Entry Island (35 page)

It got easier as we scampered down the other side, helter-skelter between the tree trunks, almost out of control, until finally we saw moonlight glinting on water through the foliage. And it occurred to me for the first time that if the boat wasn’t there, we would be cornered, and either killed or captured.

But there it was, a dark silhouette bobbing up and down between the rocks, waiting for us as planned. We slithered over the rocks and through the water, to be pulled on board by two men whose urgency was clear in the pitch of their voices. ‘Quick, quick!’ they shouted. Because already we could hear the soldiers crashing down the slope behind us.

In that moment God stepped in again and the moonlight vanished, darkness settling over us like black dust to obscure us from view. We pushed off from the shore, and the boatmen plied their oars to propel us out into the swell and flow of the river. Shots rang out from the shoreline. We could see the rifles flashing in the dark, but their shots went harmlessly wide or fell short. And soon we were well beyond range. Free.

But not safe. Not yet. The river seemed to move slowly, and yet the current was powerful, and the oarsmen had to fight hard against the drag of it. We had little control, it seemed, over where the river would take us, and we crouched there breathing hard and filled with fear, completely at the mercy of our rescuers and this vast flow of deep, dark water.

It seemed like for ever before we finally saw the black line of the shore, and then suddenly we were there, navigating our way through the rocks to pitch up on a shingle beach. The land rose away steeply from here, trees growing almost down to the water’s edge.

The first I knew there was any trouble was the sound of a shot as I stepped out of the boat. I turned around to see one
of the Irishmen collapse into the stern of it. One of the oarsmen held a pistol on the three of us remaining while his companion went through the pockets of the dead man then pitched him out into the river.

‘Okay, hand over your money.’ The gunman’s voice was shaking.

‘You’ve got all the fockin’ money you’ll get from us,’ Michaél said.

‘Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can hand over the money now, or I can take it off your dead bodies.’

‘We’ll be dead as soon as we hand it over,’ the other Irishman said.

The man with the gun grinned in the dark. ‘That’s a chance you’ll have to take.’

The swiftness with which the Irishman lunged at him took him by surprise. But as the two men went down, the gun went off, and the Irishman went limp on top of him. The other oarsman spun around, drawing a second pistol, and I barely saw the flash of Michaél’s blade before it slid up between the man’s ribs and into his heart.

Michaél stooped immediately to pick up his pistol, and as the first oarsman dragged himself free of the Irishman he had killed, Michaél shot him point-blank in the chest.

It had all happened so quickly, I had barely moved from the spot where I stepped ashore. And I stood now, gaping in horror and disbelief.

‘Fockers!’ Michaél said. Then, ‘Come on, Scotsman, help me go through their pockets. Get all the money you can and let’s get out of here.’

We tipped all the bodies into the water when we were finished, and Michaél crossed himself as he said farewell to his friends. Then we pushed the boat out into the river, and started scrambling up the embankment as the rain began to fall.

We have six gold sovereigns and ten Canadian dollars between us, and are lucky still to be in possession of our lives. I have no idea what the future holds, but it seems that mine is now inextricably linked with Michaél’s. I glance across the fire to see the flicker of its flames on his bloodless, bearded face. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be a dead man now.

The atmosphere in the incident room at the Sûreté on Cap aux Meules was tense. The team sat around an oval table studiously avoiding eye contact with either Sime or Marie-Ange. A map of the Madeleine Isles was pasted across one wall, the yellow-and-green flag of the Sûreté draped in the opposite corner. A blackboard that nearly filled the end wall by the door was covered in chalk scribbles. Names, telephone numbers, dates, places.

Lapointe was back from Montreal, having attended the autopsy. He told them the pathologist had been unable to establish much more than cause of death. Any one of the stab wounds would have been fatal, even without the other two. The knife used had a narrow six-inch blade with serrations along the blunt edge. Possibly a fish-scaling knife, he had thought. Apart from some bruising, the only other injuries the pathologist could find were scratch marks on Cowell’s face. His assumption was that they had been made by fingernails during the course of a struggle.

