‘Hello, Sergeant. Yes, Monsieur Briand checked in on the 28th. He left us yesterday.’
Sime hung up. The 28th was the day before he and Blanc had flown to Quebec City to interview him. Where had he and Ariane Briand been for the previous two days if not there? Had Briand left the islands at all before the 28th? Because if not, then he could just conceivably have been Sime’s attacker. His flights in and out of Havre aux Maisons could be checked with the airline. Sime would do that first thing in the morning before flying out with Kirsty.
The thought that the Briands might have been lying elevated his pulse rate. But that same old doubt still nagged at the back of his mind. Even if he wasn’t in Quebec City as he claimed, why would Briand attack Sime?
III
The rain had eased off a little by the time Sime found himself driving directly south along a narrow strip of land towards Havre Aubert. The sea was breaking all along the Plage de la Martinique on his left. On his right the wind rippled across the surface of the Baie du Havre aux Basques, which was protected from the full force of the storm surge by sand dunes all along its western perimeter. Kite surfers were out in force on this side, taking advantage of the powerful sou’westerly.
He had been preoccupied on the drive south by thoughts of the Briands, but as he approached La Grave, at the southeastern end of Havre Aubert, he forced himself to refocus.
Jack Aitkens’s house was a stone’s throw from the Palais de Justice, where only a few hours earlier Kirsty had made her first court appearance. It was a typical maroon and cream island home with a steeply pitched roof and overhanging eaves. A covered veranda ran around the front and south side to an entry porch at the south-east corner. Unlike most of the other houses dotted around, it looked in need of fresh paint. The garden, such as it was, had been allowed to go to seed. There was an air of neglect about the place.
Sime parked on the road and hurried up the path to the shelter of the veranda. He couldn’t find a doorbell and knocked several times. Nothing stirred inside. There were no lights on, and as he looked around Sime could see no sign of Aitkens’s car. It seemed like he was out of luck and that Aitkens had come off nights and was on the day shift.
‘Are you looking for Jack?’
Sime spun around to see a middle-aged man working on the engine of an old truck in the shelter of a carport attached to the neighbouring house. ‘Yes. I guess he must be at the mine.’
‘No, he’s on night shift just now. He went down to the marina to secure his boat. Can’t take too many precautions with this storm on the way.’
The main street ran along a spit of land that curved around to a tiny harbour sheltered by the crook of the bony finger that was Sandy Hook. A collection of wooden and brick buildings lined each side of the street. Stores, bars, restaurants, a museum, holiday lets. Just behind it, in the shelter of La Petite Baie, lay a tiny marina that played host to a collection of fishing and sail boats. They were tied up along either side of a long pontoon that rose and fell on the troubled water.
Aitkens was securing his boat front and rear to an access pontoon. It was a twenty-five-foot fishing boat with an inboard motor and a small wheelhouse that afforded at least some protection from the elements. It had seen better days.
He was crouched by a capstan and looked up from his ropes as Sime approached. He seemed startled to see him and stood up immediately. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to Kirsty?’ He had to raise his voice above the wind, and the clatter of steel cables on metal masts.
‘No, she’s fine.’
Aitkens frowned. ‘I thought you people had gone home.’
‘We had,’ Sime said. ‘But I’m not done here yet.’
‘They’re sending her to Montreal,’ Aitkens said, as if Sime wouldn’t know.
‘Were you in court?’
‘Of course. It’s just two minutes from my door.’ He paused. ‘There’s not much evidence against her, you know.’
Sime nodded. ‘I know that.’
Aitkens was taken aback. ‘Really?’
‘I need to talk to you, Monsieur Aitkens.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t really have time.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d make some.’ Sime’s tone conveyed the strong impression that it was more than a request. But, all the same, he wondered why Aitkens’s first response had not been to ask what Sime wanted to talk to him about. Almost as if he already knew.
Aitkens said, ‘Well, not out here. Let’s get a coffee.’
Most of the shops and restaurants on the main street were closed for the season, but the Café de la Grave was open, yellow light spilling out into the sulphurous afternoon. There were no customers. Just rows of polished wooden tables and painted chairs, wood-panelled walls peppered with colourful childlike paintings of fish and flowers. A menu chalked up on a blackboard had earlier offered Quiche à la Poulet or Penne sauce bolognese à la merguez for lunch. Sime and Aitkens sat by an old upright piano and ordered coffees. Aitkens was ill-at-ease and fidgeted with his fingers on the table in front of him.
‘So what do you want to talk to me about?’ At last the question.
‘Your family history.’
Aitkens swung his head towards Sime, frowning. He thought about it for a moment. ‘Is this an official line of enquiry?’ His tone was hostile. Sime, after all, was the man who had arrested his cousin for murder.
Sime was caught momentarily off-balance, but couldn’t lie. ‘My interest is more personal than professional.’
Now Aitkens tilted his head and squinted at Sime with both suspicion and confusion. ‘What? About my family history?’
‘Well, it’s Kirsty’s more than yours that interests me. But I guess much of it will be shared. She told me that genealogy was something of an obsession of yours.’
‘Not an obsession,’ Aitkens said defensively. ‘A hobby. What the hell else does a man do with his life when he’s not working? The hours I work, and a geriatric father in the hospital, I’m not exactly an eligible bachelor, am I? Winters here aren’t only hard, they’re long and damn lonely.’
‘So how far back have you been able to trace your lineage?’
Aitkens shrugged. ‘Far enough.’
‘As far back as your great-great-great-grandmother?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one buried in the cemetery on Entry Island. Kirsty McKay.’
Aitkens frowned darkly and examined Sime’s face for a long time, until the silence became almost embarrassing. Finally he said, ‘What about her?’
‘What do you know of her origins?’
He smiled now. ‘Well that wasn’t easy, Monsieur Mackenzie. When people have been shipwrecked and start a new life, the past can be pretty damned difficult to uncover.’
Sime felt his heart rate quicken. ‘But you did?’
He nodded. ‘Her ship went down just off Entry Island in the spring of 1848. Driven on to the rocks in a storm. The boat had come from Scotland and was bound for Quebec City. She was the only survivor, pulled out of the water by a family living on the cliffs at the south end of the island. There was no lighthouse back then. Seems she was in a bit of a state. They took her in and nursed her back to health, and in the end she stayed with them, almost like a kind of adopted daughter. In fact, she never left the island and five years later married their son, William.’
Sime said, ‘Which is how she ended up with the name McKay, the same as her parents. Only they weren’t really her parents.’
‘Parents-in-law. But since she had no parents of her own, she was kind of like a real daughter to them.’