Peter May - Entry Island

He took the elevator back to the apartment fired with renewed determination, and in the bedroom threw open the doors to their built-in wardrobe. There were the clothes she’d left, hanging on the rail, shoes on the rack beneath them. T-shirts and underwear folded neatly on shelves. Things he remembered her wearing. He reached in to lift out one of her T-shirts and hold it to his face. Though it was clean, somehow it still smelled of her. That distinctive perfume she wore. What was it? Jardins de Bagatelle . He had no idea where he had pulled that name from, but the fragrance would be for ever associated with her. And he felt that sense of loss again, like a physical pain in his chest.

Almost in a fury he hurried into the kitchen to retrieve a large black bin bag and went back to the bedroom. He swept all the clothes off the rail and stuffed them into the bag. Followed by her tees and panties and bras, a nightdress, all of her shoes. He had to get a second bag, and a third. And then he dragged them to the elevator and down to the basement. He hesitated only briefly before emptying the bags down the recyclable chute. Au revoir, Marie-Ange.

On the return trip in the elevator he saw himself in the mirror and couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes. He could have been a father by now. He swore at his reflection.

Back in the apartment he was determined not to be diverted by negative emotions. He wiped his face dry and stripped the bed, shoving his dirty linen and used towels into a large laundry bag which he took down to his car. He drove across the bridge to an all-night laundry in Rue Ontario Est and left his washing there to be collected the next day. When he got home he found clean sheets in the laundry closet and made his bed up fresh.

For the next half-hour he took a vacuum cleaner over every carpet in the apartment, then went through a whole packet of static-free dust cloths, wiping over cabinets, shelves and tables, amazed by the dirt that came off them. He sprayed air freshener in all the rooms, then nearly choked on its cloying perfume and opened the windows.

By 1 a.m. the apartment was cleaner and fresher than at any time since Marie-Ange’s departure, and there was not a trace of her left in it. Sime stood in the living room breathing hard from his exertions, sweat beading across his forehead. If he had hoped to feel better, he wasn’t sure that he did. It was manic behaviour, he knew. Though at least it was something positive. But when he sat down, somewhere deep inside he knew that all he had been doing was avoiding the moment when he would have to lay his head on the pillow and try to sleep.

He went through to the bedroom and stripped off, careful to drop his clothes in the laundry basket. His new regime. Then he padded through to the bathroom and showered. When he came out he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grateful that it was opaque with steam and that he could not see himself. He took the prescribed dose of SSRIs from their bottle and washed them over with water from his tooth mug, then brushed his teeth.

As he did the steam slowly cleared from the mirror and he saw his ghost staring back at him, hollow-eyed. He had changed everything, and nothing.

Vigorously he rubbed his hair dry with a towel and slipped into a clean pair of boxers. Back in the living room he flicked through the TV channels for half an hour until he turned it off to sit in a silence that screamed. He was so physically fatigued that he could barely stand up. But at the same time his mind was cruising along some astral highway at the speed of light and he felt not the first inclination to sleep.

In spite of warnings to the contrary, he went to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. He poured a large measure, and pulled a face when he took a mouthful. Scotch and toothpaste were a lousy combination. He forced himself to drink it. Then another. And another.

Finally, his head spinning, he went into the bedroom and slipped between the clean sheets. They felt cold, dissipating whatever warmth and sleepiness the whisky had induced. He closed his eyes and let the darkness envelop him. And he lay. And lay. Praying for release.

Nothing happened. He tried hard to keep his eyes shut. But after a time they simply opened and he found himself staring once more at the shadows on the ceiling, tipping his head to one side from time to time to take in the red glow of the digits on the bedside clock, and count away the hours. Sometime, maybe two hours later, the yell of sheer frustration that tore itself from his lips echoed around the apartment.

At 7.30 a.m. there was a line of daylight around the edges of the bedroom blinds, and still he had not slept. Reluctantly, wearily, he drew the covers aside and slipped out of bed to get dressed. It was time to go and face the music at Rue Parthenais.

It felt odd riding up in the elevator to the fourth floor of the Sûreté as he had done countless times over months and years. He dreaded the doors opening, the long walk along the corridor past all those familiar black-and-white photographs of old crimes and dead detectives. And when, less than a minute later, his footsteps echoed along its length, he felt completely disconnected.

Faces he knew passed him on the walk along to the detectives’ room. Faces that smiled and said bonjour . Awkward smiles, curious eyes.

At the blue plaque inscribed 4.03 Division des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, he turned into the suite of offices that housed the homicide squad. The door to the incident room lay ajar, and he was aware of heads turning in his direction as he walked past. But he didn’t look in.

The offices of the top brass were ranged around an area filled with printers and faxes and filing cabinets, and walkie-talkies on charge. Like fish tanks the offices were open to scrutiny through glass walls.

Captain Michel McIvir emerged from one of them, eyes down, focused on a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He looked up as he became aware of Sime standing there. The most fleeting of shadows crossed his face before he managed a smile and waved a hand towards his office door. ‘Be with you in a minute, Sime.’

Sime sat in the captain’s office. There was a photograph of Paris by night on the wall, and a huge Quebecois flag hung limp from a standing pole. Outside he could see Mount Royal in the distance. Early-morning frost sparkled on the flat roofs of the three-storey brick apartment buildings opposite.

The captain walked in and sat on the business side of his desk. He opened a folder in front of him, and flicked through the several sheets of printed paper it contained. Pure theatre, of course. Whatever their content, he had already read it. He laid his hands flat on the desk and looked up, scrutinising Sime in silence for some moments.

‘Catherine Li faxed me her report last night following your consultation yesterday.’ His eyes flickered down to the desk and up again, indicating that this was it. He pressed his lips together briefly then drew a breath. ‘I’ve also spent some time reviewing the tapes of your interrogation of the suspect on Entry Island.’ Again the characteristic pressing together of the lips. ‘Erratic to say the least, Sime.’

Unexpectedly he rose from behind the desk and went to close the door. He stood there holding the handle, looking at Sime, and lowered his voice.

‘I am also aware of a certain incident that occurred on the islands during the investigation.’ He hesitated. ‘An incident which is, and shall remain, off the record.’ He let go of the door handle and returned to his desk, but remained standing. ‘I’m not without sympathy, Sime.’

Sime remained expressionless. He wasn’t looking for sympathy.

‘What is clear, however, both from what the doctor says, and from what I have seen with my own eyes, is that you are unwell.’ He perched one buttock on the edge of his desk and leaned forward like some patronising physician. ‘That’s why I am putting you on indefinite medical leave.’