Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

‘Her name is Angel Roberts.’

He hung up, got into his car and set off towards the east along Highway 132. To his right, the liar of a moon paved a path of broken silver on the autumn sea.

Killers make up all kinds of things. Detective Moralès had figured that out long ago. Jane Doe stabbed her husband to death because she was sure he had a string of mistresses, a gang of teenagers massacred an elderly couple they imagined must be sleeping on a mattress stuffed with banknotes, a cult leader brainwashed his disciples into following him into a deadly inferno, convinced of the purifying powers of the flames. Criminals latched on to the things they imagined so firmly, they refused to believe reality could prove them wrong. In their twisted minds, these scenarios played out with cinematographic precision. Naturally, the killers cast themselves in the leading role. Meanwhile, the victims played bit parts. They were dehumanised, reduced to nameless extras on a movie set, roped in just to fill the shot. What’s more, the killers convince themselves they’re acting in the name of justice. Jane Doe had to preserve her husband’s dignity, the teenagers really needed the money, and the cult leader was trying to make the world better for all of us. They’re so sure their fiction is fact, they’d rather kill than admit when real life contradicts them.

Over the years, Moralès had come to see that criminals weren’t the only ones who made things up. According to police psychologists, it wasn’t unusual for people to craft their own inner narratives to try and make sense of their daily struggle. Many even started to think and act like the character they had chosen to embody. But far from turning everyday people into potential killers, this kind of inward storytelling could often be their saving grace, making them want to keep on living. However, Moralès had observed that some people tended to exaggerate the importance of their character in whatever story was unfolding, which made them particularly insufferable. The experience that awaited him at the Gaspé police station would unfortunately add weight to his theory.

After a two-and-a-half-hour drive, sustained only by a lukewarm muffin and a bitter convenience-store coffee, Moralès pulled up in front of the nondescript building nestled at the foot of a cliff across from the mouth of Gaspé Bay. The aroma of kelp at low tide drifted into his nostrils as he got out of the car, but he barely noticed. Casting an eye at his silent phone, he strode inside.

Behind the bulletproof window, a woman as cheery as an undertaker’s assistant sat in the receptionist’s chair.

‘Good morning. I have an appointment with Constable Lefebvre,’ Moralès announced.

This failed to elicit even a raised eyebrow. Moralès took in his surroundings. On one wall of the tiny entrance hall was a bulletin board full of helpline numbers for drug addiction and violence, mental-health leaflets and business cards for lawyers promising to talk people out of trouble. On the other was an armoured and clearly locked door. Obviously, visitors had to talk their way into this behemoth of a building. Take two , thought Moralès, taking the badge from his belt, holding it to the window and declaring his identity.

‘Detective Sergeant Joaquin Moralès from the Bonaventure detachment.’

Still the receptionist kept tapping away at her keyboard.

‘I’m here to lend Constable Lefebvre a hand. Would you let him know I’m here, please?’

She didn’t bother to look up at either the badge or the man standing in front of her. With a huff, she punched a number and curtly announced the visitor’s presence through clenched teeth, eyes still glued to her screen. ‘Detective Moral-less from Bonaventure is asking for you.’ Her voice grated the microphone of her headset like a nail file. After a moment’s silence, she spoke again. ‘Opening the door is not in my job description.’ She ended the call and resumed her frantic tapping at the keyboard.

Moralès was lost for words. He stood there watching her for a moment, wondering if she thought she was working at a federal penitentiary. The armoured door opened to reveal a man with sandy hair who looked to be a little younger than him, sporting a retro eighties shirt, cowboy boots and a pencil moustache over a broad smile.

The man nodded good morning to Moralès before turning to the receptionist. ‘I haven’t seen you on form like this for a while, Thérèse. It’s going to be a beautiful day, sweetheart.’

She gave no indication she’d heard a word he said. The man ushered Moralès into a holding room where people sat waiting on plastic chairs in front of a small office with glass walls.

‘Phew, she’s really something, eh?’ He extended a hand to Moralès. ‘Érik Lefebvre. Sexy as hell, isn’t she?’

Moralès frowned. ‘Who?’

Lefebvre nodded towards the front desk. ‘Thérèse Roch! Quite the catch for men like you and me, right?’

‘I’m married.’

Lefebvre smoothed his thin moustache with glee. ‘Right, well, she certainly floats my boat!’

The two men went through another doorway into an incident room with six desks, two of which were vacant, complete with the usual computers and file folders. On one side of the room, beside the toilets, stood a closed door with a sign that read ‘Archives’. On the other, a row of open doors offered glimpses of police officers at work. Lefebvre led Moralès to the back of the room, down a corridor that split the building in two. ‘Let me show you to our office.’

‘ Our office?’

‘Every cop who gets seconded here hopes they’ll get to work out of a conference room with a sea view, but we don’t have anything like that. They’re renovating the station at the moment, so we didn’t really know where to put you. And because it’s moose season, all the builders have gone off to their hunting camps for a week or two. Same goes for our captain. He’s a good guy, but don’t try and get hold of him when the hunting starts. There’s no phone service in his neck of the woods. You’ve probably noticed there are lots of dead zones out here in the Gaspé. That kind of thing tends to bother the city folk, but I think it’s good to get away from it all sometimes. Don’t you think?’

Moralès wasn’t sure where he stood in that regard.

‘Don’t you worry, though. I’ll take care of all the liaising with the higher-ups. We made that a rule to keep detectives on loan out here from getting swamped. This is our office.’

Moralès followed Lefebvre through a wide-open door – and froze. The room was piled high with precarious inukshuks of random objects, papers, photos, document holders and rocks. But these wobbling stacks looked to have been constructed with far less intention than the traditional stone cairns. Half-open drawers were bursting with files that hadn’t been put back properly. A shredder was overflowing with strips of multicoloured paper. Memos were stapled or taped to the walls here and there, and a row of hooks was heaving under the weight of jackets and windbreakers for every season.

‘Sorry it’s a bit untidy. Between investigations I’ve been going over unsolved cases and trying to cross-reference them. I should have been an archivist, you know. I don’t have the talent of a field officer, but I do all right with paperwork. The laptop is yours to borrow. Just don’t forget to give it back when you go home. I cleared some space for you last night when your boss called to say you were coming.’

Moralès arched an eyebrow. ‘Last night?’

Obviously, Marlène Forest had been sure she’d rope him into this investigation. For as long as he’d been on the Gaspé Peninsula, he’d had the sense he was being taken for a ride. Was he really that much of a pushover? It made him feel ridiculous, somehow.