Entry Island (13 page)

Blanc said, ‘Do we have a new line of questioning?’

Crozes nodded, ‘What we talked about yesterday. If she’s speaking the truth, and she was the object of the attack rather than Cowell, then maybe she has some idea who might bear her a grudge.’

Sime said, ‘Aitkens will probably want to come with us.’

‘Then let him. Might be interesting to see if he provokes an emotional reaction.’

His cellphone warbled in his pocket. He fished it out and turned away to take the call. Blanc swivelled his back to the wind and cupped his hands around a cigarette to light it. Then he glanced at Sime. ‘So what do you reckon?’

‘About who killed Cowell?’

‘Yep.’

Sime shrugged. ‘Still wide open, I’d say. What about you?’

Blanc drew on his cigarette and let the wind draw the smoke from his mouth. ‘Well, the statistics tell us that more than half of all murders are committed by someone known to the victim. So if I was a betting man my money would be on her.’

‘Shit!’ Crozes’s voice cut across the wind and turned their heads towards him as he thrust his phone back in his pocket.

‘What’s up, Lieutenant?’ Blanc said.

‘Could be this is going to get more complicated than we thought.’ He pushed a pensive jaw out towards the silhouette of the island across the bay. ‘Seems some guy’s gone missing on Entry Island overnight.’

The crossing from Cap aux Meules took well over an hour in the boat that Crozes had requisitioned. It stank of fish and afforded little protection from the elements.

The sea was still tormented, and the wind strong enough to make their passage across the bay unpleasantly slow. Sime and Blanc huddled in a dark, cramped space below deck, salt water sloshing around their feet, the perfume of putrefying fish filling their nostrils and making their stomachs heave with every lurch of the boat. Crozes seemed unaffected, sitting lost in thought alone on a rusted cross-beam at the stern. Jack Aitkens spent the crossing in the wheelhouse chatting to the boat’s owner as if he were out for a sail on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Arseneau met them at the harbour, and while Aitkens was sent to sit in the minibus the sergeant enquêteur briefed them on the missing man. They stood in a huddle at the end of the quay, braced against the wind, and Blanc made several attempts to light his cigarette before giving up.

‘His name’s Norman Morrison,’ Arseneau said. ‘Aged thirty-five. And …’ he hesitated, unsure of what was politically correct, ‘… well, a bit simple, if you know what I mean. One sausage short of a fry-up as my old man would have said.’

‘What’s the story?’ Sime asked.

‘He and his mother live alone up on the hill there. He went out after their evening meal last night to lash down some stuff in the yard. Or so he said. When he hadn’t come back in after half an hour, his mother went out with a flashlight in the dark to look for him. But he wasn’t there. And no one’s set eyes on him since.’

Crozes shrugged. ‘Anything could have happened to him in a storm like that. But what’s the connection? Why should we be interested?’

Sime could tell from Arseneau’s demeanour that he was about to drop a live grenade into the briefing. ‘Apparently he was obsessed by Kirsty Cowell, Lieutenant. Fixated on her. And if we’re to believe his mother, Cowell did more than just warn him off.’

Crozes did not take the news well. Sime watched as his jaw clenched and his mouth set in a grim line. But he wasn’t going to be deflected from his predetermined course. ‘Okay, we’ll take Aitkens up to the Cowell house first. I want to see how she reacts to him. Then you can take us on up to the Morrison place.’

*

She was waiting on the porch of the summerhouse watching as they drove up the hill. She wore a white blouse beneath a grey woollen shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, and pleated black jeans tucked into calf-length leather boots. Her hair was blowing out in a stream behind her, like a tattered black flag, furling and unfurling in the wind. It was the first time that Sime had set eyes on her since his dream, and against all of his instincts he felt himself unaccountably drawn to her.

Jack Aitkens was the first out of the vehicle as they pulled up, and he ran across the lawn to take his cousin in his arms. Watching from a distance Sime felt the oddest twinge of jealousy. He saw tears glistening on Kirsty Cowell’s face and after a brief conversation with her Aitkens came back to the minibus.

He lowered his voice, and it carried more than the hint of a threat in it. ‘She tells me you’ve already grilled her twice.’