Crozes took a duster and roughly cleared space for himself on the blackboard. At the top of it he chalked up the name of James Cowell, then drew a line from it straight down to the foot of the board. Branching off alternately left and right, he wrote down the names of the suspects.

He began at the bottom with Briand. ‘As we’ve established, Briand has strong motive. His wife had been having an affair with Cowell, and the two men were fierce business competitors. Briand actually had more to gain than any of the others from Cowell’s death. Even without taking account of the jealousy factor.’ He paused. ‘But he has a very solid alibi. He was at home with his wife.’ He glanced at Sime and Blanc. ‘While you guys were flying back from Quebec City Arseneau and Leblanc reinterviewed her. She confirmed his story.’

Sime found it hard to meet his eye. He said, ‘Well, of course she would. She has motive, too, Lieutenant. If we’re to believe the two of them, then she was keen to ditch Cowell, but didn’t know how to tell him. Her husband said she was actually afraid of him. It’s perfectly possible that they both conspired to murder him.’

Crozes nodded his agreement. But beneath his veneer of professionalism his discomfort was clear. ‘That’s true. But we have not one single scrap of evidence to put either of them at the scene.’

‘Then maybe we should be looking for some.’

Now Crozes concealed his irritation with difficulty. ‘People have been looking for extraterrestrial life for years, Sime. It
doesn’t mean it exists. Without evidence to the contrary, and with each providing an alibi for the other, I think we have to rule them out.’

He took his chalk and drew a firm line through Briand’s name. The room was silent. Then he tapped the tip of the chalk on Morrison’s name.

‘I don’t think there’s one of us who believes that Norman Morrison had anything to do with the murder. He was a sad case. Retarded. The mental age of a twelve-year-old. And while he might have had an obsession with Mrs Cowell, I think his story that James Cowell had him beaten up to warn him off was just that. A story. That he took a beating from someone seems clear, but it’s unlikely that we are ever going to find out who. And while his mother can’t definitively swear that he was home in bed on the night of the murder, a search of his house has failed to turn up a murder weapon, or any clothes that he might have been wearing during the attack. And certainly no ski mask. In fact, his mother would have known if he even possessed such a thing. And according to her he didn’t.’

‘And his death?’ Lapointe asked.

‘A sad accident, Jacques. He was concerned for Mrs Cowell when he heard about the murder. We think he went out in the storm to go and see that she was all right. It was dark. The island was being battered by a force ten or eleven. He must have lost his way and gone over the edge.’

Crozes drew another line through Morrison’s name before turning back to the room.

‘Then there’s Mr Clarke.’ He scratched his chin. ‘There was clearly antipathy on his part towards Cowell. He blamed him for the death of his father and the loss of their family boat. But his wife swears that he was home in bed, and we have absolutely no evidence to the contrary.’ He scored out his name. Then looked up at the one remaining suspect. ‘Which leaves us with Mrs Cowell. Who in my view is, and always has been, the most likely killer.’

Sime listened with growing disquiet as Crozes outlined the case against her. It was strong and indisputable, and he knew that in any normal circumstance he could not have found fault with it. But this was different, for one simple reason. He didn’t want it to be true.

Crozes said, ‘She is the only witness to the murder. She was there when it happened. She doesn’t deny that. She was covered in his blood. And, yes, she told us a story to explain that. But there is not one shred of evidence at the scene to support it. There is nothing to suggest that there was in fact a third party.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘She lied to us more than once. About being happy that her husband had left her. About not leaving the island. About not knowing he was coming back that night. She’s admitted to all that. Why would an innocent person lie?’

He looked around all the faces focused on him and knew that his summation was compelling.

‘She threatened him. Not directly. But she doesn’t dispute that she told Ariane Briand that if she couldn’t have him
she’d see that no one else could. In his last interview with her, Sime very clearly, very concisely, outlined the most likely scenario. We’ve all seen the tapes by now. He accused her of luring her husband back to the island by threatening to set their house on fire, and killing him in a fit of jealous rage. He suggested that, immediately filled with remorse, she tried to revive him, and when she failed made up a story about an intruder.’ He looked at Sime. ‘Powerful stuff, Sime.’ There was an edge in his voice.

