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?’
‘A pendant. An oval of red carnelian set in gold, and engraved with an arm holding a sword.’ He raised the back of his right hand so that Crozes could see his ring. ‘Exactly the same as this. So she said.’
Crozes examined it for a moment before Sime had to clutch the rail again to steady himself. ‘But she can’t find it?’ the lieutenant said.
‘No.’
Crozes was silent for several long moments. Then, ‘Seven billion people in the world, Sime. Everyone’s bound to look like someone. And don’t let her fuck with your mind. If she killed her husband it’s going to be hard enough to prove it as it is. She’s nobody’s fool, and who knows what kind of mind games she’s capable of. Just make sure you don’t lose your focus.’
II
The Briand house was set off the road in amongst woods a little over a kilometre south of the police station on Cap aux Meules. On the short drive down the Chemin de Gros-Cap coast road, with Thomas Blanc beside him in the passenger seat, Sime felt the pull of the steering wheel as the wind battered in off the Baie de Plaisance and buffeted the high side of the minibus. Entry Island was lost in the storm somewhere out there across the bay, hunkered down against the full force of it. He caught Blanc looking at him. ‘Are you okay?’ the older man asked.
‘I’m not going to fall asleep at the wheel if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Blanc grinned. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He hesitated. ‘Just … you know … you and Marie-Ange.’
Sime’s smile faded. ‘I’m fine.’ Then, quickly changing the subject, ‘What’s Crozes like to work for?’
Blanc gazed thoughtfully through the rain-spattered windscreen. ‘He’s a good cop, Sime. But it’s all about him. He’s going places. You know,’ He lifted his eyes towards the heavens, ‘fast track to the top. Every case is important to him. Every conviction another step up the ladder. Do a good job and he’ll back you all the way. Screw it up and he’ll drop you right in it. Just don’t ever make the mistake of thinking he’s your friend. He’s not.’
Sime nodded. He knew the type. And he knew, too, that Crozes would want this particular case wrapped up as quickly as possible. It would be the view from Montreal that a murder on an island with a population of a hundred, more or less, should be a straightforward matter. Besides which, keeping a team of eight detectives for any length of time on the Madeleine islands would be a costly business. And these days the bottom line was all important. ‘I guess Ariane Briand will be a French-speaker,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should lead the interrogation.’
‘If you like.’ Blanc shrugged indifferently, but Sime knew it was what he wanted.
Sime spun the wheel and they turned into the Allée Robert-Vigneau, which developed into little more than a pot-holed track caught in their headlights as it cut into the pine plantation that stretched across this south-east corner of the island. A few hundred metres along it they turned right at a mail box into a short pebbled drive that led up to a house surrounded by tall trees that swayed dangerously in the wind. Sime pulled into a parking place out front and they stepped down from the vehicle.
The Briand house was impressive, not typical of the classical island house. It was wooden, of course, but the roof was steeply pitched in the Scandinavian style, and much of the front of the house was glass. A security light came on and Sime saw their reflections in the glass as they walked up to the front door. An odd couple. One tall, lean, a little stooped, the other small and rotund, with a mop of curly dark hair fringing his bald patch. Like cartoon characters out of a graphic novel, he thought.
Blanc rang the bell twice, and when there was no reply knocked firmly on the glass. Sime stepped back and looked up at the house. There were no lights on anywhere. ‘No one home,’ he said. Through the trees, the lights of a neighbouring house twinkled in the gathering darkness. ‘Let’s see if the neighbours know where she is.’
Bracing themselves against the rain, the two men ran through the trees, following a path that took them into the neighbour’s garden. Another security light flooded the patio, and a black SUV stood in the drive, its engine ticking, still hot. Sime rang the bell and a middle-aged woman wearing a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms opened the door, peering cautiously out at the two sodden strangers caught in the rain and the glare of her security lamp. Blanc fished out his ID and pushed it towards her. ‘Sûreté, madame. We’re looking for Madame Briand next door. Any idea where we can find her?’
‘Oh, she’s not at home,’ the woman said.
‘I think we’d already established that.’ Sime’s voice was laden with sarcasm, but it was lost on her. Dark eyes filled with intrigue opened wide. This could only be to do with the murder on Entry Island.
‘Ariane flew out this morning to the mainland,’ she said, as if imparting some important confidence. Then her face clouded. ‘Not sure where she went, though. Or when she’ll be back.’
Sime and Blanc exchanged looks.
III
The team was eating in the La Patio family restaurant next to the Auberge Madeli when Sergeant Enquêteur Jacques Arseneau returned with the news.
Two groups, four in one and three in the other, were squeezed into adjoining stalls. Sime and Marie-Ange sat in different groups, ostentatiously avoiding each other. The thirteen thousand inhabitants of the Madeleine Isles had been warned all evening in TV and radio broadcasts to stay indoors and the restaurant was empty, apart from one chef in the kitchen and a single server.
Arseneau came in dripping and battered, divesting himself of his jacket and baseball cap and cursing the weather. He squeezed into the end of one of the stalls.
Crozes looked at him. ‘So what did Mayor Briand have to say for himself?’
‘Not a thing, Lieutenant. He’s not in the islands. Flew out this morning, apparently, for a bunch of political meetings in Quebec City. His secretary doesn’t even know where he’s staying. Seems it was a last-minute decision to go, and he made his own reservations.’
Silence settled like dust on the group, and all faces turned towards Crozes. He seemed impassive, but Sime noticed that the skin had darkened around his eyes. Perhaps none of this was going to be as quickly and easily resolved as he might have hoped. He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. ‘Seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘The … what was the phrase you used, Sime …? Cuckolded husband? And the other woman. Both leaving the islands the morning after the murder.’ He turned to Arseneau. ‘Get on to Quebec City. Tonight. I want Briand found.’
The meal passed in relative silence, Crozes’s mood transmitting itself and affecting the others.
After they had eaten they adjourned to the bar. A bowling alley that linked the hotel to the restaurant was closed because of the weather. From the bar they could see through windows to the empty aisles simmering silently under half-lighting. There was a spooky quality to the abandoned alleys, an almost ghostly quiet in the absence of players. By contrast, the noise outside was frightening. The wind was hurling bins and traffic signs across the car park with lethal force, and traffic lights swung violently on their overhead stanchions.