Entry Island

The harbour was crowded for the arrival of the morning ferry. Pickup trucks with colourful Entry Island licence plates stood idling along the quayside. Men of all shapes and sizes, old and young, in baseball caps and trainers, baggy jeans and T-shirts, hung around in knots smoking and talking. The womenfolk stood apart in groups of their own, conducting quite different conversations. A forest of aerials and masts and radar pods broke the skyline behind them, fishing boats berthed along the pier rising and falling on the gentle grey swell.

Sime stood at the end of the quay beyond the yellow ticket hut, the breeze in his face, watching as the now familiar shape of the blue-and-white Ivan-Quinn ferry nosed into the harbour. He was aware of the eyes that were on him, of the lowered voices exchanging the latest gossip that was doubtless spreading like wildfire across the island in the wake of the previous night’s attack. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Crozes.

The cut on the side of his head was taped up, the contusion around it angry and inflamed. The nurse had strapped his chest tightly and the support had helped relieve the pain. She thought that he was probably just bruised, but that he should get an X-ray anyway.

He had lain then through all the hours of darkness, feeling the pain ebb away as the paracetamol she had given him took effect. Morning had brought stiffness, and an ache to muscles and joints. After an uncomfortable telephone conversation with Crozes he had taken the minibus to the harbour early and walked along the coast road and back to try to loosen up.

With the ramp down, passengers and vehicles debouched now on to the quayside, locals stepping forward to pick up boxes of groceries and other goods ordered from across the water and beyond. Crozes detached himself from the rest of his team and approached Sime, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He wore dark glasses below the peak of his baseball cap and the only real clue to his mood was in his demeanour. Sime saw Marie-Ange and Blanc glance towards him as they climbed into the minibus to await the lieutenant. The Cap aux Meules cops had brought their own vehicles and set off to resume their search for the missing Norman Morrison.

‘What the fuck were you playing at, Mackenzie?’ Crozes didn’t even look at him. He stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out across the bay.

‘I just went out for some air, Lieutenant. I was only gone a few minutes.’

‘A few minutes in which he could have killed her.’

‘Then why didn’t he?’ Sime said.

Crozes turned his head to look at him for the first time. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he had the chance, but he didn’t. He came after me.’

Crozes stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You got a look at him?’

Sime blew exasperation through pursed lips. ‘Not really. He was wearing dark clothes, and a ski mask. Just like she described.’

Crozes turned away. ‘There won’t be a single person on this island who doesn’t know Mrs Cowell claimed to be attacked by a guy wearing a ski mask. Not very hard to replicate.’ He swung his head back towards Sime. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to attack you, Sime, but it’s just one more complication we really don’t need.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any thoughts?’

Sime shrugged. ‘Not really. There’s Norman Morrison, I suppose. If he was the one who attacked her.’

‘But as you say, why would he attack you?’ Crozes took off his baseball cap and scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘What about the fisherman you and Blanc interviewed?’

‘Owen Clarke?’

Crozes nodded. ‘You give him any reason to be pissed off at you?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Crozes dragged his cap firmly back on his head, pulled a gob of phlegm into his mouth and spat into the water. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Are you okay?’

Sime found it hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘I’m fine, Lieutenant. Thanks for asking.’

II

Clarke was wearing an oil-stained blue boiler suit open halfway down his chest to reveal a tangle of wiry hair like silvered copper fusewire. The legs of his trousers gathered around a pair of dirty white trainers that were no longer able to contain his big feet and had burst open along either side. He was out with a strimmer, cutting down the long grass around the house. His face was red and beaded with sweat beneath the peak of his baseball cap. His habitual brown-stained roll-up issued smoke from the corner of his mouth. He saw them coming, but made no attempt to stop the motor until Crozes shouted at him and ran a finger across his throat.

He flicked a switch to cut the fuel supply and turned towards them with a bad grace as the motor spun to a halt. ‘What do you people want now?’