Sime felt his face colour. He didn’t want the credit for any of this. It was almost as if Crozes knew it and was deliberately salting a wound that Sime couldn’t even acknowledge. And any praise coming from Crozes had a double edge to it in the light of the previous night’s events. Sime stayed focused. ‘There are two problems,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Crozes tried to look interested. ‘And what are they?’

‘The guy who attacked me two nights ago. You say there’s no evidence that Kirsty Cowell’s claimed intruder exists. But this guy fitted the description, right down to the ski mask.’

‘And that could have been anyone trying to deflect suspicion away from themselves.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like Owen Clarke.’

‘Who has an alibi. And no motive that I can think of for attacking me.’

‘His son, then. He might have felt you humiliated him in front of his friends and wanted to teach you a lesson.’

‘He also has an alibi.’

Crozes was scathing. ‘Yes, if we’re to believe his pals. And think about it, Sime. What possible motive could the killer have for attacking you? I think this is a red herring. And I don’t want us wasting time on it. What’s the second problem?’

‘Simple,’ Sime said. ‘We don’t actually have any physical evidence against Mrs Cowell.’

‘Oh, but we do.’ Crozes’s smile was laden with satisfaction. ‘Or, at least, we might have. The autopsy report shows that Cowell had scratches on his face, almost certainly made by fingernails.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Cowell claims that her attacker was wearing gloves. So how could he have left scratch marks? If forensics can match the residue taken from beneath Mrs Cowell’s nails with skin from Cowell’s face we’ve got her.’

Sime was halfway across the car park to pick up the Chevy and take it back to the Auberge when he realised that he’d left his cellphone lying on the desk in the incident room. He hadn’t charged it for several days and needed to plug it in when he got back to his room. He hurried past the cormorant sculpture on the front grass and up to the main door, just as Marie-Ange was coming out. She had been searching for something in her bag as she came through the door and almost bumped into him. A tiny gasp of surprise escaped her lips as they found themselves just inches apart. Her surprise
quickly gave way to anger, and he almost withered under its simmering virulence. She glanced quickly behind her. There was no one in the hall. And under her breath she said, ‘I should just have shot you. Then we’d both have been put out of your misery.’

‘Well, since you’re the source of it, maybe you should have turned the gun on yourself.’

Her lips formed themselves into a sneer. ‘You’re so fucking smart, Simon.’

‘At least I’m honest.’ Strangely, he felt quite emotionally detached. ‘And maybe you should have shot me. You’ve done just about everything else to me.’

She pushed past him to stride off down the path. But he caught her arm. Her head whipped around. ‘Let go of me!’

He said, ‘I’m so glad we never had that kid.’

An odd, sick smile flitted across her face. ‘Yeah, be grateful. It wasn’t even yours.’

She pulled her arm free and hurried away around the side of the building.

He stood staring after her, his face smarting as if she had slapped him. Until now he had thought it impossible for her to hurt him any more than she already had.

The news of Marie-Ange’s pregnancy had changed the way he felt about everything. If he had spent his life searching for something, a reason for being, a point to his existence, then suddenly it seemed that he had found it.

But from the start Marie-Ange had been ambivalent. Sime had been unable to understand why she didn’t share his excitement. They had been going through a difficult time, and it seemed to him that a child could provide the glue that would keep them together. But looking back on it later, he realised that she had probably only seen it as an impediment to their breaking up. A responsibility to child and family that she didn’t want.

They’d had a debate about the scan. Sime had wanted to know the sex of their child. She had not. And, as usual, she prevailed.

Four months into the pregnancy, and having regular appointments with the gynaecologist, she still appeared to have little or no maternal instinct. And yet Sime’s sense of fatherhood had been powerful. He had found himself seeing
children on their way home from school and imagining how it would feel to be a father. Bringing back memories of his own first day at school, insisting that he could find his way home himself, and then getting lost. He had even caught himself looking at prams and baby seats for the car.