And it wouldn’t really be a holiday, anyway, because he’d be busy. He and his wife were moving out to the Gaspé coast, the Baie-des-Chaleurs. As a sculptor, she needed space, she said. The kids had flown the nest, he had secured a transfer and now they were off. Or at least, he was.
Sarah had asked him to go five days ahead of her, to scout things out, clean up their new place and be there when the furniture arrived. He couldn’t really see the need, but she had insisted. She told him it would do him good, at this midpoint in his life, to be alone for a few days and take stock of things.
Women say that when they’re going through The Change. They say they want to go on a retreat, or to some all-inclusive resort in the sun with the girls, to Find Themselves. All that stuff just got on his nerves. He didn’t hunt, he didn’t fish, and don’t get him started about getting away from it all on a bloody meditation retreat! And as for her idea of him taking a trip back to Mexico, the place had changed so much since he left! Every time he’d gone back in the last few years, things had gone pear-shaped. He’d been robbed by bandits in Mexico City, lost his way in the touristy streets of Cancun and had kids in his old neighbourhood answer him in English. No, Joaquin Moralès wasn’t looking to put down any more roots than he already had, but neither did he want to be apart from his wife.
He wouldn’t deny, though, that his fifties had given him a tap on the shoulder. And while he wouldn’t come to any conclusions about whether or not the male menopause existed anywhere other than in self-help books, he did find himself feeling ever so slightly down once in a while. But to go from that to Finding Himself? Just because he might be feeling a bit down, it didn’t mean he’d lost his way!
Oh, well. Sarah had insisted, so he said yes. He often said yes to her. It was easier that way.
He left about three in the morning. He couldn’t sleep, and since he was going to hit the road anyway, he might as well enjoy the sunrise over the river as he drove. Five days alone at the seaside. He was going to miss his wife, for sure. He would do some cleaning while he was waiting for her. He might even make the most of the time to do his own thing. Go for a run before dawn, watch the fishermen, leave his dirty socks around the living room, watch boring films full of ads on TV, eat barbecue-flavoured potato chips, sit on a patio sipping third-rate tequila and look at the pretty tourists in bikinis. Why not? Press pause on life and watch the world go by. Oh, to put his feet up and be left in peace for once. Thank you and goodnight.
The very thought of it brought a smile to his face. Car and trailer loaded to the brim, he found himself whistling as he neared the end of the long drive, like a man who could see himself there already and who realised he was looking forward to getting there after all.
That’s the way it was.
It must have been around noon when Joaquin Moralès turned towards the lighthouse by the Île-aux-Pirates. In the driveway of his new home a woman stood waiting for him. Early fifties with a sarcastic air about her, and dark braids with the occasional streak of white neatly tied up and falling behind her broad shoulders, Marlène Forest patiently watched him pull in. It was only the second time Moralès had seen his new boss.
He got out of the car. ‘Is this my welcoming committee?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Hi there, Sergeant Moralès. Enjoy the drive?’
‘Yes.’
As she shook his hand, Moralès felt his time to himself crumbling to sand.
‘You know, there are some people who would do anything to keep all their cases to themselves. Not me. I’ve got plenty of work to share around. And at the moment, I have to say, we’re a bit overloaded. On top of the usual deaths and the summer surge, we’re working on a big drugs case with a special task force. The task force was supposed to take some of the weight off our shoulders, but you know how it is, they’re always under our feet. So we’re happy to have you here.’
This didn’t bode well.
‘Who told you I was arriving today?’
‘Your wife. We called her around ten this morning. Did you turn your phone off?’
‘I’m on holiday at the moment—’
‘The Gaspé’s no place to take a holiday, Sergeant Moralès. Especially not in the summer. You were the one who put in for this transfer and I’m happy to be the first to congratulate you on it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘It can wait.’
‘In any case, you don’t have a say in the matter. We have to go see the body right away if we want to send it off for the autopsy this afternoon.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The autopsy lab’s in Montreal. It’s a long way away, but we always get the results quickly. You’ll see.’
‘Listen, madame Forest—’
She breezed over to the car and opened the door. ‘Lieutenant. I think it’s best we take my car, since yours is bursting at the seams. I’ll make sure you don’t get home too late.’
‘I‘ve been driving for hours, and I have to get my house set up…’
She turned to face him. ‘For your wife? That’s very romantic, sergeant, but we have a dead body on our hands and your wallpaper can wait. Don’t worry, you’ll get your holiday. But some other time. Right now, I need you on a routine investigation. Probably won’t be a major case, but I’ve nobody else left.’
‘I’d imagine—’
‘Imagine as little as possible, sergeant. Be content with the facts.’
She got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. After a moment, Moralès joined her. Marlène Forest drove away. He had one last look back at the house – how could he not? – before he turned his eyes to the road.
‘Have you seen the body?’
‘No. It’s been a crazy morning, and when I found out you were arriving I thought I might as well wait for you.’
She drove without any hurry.
‘Wait for me?’
‘Caplan’s a small village, sergeant. I know the guy who found the body, and he’s not one to joke around. Last night there was a break-in up on Fourth Lane and it was his sledgehammer they used to smash the door in. So he’s already had a grilling from a young rookie who tends to come on a bit strong. He must be a nervous wreck. Apparently, he rubbed her up the wrong way too, though, if you know what I mean.’ Marlène Forest smirked at her catty remark. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think there was much point subjecting him to three interviews in the same day, you see?’
‘Is he the one responsible for the break-in?’
‘No, not by the looks of it. He’s a decent guy who lends out his tools and now it’s bitten him in the behind. Vital does have a temper, but we should cut him some slack. He snagged a body in his nets at dawn, then, when he moored up at the wharf, he found out his tools had been used in a break-in. All that will get a man all worked up, don’t you think? Just goes to show, even though we’re a long way from the big city, there’s still trouble. We just brew our own.’
‘Where are we going, then?’
‘The SQ station is down in Bonaventure, but we’re headed to the Langevin brothers’ funeral home in Caplan. Vital found the body early in the morning and the fishermen took it there for safe-keeping until it could be sent off to the autopsy lab.’
‘Why didn’t they leave it at the crime scene?’
‘The crime scene?’ She flashed him another mocking smile. ‘Look to your left.’
They were driving westbound on Highway 132.