to the upper deck and made his way along a narrow walkway to the stern of the boat. From there he could see over the interlocking concrete fingers that made up the breakwater, back across the bay towards Cap aux Meules. It was already almost lost in rain and low cloud. Just a sliver of blue and gold lay along the horizon behind it. The sea in between looked angry. Rising and falling in foaming slabs of grey water like molten lead.

A klaxon sounded as the ramp was raised, and the ferry slipped its mooring to round the breakwater and head out into the advance legions of the coming storm. Waves broke over the bow as soon as she escaped the comparative shelter of the island.

Sime held on to the white-painted rail and watched as Entry Island slowly receded behind them. Incongruously, the sun had slipped beneath the line of cloud in the west, sending out the last of its light to illuminate the contours of the island against the blue-black sky behind it. Before suddenly it was gone, and the island was swallowed by the rain and mist.

Sime let go of the rail with his right hand and lifted it to examine his ring. Its history went back several generations, he knew, but he had no idea of its original owner. He became aware of Lieutenant Crozes approaching, and grabbed hold of the rail again. Crozes stopped next to him, his waterproof jacket zipped up to the neck, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and he was managing somehow, with feet planted wide, to move his body to the rhythm of the boat and stay balanced. An experienced sailor, Sime thought.

‘So what do you reckon?’ he shouted above the wind and the sea.

‘About the wife?’

Crozes nodded.

‘Hard to say, Lieutenant. She has motive, certainly. And she’s the only witness. Her scratches and bruising are compatible with the story she tells. But they could just as easily have been suffered during a struggle with her husband. Though he was a fit man by the look of him, and she’s slight built. An unequal struggle, you would have thought. Makes you wonder how she could have got the better of him.’

Crozes nodded again and seemed to thrust his hands even more deeply into his pockets.

‘But if we’re just looking at motive,’ Sime added, ‘then there’s also the cuckolded husband. Mayor Briand at Cap aux Meules. We’re going to have to talk to him.’

‘Yes, we are. I’ve already briefed Sergeant Arseneau to go find him as soon as we get back. We can interview him tonight or first thing tomorrow at the local Sûreté. But the minute the ferry has docked I want you and Blanc to go and talk to Madame Briand. The local boys have got an address for us.’

Sime glanced at him and saw that his face was set. Whether against the weather, or some other obstacle to their investigation it was impossible to tell. But his mood was clearly black.

Crozes said, ‘Trouble is, as Blanc pointed out, if we buy the wife’s story that she was the object of the attack, and not Cowell, why would either Briand or Clarke attack her?’

Sime nodded. ‘What does Marie-Ange say?’

‘That there’s no evidence of a third party at the crime scene. She’s collected blood samples from the broken glass in the conservatory, hair and fibres from the body and the surrounding floor. They’ll go back to Montreal with Lapointe and the body for analysis. But not tonight. And maybe not in the morning either. Everything’s being locked down tight for this storm. The airport’s been closed. It’s unlikely that anyone or anything’s going to get on or off the Madeleines in the next twenty-four hours. Including Cowell and our samples.’

They stood for a moment in silence watching how the boat carved a green channel that fanned out in their wake, rising and falling among the waves. Then Sime felt Crozes turn his face towards him. ‘Blanc said she was troubled by a piece of jewellery that’s gone missing.’

Sime nodded.

‘What’s all that about?’

Sime turned his head to look at him. ‘It’s the weirdest thing, Lieutenant. The moment I set eyes on her I could have sworn I knew her from somewhere.’

Crozes frowned. ‘And do you?’

Sime shrugged helplessly. ‘I can’t imagine how.’

‘And the jewellery?’