‘Interviewed her,’ Sime corrected him. ‘And I’d like to talk to her again.’

‘Is she a suspect or not? Because if she is, she’s entitled to an attorney.’

Crozes said, ‘As of this moment she is a material witness, that’s all.’

Then Aitkens swung hostile eyes in Sime’s direction. ‘In that case your interview can wait. I’d like some time with my cousin, if that’s all right with you.’

He didn’t wait for their permission, but turned and went
back to the house, taking his cousin’s hand and leading her down the steps from the porch in a wash of watery sunlight that suddenly played itself out across the cliffs,

The four policemen watched them start up off the slope together and Crozes said, ‘I don’t like that man.’

But Sime knew that Crozes wouldn’t like anyone who stood in the way of a speedy resolution to their investigation.

The Morrison family home stood at the end of a gravel track that turned left off Main Street before the church and followed the contours of the island through the valley to the high ground below Big Hill. It was years since it had been painted, and its clapboard siding was a pale bleached grey. The shingles on its Dutch gambrel roof were only slightly darker. A number of outbuildings stood in various states of disrepair, and a rusted old tractor was canted at an odd angle in the backyard, one of its wheels missing.

A cultivated area of land behind the house ran down the slope of the hill, and a handful of sheep stood grazing among the long grass. From its elevated position it commanded a spectacular view south and west towards Havre Aubert and Cap aux Meules, and Sime thought it must have taken some battering from the storm during the night.

He let his eyes wander across the ravaged slopes below him. Some of the hay bales they had seen on their first visit
were gone, shredded by the storm. But there didn’t appear to be much damage to property. Flimsy though these brightly painted houses looked, they had clearly stood the test of time in a climate that was seldom forgiving. They ranged in silhouette along the rise, showing the same defiance as owners who stood firm in defence of their language and culture, determined to stay put at all costs. But with a dwindling school population and lack of jobs, it was clear the island was dying. It made it all the more inexplicable that a young woman like Kirsty Cowell should choose to stay when most of her generation had already gone.

Sergeant Aucoin and half a dozen patrolmen from Cap aux Meules, along with a group of islanders, stood in a knot on a gravel turning area just beyond the house. They shuffled impatiently in the wind, anxious to get their search under way. Morrison had been missing for more than sixteen hours now. But Crozes didn’t want them trampling over what might be evidence until he’d had a chance to assess the situation.

‘Sime!’ On hearing his name Sime turned to see Crozes approaching with Blanc in tow. ‘We’re getting conflicting stories about this guy.’ He nodded towards a blue-and-cream house about fifty metres away along a pebble track. ‘The neighbours have been telling the local cops one thing, the mother something quite different. You’d better talk to them.’

*

‘Only reason we stayed was to raise the kids here.’ Jackie Patton ran dishwater-red hands over her apron and caught a stray strand of hair with her little finger to loop it back behind her ear. She left a powdering of flour on her cheek and on the soft brown hair at her temple. She had a square face, fair skin splattered with freckles, and there was a weary acceptance in her eyes that life had not gone as planned. She was not ugly, but neither was she attractive. ‘Soon as it was time for the big school, we was gonna be up and away. Figured we owed it to the kids to give them the kind of upbringing we had on the island. Nothing better.’ She sprinkled more flour on the dough on her worktop and flattened it out again with her rolling pin. ‘Now they’re gone, and we’re still here.’

Crozes, Blanc and Sime were squeezed into her tiny kitchen, standing around a small table at its centre. They very nearly filled it. Mrs Patton’s focus was on the short pastry she was preparing for her meat pie.

‘We lost count of the number of jobs Jim applied for. Trouble is, twenty years of fishing for lobster only qualifies you to fish for lobster. So he’s still out every May first on the boat and I’m stuck here counting the days till the kids get back for the holidays.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘They should have locked him up years ago.’

‘Who?’ Sime said.

‘Norman Morrison. He’s not right in the head. The kids used to go over there when they was younger. He was like
one of them, you know, a big kid himself. Then he starts making this city on the ceiling.’

