‘Christ in a chalice, your mother was nothing but a crazy bitch! Guylaine chucked you out ’cos your mother was a fucking whore!’
In one sweep, Jérémie took a step towards Vital, lifted him off the ground and threw him into the water. I recoiled from the fisherman’s words, which reverberated through the air like a shock wave. That was all I could bring myself to do – get away from all of this. I retreated one step at a time, tracing an arcing path for myself around the edge of an imaginary circle, at the centre of which Vital was wallowing. Vital, the man I had thought so handsome the morning after I arrived. I ran to my car.
I didn’t see Robichaud the coroner coming out of the Café du Havre, nor was I aware of him asking what had happened. But I did hear Jérémie answer him from a distance.
‘It’s Vital, coroner. He said the tide was too low to go to sea. See, though, Vital… if it’s deep enough for your big mouth, it’s deep enough for my boat!’
I hazarded a glance in the rear-view mirror. Facing out to sea, Tall, Indigenous Jérémie, a true rock of a man, stood firm on the wharf, unaware he was washing an indelible layer of bitterness over my chart of the Gaspé coast.
Nestled into the cliffside, the quiet cormorants were hesitant to spread the wings they had kept folded all night. The wind ruffled their feathers a little as it whistled its way along every inch of the grey rock, swaying them on their perches. It was the kind of morning that gave free reign to the sea.
Moralès was teetering on the edge, hounded by delirious images scrolling through his mind.
Marie Garant, lying thin, blue and lifeless on the bottom of the fishing boat, opened her eyes, her pupils as hypnotic as empty sea shells. As her features began to blur like footprints in the sand washed away by the west waves, her face morphed into Catherine’s, whose soft lips whispered, ‘The sea would never have done that to her!’ Sarah’s voice echoed, ‘What are you doing to me?’ and the image of his wife slowly vanished, her heart deflating like a balloon. He tried to hold onto her, reaching his arms out to save her, but Sarah’s body was nothing but water now, her hands dissolving into the sea, her fingers melting like salt into the waves.
That was when he woke up. Five in the morning and his sheets were sticky with sweat. The wind was howling like crazy, whipping at the solid rock cliff.
He got out of bed and had a coffee. The more he thought about it, the more he doubted the accident theory. He felt sheepish admitting it though, since it was embarrassing how he had let the locals pull the wool over his eyes. That morning, he wondered what it was he hadn’t grasped. Or rather, what had he managed to grasp in this whole affair?
Why did Marie Garant drop anchor on the Banc-des-Fous? Why did Vital harbour such a strong dislike for her? Because she made such a big song and dance about things? What could get under a woman’s skin so much it drove her to kick the kelp? Why was the seamstress so keen to obliterate Catherine’s prints and spit on Marie Garant’s grave? Yves Carle and Cyrille Bernard had both told him Marie Garant’s death was no accident, so why hadn’t he asked them any questions? And there was something else… something else he had missed, he was sure of it. What? Dig deeper, Moralès. What is the wind hiding from you?
Like a freediver resurfacing from a long time in the depths, squinting at the sun with deadened eyes, Joaquin Moralès suddenly caught his breath, overcome by the sense he had let the whole investigation slip through his fingers, glossed over interviews and botched the whole thing like a tired old detective. Was that what he had become? An old fool of a detective who tried to seduce despondent orphans?
He stepped out onto the patio and looked out at the sea in contemplation. Ashamed, he felt the urge to run away from himself. He started down the staircase on autopilot. Faster and faster. Put his mug down. Faster still. Broke into a run. He jogged along the shore to the west, parallel to the breakers. He knew he’d have to dredge it all up again. Rethink the whole investigation from the beginning, re-examine everything with fresh eyes. The land and the sea, the men and their secrets, their defeats. And confront them all.
As he approached Ruisseau-Leblanc, it struck Moralès that the sailboat was back in the water. Of course, it was there yesterday, he recalled. Who had done it? Catherine? He slowed his pace as he drew near the wharf. He could see a fisherman busying himself in the wheelhouse of one of the boats. Probably just back from fishing, Moralès thought as he walked over.
‘Excuse me…’
The fisherman turned his back on him.
‘You’re Cyrille Bernard, aren’t you?’
The thin old man looked sunken and drained.
‘Heee… yes, I am.’
‘The other day, you told me I was wrong about the Marie Garant case.’
‘I’ve not changed my mind.’
‘Would you have any new information to share with us?’
‘What about?’
With his back still turned, it looked like he was hiding something he didn’t want the detective to see.
‘Marie Garant’s death.’
‘Heee… I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re sure you don’t have anything to say to me?’
The old fisherman finally turned around.
‘Heee… now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. Heee… I’ve just buried my best friend and I’m not far from my own death bed, heee… so I’ve no time for your beating around the bush. If you’ve got a question, then either ask me straight up or get out of my face! Heee…’
Moralès took a step backward, shocked by the man’s abruptness. ‘My condolences, monsieur Bernard, for the death of your friend,’ he conceded.
The fisherman nodded, turned away to check something and eventually came out of the wheelhouse. He looked exhausted as he climbed onto the wharf.
‘Hard time fishing?’ Moralès asked.
‘We’re all done now until crab season. Heee…’
Cyrille carried on walking towards his truck, as if trying to shake a stubborn Moralès off his heels.
‘Monsieur Bernard, the other day you told me Marie Garant’s death was no accident. Why are you so sure? If you know something, surely you can help me shed light on the circumstances of her—’
‘Heee… I’ve no time for that.’
‘Marie Garant was your sister-in-law and you have no time to wonder how she died?’
‘No.’
‘Am I to understand you didn’t care for her much?’
Cyrille whirled around. In spite of the difference in age and strength between them, Moralès recoiled from the tall fisherman.
‘Heee… That’s right, I’ve no time for her death! Heee… You know why? Because I loved Marie Garant alive! Marie Garant with her laugh and her temper! Marie Garant who sailed the seas solo, heee… in spite of everything people said about her. Marie Garant with her heart-shaped mouth, her eyes trained on the horizon and her tangled hair… Heee… Do you know what your problem is, detective? Heee… Do you know why you’re never going to find whoever did it?’
‘Why?’
‘Heee… Because you don’t want to know who she was, how she lived her life or what she loved… heee… none of it! You’re so caught up with her dead body, you’ve lost sight of the fact she was a living, breathing woman! You were looking for a conclusion for your files, heee… and you jumped headfirst into one. It wasn’t the right one, but who’s going to get their nose out of joint because of it? Who cares?’
The old fisherman carried on walking to his truck.
‘I do!’ Moralès retorted.
Cyrille didn’t even bother turning around.