Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

Cyr lowered his eyes, as if doing so could hold back the wave building in his throat.

‘Were you worried to see her boat was gone?’

Cyr drew a deep breath before he answered. ‘Angel loves the sea. Not just working out there, but being out there. She likes to take her boat out to get some peace and quiet, see the whales, gaze at the horizon, that sort of thing. It’s not a big boat, so it’s good on fuel and she can tie it up by herself. My wife is a real seafarer, detective. When she takes her boat out, it’s not a cause for concern.’

‘But still, you were worried about her.’

‘Yes. Because I tried calling her phone and marine radio, and she didn’t answer.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Between ten in the morning and noon.’

‘So, around half past midnight was the last time you spoke to her?’

Clément Cyr’s eyes wandered across the kitchen table, noticing the absence of coffee cups, milk, sugar and spoons. Were she here, she’d have been shooting daggers at him, because he hadn’t told the whole truth. He was too ashamed to speak up. That was the story of his life. He had always wanted to live up to his father and his wife, but now he had lost everything. Everything but the guilt and the shame. Now that was all he had left.

‘That’s right. I checked her car, down by the wharf, and found her handbag there with her phone inside. Then I called Jean-Paul Babin. He’s Angel’s deckhand. He phoned his brother Ti-Guy, and Angel’s brother Jimmy. They put their heads together, and Jean-Paul called me back not long after. He said the Roberts guys were taking the Ange-Irène out to look for her. That boat’s a big trawler, so I figured they must be going offshore. I asked Laurent Lepage if he’d take me out to comb the coastline. He hasn’t taken his lobster boat out of the water for the winter yet. So we went out and looked around my wife’s fishing grounds. Around three that afternoon, Lepage said I should report Angel missing. That was when I called the police. After that, I came ashore. I didn’t dare go out to sea again.’ His last words were barely audible, as if the water had risen around them.

‘Why not?’

‘I was scared.’

Lefebvre didn’t catch on.

‘Scared of what?’

‘That we wouldn’t find her.’

Lefebvre’s phone started to vibrate. Moralès and Cyr turned to him with question marks in their eyes. Lefebvre checked the screen and shook his head. No news. He left the room to take the call.

Moralès kept the tone gentle. ‘Is your wife happy? Has she been feeling all right?’

Cyr bowed his head to the table, as if trying not to see her spirit appearing all over the room. ‘You’re asking if she might have taken her own life. I don’t know. Maybe. Often when people kill themselves, their family and friends act all shocked, as if no one had ever dreamed it could happen. I don’t think Angel’s unhappy, but now you bring it up, I don’t really know.’

Moralès thought it better not to mention the possibility that she might have wanted to leave her husband. Perhaps for another man. He decided to try a different tack. ‘Did you find her purse too?’

‘It’s in her handbag.’

Clément Cyr stood, went into the hallway and returned with a fairly large shoulder bag, which he placed on the kitchen table. He unzipped the bag, pulled out a red leather purse and held it out for Moralès to look through. Embarrassed by the openness of the gesture, Moralès refused to take it.

‘I’ll leave that to you, all right? You know how particular women can be. Could you just tell me whether her driver’s licence and bank cards are still in there?’

Cyr nodded and opened his wife’s purse, extracting the said cards and putting them on the table.

‘Is there anything missing?’

‘I don’t think so. There’s even some cash in here.’

There was an air of dejection in his eyes as he held the purse in his hands, as if the object confirmed that Angel was gone. ‘She won’t be happy if she knows I’ve opened her handbag.’

‘Maybe you should put the cards back where you found them.’

Moralès stood while Angel’s husband covered his tracks. This house was laden with shadows, and he needed a breath of fresh air. As if on cue, he saw Lefebvre hang up and give him a wave from the kitchen doorway. The boats must be close to shore now, he figured.

‘I have to ask you for a photo of your wife, Mr Cyr.’

Angel’s husband went to the wall of happy memories in frames. ‘I took this one myself,’ he said, taking one off its hook, removing the back and teasing the photo out by the bottom corner, as if worried he might drop it.

‘We were camping up north in Sept-Îles. She was chopping the vegetables for dinner.’

Stray locks cascaded gently around the image of Angel’s face, blown around by the unbridled freedom of a relaxing getaway, or maybe just by the wind. Her eyes were brown. She was laughing. Neither her hands nor the vegetables were visible. Just the edge of the forest in the background.

The man gazed at his wife again before handing the photo to Moralès.

‘We’ve got people out there looking, and we’re stepping up the efforts too. Did you know your father-in-law has found the boat?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re going to have it examined.’

Cyr shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not the boat I care about.’

Érik Lefebvre coughed discreetly in the hallway. It was time for them to go. Moralès had said he wanted to get to the wharf before the boats docked, to make sure no one contaminated a potential crime scene. He was also keen to meet Angel’s father and brothers before they had a chance to speak to other fishermen and embellish their stories.

‘Who’s your wife’s best friend?’

‘Annie Arsenault. She lives in the blue house next door,’ he replied, pointing to it.

‘Could you describe what clothes Angel was wearing when you last saw her?’ Moralès asked.

‘I told you, her wedding dress.’

‘She must have changed before she went out, then.’

Clément Cyr shook his head. ‘No. I checked. There’s nothing else missing from her wardrobe.’

Lefebvre opened the front door. Clément waved a futile hand from the kitchen. He let his wife walk the officers out and shut the door behind them.

Sébastien Moralès felt like he was in a nightmare when he woke to the sound of his ringing phone echoing around the room. Which room, though? Blinking his eyes into focus, he saw he was lying on a sofa in a corridor. Above him loomed a giant figure of Christ wearing a crown of thorns, nailed to a white crucifix.

The phone stopped ringing. ‘Hello! Renaud Boissonneau here, honorary dean of the high school and businessman with business aplenty. Let me tell you, if you’re calling about dance classes, you’re going to have to wait your turn, they’re not half popular.’

It was all coming back to him now. Last night he’d crashed on a sofa in the back of the bistro.

‘What? He’s a chef in Montreal? Well, he didn’t exactly shout about that last night!’

Sébastien realised he must have left his phone hooked up to the stereo in the bistro last night. That’s why the ringer was so loud.

‘This is the bistro in Caplan, Quebec, Canada. We’ve got the sole on special for lunch today.’

Sébastien tried to stand but had to sit down right away. His head was spinning. He could just about remember climbing the stairs.

‘Yes, miss. But Mr Sébastien Moralès is sleeping at the moment.’

Sébastien pricked his ears. How many times had his phone rung?

‘While you’re on the phone, you might as well make a reservation.’