Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

‘The wretched of the sea and their dreamers’ souls are easily hooked by enchanted bait, oh daughter of mine.’ Her mother was right, but Angel regrets nothing.

WITNESS STATEMENTS (excerpt)

There are no direct witnesses to this incident.

Suddenly, the boat lurches forward. For a fraction of a second, and in midair, Angel resists the fall the way a cormorant spreads its wings. Then she surrenders to her fate. Her trawler glides out to sea without her as the water sinks its icy jaws into her. For a moment, her dress billows out, suspending her at the surface. Angel takes her final breath and spreads her arms wide in acquiescence to the sky, not resistance to the sea. She opens her eyes wide, turns one last time to the moon and never closes them again.

Before the midnight hour, people are still trying to wrap their head around their day. After midnight, they’re usually sleeping like logs. So to speak. They’re at ease. Lost in their dreams. When an officer of the peace rings at the door of a citizen who’s fast asleep, there’s always something serious to report. The worst kind of drama or bereavement. A car crash, a stabbing, a stray bullet. You press the doorbell, hear the chime ring out in the hall and wait, standing in the dark like a messenger of the apocalypse. You think about the people inside, looking at the time, worried to be woken like this, pulling on their clothes in a daze, hushing the barking dog, turning on a light in the hall, peering through the window to make sure they haven’t imagined the ring at the door, seeing there really is someone standing on the porch, petrified by the thoughts that cross their mind when they see the uniform. When there’s good news to deliver, no one needs a police officer to do it. And it can always wait until morning.

No, that’s not why anyone becomes a police officer, thought Joaquin Moralès, when the four symphonic notes of his door chime rang out around six that morning. The pale light of the dawning day filtered through the curtainless windows as he stepped out of bed and into a pair of jeans, pulling a sweater over his head as he shuffled downstairs.

He wasn’t too concerned by the early wake-up, because he knew the duty officer that night was the young rookie, Robichaud. She spent her time flitting around him, fishing for advice, begging an opinion, fluttering her eyelashes so he’d recommend her for a transfer to Montreal. She wasn’t a bad cop, just a bit wet behind the ears. Reckless for no reason, too easily influenced. As erratic as a chickadee chirping in an evergreen forest.

Constable Joannie Robichaud followed the chimes with a few discreet knocks at the door. That was the protocol for all Sûreté du Québec officers when they couldn’t hear any noise inside or see a light come on. There was always a possibility the doorbell might not be working.

Moralès rubbed his eyes and gave his neck a stretch as he stumbled through the living room. It wasn’t that he cared that much about sleep. He had already been awake, anyway, and had planned to get up soon and go fishing. But this Sunday was his day off and he’d rather the rookie had waited until Monday. With her though, everything was urgent. A matter of life or death. Justice prevails, everyone is equal before the law and all that.

Moralès flipped a light switch in the hall before he opened up, not wanting to take her by surprise. A jumpy young constable who’s armed to the teeth can easily pump you full of lead.

Sure enough, there Joannie Robichaud was, standing stern as a bailiff on the doorstep in the early-morning sun. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail so tight, it was slanting her eyes. Her coat fell open to reveal a uniform bursting at the seams with outrageous cleavage. Every inch of her hips was loaded, as if she were patrolling the Bronx: cuffs, baton, pepper spray, the works. Her trousers were so figure-hugging, they looked like they had been sprayed on, her boots shined to military standards.

‘I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s urgent,’ she said.

Rookies like these were ten a penny in cop shops everywhere, even in the darkest depths of the Gaspé Peninsula.

She stepped inside, and Moralès edged forward to close the door behind her. There was a chill in the air, and he was standing there in bare feet. He tried to shuffle around her, but in the narrow hallway, with her encumbered by all her gear, they bumped awkwardly into one another. They both recoiled. She blushed, walked towards the dining room and stopped, turned on her heels and planted her feet like she meant business, thumbs hooked in her belt loops, elbows wide, ready to serve and protect.

Moralès closed the door and reluctantly followed.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee, constable?’

She declined with a curt shake of the chin. She should be doing her military service, he thought.

‘It would be better if you were sitting down, Mr Moralès.’

No. ‘Mr Moralès’ would not be sitting down. Talk about trying his patience. He resented her ruining his morning with her trivial rookie concerns. Especially since it was the time of year when the remnants of summer slipped through your fingers like the sands of time. She’d cornered him, and she hadn’t even called him ‘sergeant’. Had she forgotten she was speaking to her superior?

‘Listen, constable, I don’t mind helping you, but I’m not at your beck and call around the clock…’

‘It’s your son,’ she interrupted.

‘My son?’

‘A thirty-year-old man answering to the name of Sébastien Moralès.’

‘Sébastien?’

It suddenly dawned on him what the constable’s morning call must mean. She had followed the night-response protocol to the letter.

‘I received a call about four this morning, but I waited until my night duty was over to come. I didn’t want to wake you too early.’

‘A call from who?’

‘A friend who works at the New Richmond station.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Joannie Robichaud pretended to refer to her notes. She had memorised the details, but she had also seen a lot of crime movies and she liked to play things up. She might come across all formal, but she secretly dreamed that a seductive criminal would draw her into a passionate affair and tease her away from the straight and narrow. Yes, a rich drug baron who’d be so infatuated by her, he’d kidnap her and make love to her in a water bed. A heartbreaking tragedy of crime and desire.

‘Sébastien Moralès was stopped shortly before two this morning by patrol officers in Carleton-sur-Mer. People were partying in town to celebrate the autumn equinox. The officers asked him to stop singing outside houses whose residents had gone to sleep for the night. Er … and to refrain from urinating in front of the town hall. They told him if he didn’t stop, they’d bring him in for disturbing the peace and gross indecency. He said he could find his way behind bars by himself, because his father was down at the station in Bonaventure. The officers thought he meant his father was in a holding cell.’

‘That’s not possible…’

Moralès wouldn’t be surprised if this were his youngest son, Manu, but Sébastien? No way. His eldest was as straight-laced as you’d expect a son from a good family to be: he never got drunk, took ballroom-dancing classes, drank alcohol-free beer and only bought toilet paper when it was on special.

‘He resurfaced a little later down by the water, dancing on the wharf with the last of the revellers. That was the last they saw of him. They weren’t exactly keeping him in their sights. But then, around quarter to four, your son showed up at the station in New Richmond.’

She looked down at her notes again.

‘Apparently he rolled up there by car, but no one saw him at the wheel. He waltzed in and announced – and I quote – “Tell Detective Moralès his chiquito is here!” When he realised he was at the wrong police station, he wanted to get back in his car, but the duty officers stopped him. Well, Constable Leroux, he likes to write as many tickets as he can, so he wanted to let him go and then pull him over for drink-driving, but my friend insisted on calling me instead. I’ve told her all about you and she remembered.’