Peter May - Entry Island

‘Why? Were you attracted to him?’

She thought about it. ‘I suppose I was. But not in any conventional way. He was twelve years older than me, which is a lot when you are in your early twenties. He wasn’t what I would have described as good-looking, or handsome. But he had charm, and knew how to make his audience laugh. And I was impressed by his success, and his confidence, and everything he seemed to know about the world. But what I found, I suppose, most compelling about him was that he came from the Magdalen Islands, just like me. It made me see that no matter who you are, or where you come from, you can be anything you want. If you want it enough.’

‘Why would that interest you if your intention was never to leave Entry Island?’

‘I wasn’t set on that course, then, Mr Mackenzie. The instinct was there, perhaps, but my parents were still alive. They were my anchor. Even if I wasn’t there, they would be. So I still felt free at that time to do whatever I wanted. I never dreamt that within twelve months they would both be gone, and that my world would have narrowed to this tiny pinpoint of land in the Gulf of St Lawrence.’

‘Do you feel it like a prison?’

‘Not a prison, exactly. But I do feel tied to it.’

Sime took a moment to re-examine her. Her expression was weary. Tired eyes heavy from lack of sleep. He knew how she felt. Weird, was the word both Aitkens and Crozes had used to describe her, and he wondered what strange sort of compulsion it was that tied her to this place for no other reason than some vague feeling of missing something if she left. ‘So you met him for the first time at the drinks party after his lecture?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘I was introduced to him as a fellow Madelinot, and I felt his intensity from that first moment. In the way he held my hand for far too long. In the way that he locked me in his gaze and held me there, as if there was no one else in the room.’

‘Love at first sight?’

She glanced at him sharply, as if suspecting sarcasm. ‘For him, yes. Or so he always said.’

‘But not for you?’

‘Oh, I was flattered by his attentions, of course. But like I told you, he pursued me relentlessly for the next two years. When I returned to the island after the death of my parents he proposed to me. I told him I wouldn’t make much of a wife since I had no desire to leave the island. This was my home, and this was where I wanted to stay.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And he said in that case he would make it his home, too. That he would build a house here for us. That we would raise a family, establish a dynasty.’

‘But you never had any children.’

‘No.’ Now she wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘Turned out he was sterile. Children were out of the question.’

This was clearly an emotional subject, leaving her momentarily vulnerable. Sime took the opportunity to switch focus and catch her off balance.

‘If it wasn’t Norman Morrison, who else might want to kill you, Mrs Cowell?’

She seemed startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You claim that you were the object of the attack, and not your husband. So someone must have wanted to kill you.’

It was almost as if the thought had never occurred to her before, and she seemed flustered, discomposed by the question. ‘I... I really have no idea.’

‘Oh, come on, Mrs Cowell! This is a small community. Is there no one you might have offended, someone who might have a reason to bear you a grudge?’

‘No!’ Her denial was almost too fierce. ‘There’s no one.’

‘Then why would someone attack you?’

She was at a loss, the colour rising on her cheeks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe... maybe he was a burglar and I just got in the way.’

Sime said, ‘Do you know how many instances of burglary have been reported on Entry Island in the last ten years, Mrs Cowell?’

‘How would I know that?’

‘You wouldn’t. Unless you’d asked. As I did. And do you want to know what the answer was?’

She looked at him with naked hostility in her eyes, her lips firmly locked together.

‘Exactly zero.’ Sime drew a long, slow breath to steady himself. ‘But let’s assume for a moment that your intruder was a burglar, unlikely though that is. Why would he pursue you across the room, knock you to the floor, as you described, and then attempt to stab you? Apart from the fact that a burglar is unlikely to enter a house where lights are still on and the residents have clearly not gone to bed, wouldn’t he be more likely to run if disturbed? And if the real object of his entry into the house was theft, why would he be carrying a knife?’

She glared at him. ‘I have no idea.’ Her voice was tight and small. ‘I told you what happened. I’m not a psychic. I can’t explain it.’

‘It seems there are a lot of things you can’t explain, Mrs Cowell.’

It wasn’t a question, and she clearly felt no obligation to respond, and so they sat looking at each other for what seemed like an interminable length of time.

He felt like the school bully, cruelly and relentlessly harassing the class weakling. She seemed crushed and vulnerable, all alone in the world without anyone to stand up for her with the exception of her truculent cousin. He tried to see her again, as he had that first time when he had been so convinced that he knew her. But now it just felt as if he had known her all his life.

He said, ‘Kirsty’s a Scottish name, isn’t it?’

She appeared startled by the question, and a frown of consternation furrowed her brow. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Does your family have Scottish roots?’

She sighed her impatience. ‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘Your mother’s great-great-grandmother was called McKay.’

Her impatience gave way to astonishment. ‘How do you know that?’

‘There’s a photograph of her in your family album.’

‘You have been busy. I suppose you’ve been through all my private things.’

‘This is a murder investigation, Mrs Cowell. There is no such thing as private.’

Her hands were trembling now, and she wrung them in her lap. ‘I don’t see the point in any of this.’

But Sime had embarked on his course, and there didn’t seem any way back. It had nothing, he knew, to do with the investigation, but he felt impelled to pursue it. ‘Just trying to establish your background.’

‘Most people on the island are of Scots or Irish, or even English descent,’ she said. ‘They came here from Nova Scotia, or Prince Edward Island. Some were shipwrecked en route to Quebec City. Great-great-great-granny McKay probably was Scottish. It’s a Scottish name. But there’s been a lot of intermarrying since then. My mother’s maiden name was Aitkens. Mine was Dickson.’ She sucked in a tremulous breath. ‘Now are you going to tell me what any of this has to do with the murder of my husband?’

‘Sime?’

Sime turned to see Blanc standing in the hallway. He had a curious expression on his face, the faintest hint of incomprehension creasing around his eyes.

‘I think we should wrap this up.’

The shadows of clouds raced across the slopes and hills of Entry Island as the stiffening wind blew them quickly overhead from south-west to north-east. But there was no threat of rain in them.

Thomas Blanc hefted the silver flight cases containing their monitors into the back of the minibus and turned to look at Sime. He kept his voice low. ‘What the hell was that all about in there, Sime?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, you know what I’m talking about?’

‘I don’t.’

Blanc’s eyes narrowed, clearly suspecting Sime of disingenuity. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually fell asleep sitting upright, with your eyes open, mid-interview.’ Sime could hardly deny it, especially since he had no idea how long he’d actually sat like that. ‘When’s the last time you had a proper sleep? Days? Weeks?’