III
It felt odd riding up in the elevator to the fourth floor of the Sûreté as he had done countless times over months and years. He dreaded the doors opening, the long walk along the corridor past all those familiar black-and-white photographs of old crimes and dead detectives. And when, less than a minute later, his footsteps echoed along its length, he felt completely disconnected.
Faces he knew passed him on the walk along to the detectives’ room. Faces that smiled and said bonjour. Awkward smiles, curious eyes.
At the blue plaque inscribed 4.03 Division des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, he turned into the suite of offices that housed the homicide squad. The door to the incident room lay ajar, and he was aware of heads turning in his direction as he walked past. But he didn’t look in.
The offices of the top brass were ranged around an area filled with printers and faxes and filing cabinets, and walkie-talkies on charge. Like fish tanks the offices were open to scrutiny through glass walls.
Captain Michel McIvir emerged from one of them, eyes down, focused on a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He looked up as he became aware of Sime standing there. The most fleeting of shadows crossed his face before he managed a smile and waved a hand towards his office door. ‘Be with you in a minute, Sime.’
Sime sat in the captain’s office. There was a photograph of Paris by night on the wall, and a huge Quebecois flag hung limp from a standing pole. Outside he could see Mount Royal in the distance. Early-morning frost sparkled on the flat roofs of the three-storey brick apartment buildings opposite.
The captain walked in and sat on the business side of his desk. He opened a folder in front of him, and flicked through the several sheets of printed paper it contained. Pure theatre, of course. Whatever their content, he had already read it. He laid his hands flat on the desk and looked up, scrutinising Sime in silence for some moments.
‘Catherine Li faxed me her report last night following your consultation yesterday.’ His eyes flickered down to the desk and up again, indicating that this was it. He pressed his lips together briefly then drew a breath. ‘I’ve also spent some time reviewing the tapes of your interrogation of the suspect on Entry Island.’ Again the characteristic pressing together of the lips. ‘Erratic to say the least, Sime.’
Unexpectedly he rose from behind the desk and went to close the door. He stood there holding the handle, looking at Sime, and lowered his voice.
‘I am also aware of a certain incident that occurred on the islands during the investigation.’ He hesitated. ‘An incident which is, and shall remain, off the record.’ He let go of the door handle and returned to his desk, but remained standing. ‘I’m not without sympathy, Sime.’
Sime remained expressionless. He wasn’t looking for sympathy.
‘What is clear, however, both from what the doctor says, and from what I have seen with my own eyes, is that you are unwell.’ He perched one buttock on the edge of his desk and leaned forward like some patronising physician. ‘That’s why I am putting you on indefinite medical leave.’
Even though he had been expecting it, Sime tensed. When he spoke his voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to someone else. ‘In other words, I get punished and Crozes gets off scot-free.’
McIvir recoiled, almost as if Sime had slapped him. ‘There is no question of punishment involved, Mackenzie. I’m doing you a bloody favour here. It’s for your own good.’
Which is what people always said when administering bad medicine, Sime thought.
The captain lowered his voice again, confidentially. ‘Events involving Lieutenant Crozes have not gone unnoticed. Nor will they be without consequence.’ He stood up. ‘But that’s none of your concern. For now, I want you to go away and get well.’
In the street outside, Sime drew a long, deep breath and despite the news just broken to him by his boss felt free for the first time in years. It was time to go home. Back to the womb.
And, finally, to the diaries.
IV
The drive from Montreal to Sherbrooke took him just under two hours, heading almost directly east into the heart of what had originally been known as the Eastern Townships and was now referred to as the Cantons de l’est. From Sherbrooke he drove down to Lennoxville and took Highway 108 east.
He felt a tightening of his heart and an odd sense of nostalgia as he drove into the forest. For this was where he had been raised, where generations earlier his forebears had carved out a new life for themselves. Literally. Felling trees and clearing land, encouraging virgin soil to grow enough to feed them. So many of the immigrants here had been Scots, and he wondered how many had been victims of the Clearances. He passed a sign for Le Chemin des Ecossais — the Scots Road. And as he drove deeper into the woods, he was struck by the Scottish-sounding names of so many of the towns. East Angus, Bishopton, Scotstown, Hampden, Stornoway, Tolsta.
A warm sun slanted out of the autumn sky, transforming every tree into one of nature’s stained-glass windows. The golds and yellows, oranges and reds of the fall leaves glowed vibrant and luminous, backlit by the angled rays of the sun, turning the forest into a cathedral of colour. Sime had forgotten just how stunning these autumn colours could be, his senses dulled by years of grey city living.
New highways cut through the forest now in long, straight lines, riding the contours of the land, like the Roman roads in Europe that so represented the single-minded determination of a race. Woodland in full colour stretched out before him as far as the eye could see, like a gently undulating ocean.
And he recalled with great clarity the moment his ancestor had first set eyes on it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It has taken us five days of walking to arrive at our destination, and this is the first chance I have had to update my log. We have been sleeping in the woods, or under hedges, begging for food and water from the houses we passed on the way. Everyone we’ve met has been incredibly generous. Maybe because they, too, at one time this way passed.
What amazes me most are the trees. Where I come from, you could walk all day and never see a single tree. Here it is impossible to take two steps without bumping into one. And the colours, as the days shorten and the temperatures drop, are like nothing I have ever seen before. It’s as if the land is on fire.
As we came further south we started to chance upon villages and townships establishing themselves along the river valleys. Log cabins, some of them little more than huts, built around crudely constructed churches. There were general stores, and sawmills springing up on streams and burns, and little schools where immigrant children were learning to speak a new tongue. Trees were being felled and land cleared, and I was amazed at just how many people there were in what at first had seemed to be such a vast and empty country.
We arrived at the village of Gould in the township of Lingwick, towards noon yesterday morning. Sunday. It was here that we were told we should come if we wanted land. The village is built around a crossroads, with the road dipping away steeply at the north side, towards the valley of the River Salmon. There is a general store, and a church, and a school, and when we arrived there was not a soul to be seen.
That’s when I heard the Gaelic psalm-singing coming from the church. It’s not like normal singing. More a kind of chanting in praise of the Lord, with the congregation led in their unaccompanied song by one or more precentors. It was so familiar to me, and so redolent of home, that all the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. There is something about that sound, a sort of primal connection with the land and the Lord, that has always affected me.