Sime frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, you’ll see it for yourselves when you go over to the house. I figure it’s probably still there. See, his bedroom’s right up in the roof. Low ceiling and all. And with him being tall like that he could stretch up and reach it.’

She stopped to gaze out the window. The Morrison house stood at a respectful distance in stark profile against the water of the bay and the islands of the archipelago beyond.

‘It was quite something. Took talent to do that. And some imagination. I mean, damn near the whole island has traipsed in there to see it at one time or another. Amazing what a simple mind can make of not very much.’

She returned to her pastry.

‘Anyways, in the end we figured he’d only done it so he’d have a reason for taking the kids up to his bedroom.’

‘Do you mean he molested the children?’ Crozes said.

‘No sir,’ she said. ‘I can’t say he did. But my Angela came back one time and said he touched her funny. And for the life of us we couldn’t get her to tell us how.’

Sime said, ‘Was she upset?’

Mrs Patton stopped rolling out her dough and raised her head thoughtfully to gaze into the middle distance. ‘No, she wasn’t. That’s the funny thing, I guess. She really liked Norman. Cried for close on a week when we banned the kids from ever going back to the Morrison house.’

‘Why did you do that?’

She wheeled around defensively. ‘’Cos he touched her funny. That’s what she said, and I don’t know what she meant by it, but I wasn’t taking no chances. He’s not right in the head, and he was far too old to be playing with children.’

There was an awkward silence, then, and she turned back to her pastry.

‘Anyways, someone like that should be in a home or a hospital. Not in the community.’

‘You think he was dangerous?’ Blanc asked.

She shrugged. ‘Who knows. He’s got a temper on him, I can tell you that. Like a kid throwing a tantrum sometimes. When his mother would call him in at mealtimes and he wasn’t ready to go. Or if something didn’t just go his way.’

‘What about Kirsty Cowell?’ Sime said.

She flicked a wary glance in his direction. ‘What about her?’

‘You told Sergeant Aucoin that Norman was obsessed with her.’

‘Well, everyone knew that. When we had summer parties, or dances in the winter, he used to follow her around like a puppy dog. It might have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.’

‘Used to?’

‘Yes …’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It all seemed to stop about six months ago.’

‘How did Mrs Cowell react to him?’

‘Oh, she humoured him, I guess. There’s not a bad bone in that woman’s body. She just married the wrong man.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? He was never right for her. Or she for him. A marriage made in hell, if you ask me. Only one way it was ever going to end.’

‘In murder?’

Her eyes lifted sharply towards Sime. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘How did Cowell react to Norman Morrison’s interest in his wife?’

‘Oh, he didn’t like it, I can tell you that much. But, I mean, he wasn’t a threat to their marriage for God’s sake. Norman has the mental age of a twelve-year-old.’

Sime had decided by now that he really didn’t like Jackie Patton. ‘But you thought he was a threat to your children.’

She banged down her rolling pin on the worktop and turned to face him. ‘Do you have children, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘No, ma’am, I don’t.’

‘Then don’t judge me. The first responsibility of a parent is the protection of their children. You don’t take chances.’

But Sime was unmoved. It seemed clear to him that Mrs Patton had already made that judgement on herself. And guilt read accusation even into innocent questions.

The Morrisons’ living room had big windows at the front and an archway leading to a dining room at the back. Although most of the furniture in it was dark and old-fashioned,
light from the windows seemed to reflect off every polished surface. The patterned wallpaper was almost totally obscured by framed photographs and paintings. Family portraits and groups, black-and-white mostly, with some coloured landscapes. More light reflecting off glass. The air was heavily perfumed, with a background hint of disinfectant. Sime could tell at a glance that Mrs Morrison was someone who had a place for everything, and liked everything in its place.

She was a woman in her sixties, big-boned and carefully dressed in a crisp white blouse beneath a knitted cardigan and a blue skirt that fell just below her knees. Her hair was still dark, with just a few strands of silver in it, drawn back severely from her face and arranged in a bun.

There was little warmth in her blue eyes, and she seemed remarkably composed given the circumstances.

‘Would you like tea, gentlemen?’ she asked.

‘No thanks,’ Sime said.