Entry Island (21 page)

An elongated wedge of yellow light fell across the grass, throwing their shadows long into the night. Sime turned his head towards the source of it and saw the silhouette of a stout man standing in the open door of his house, a shotgun held firmly across his chest.

‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ he roared.

And in a moment Sime’s attacker was gone, silently sprinting off into the dark, a shadow in the wind, leaving behind him barely a whisper.

Sime very nearly blacked out with relief. He rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach into the grass, then looked up as a flashlight shone in his face.

‘Jesus!’ he heard the man say. ‘You’re one of them cops from Montreal.’

*

Sime had not realised just how far he had walked in the dark, and it took him almost ten minutes to get back to the house, hampered as he was by the pounding in his head and the sharp pain like cramp that gripped his chest with every step.

His gun, retrieved from the grass, was safely back in its holster, but he was unnerved by just how easily he had been disarmed and left at the mercy of his attacker. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of a light-sleeping islander, the earth of Entry Island would have been soaking up his blood by now, his body growing cold in the grass.

Now his concern was for Kirsty. He should never have left her alone in the house. The assailant would have had ample time to kill her as she lay sleeping in her bed before coming after Sime. Though why he had attacked Sime at all was a mystery.

Sime hobbled up the steps on to the porch of the summer-house cursing his stupidity. He threw open the door and called her name at the top of his voice.

He was halfway up the stairs in the darkness when the light came on, and a pale and frightened-looking Kirsty stood on the top landing, pulling on her dressing gown, eyes dilated and dark with fear.

His legs almost gave way beneath him from the relief of seeing her. Then her mouth and eyes opened wide as she saw the blood on the side of his head and the mud on his clothes, and she hurried down the few steps that separated them
to catch his arm. ‘For God’s sake, Mr Mackenzie, what happened to you?’

Through his pain and relief, he felt the comfort of the warmth that came from her body, the sureness of her touch. He had not been this close to her before, breathing in her scent, and had to overcome a powerful urge to take her in his arms. ‘I was attacked,’ was all he managed to say, and he drew himself upright again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. But you’re not. I’m going to call the nurse.’

Downstairs they heard the clatter of footsteps, and the screen door banging open. The patrolman left to guard the crime scene in the big house stood breathing hard at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at them in alarm. ‘What’s happened?’

The harbour was crowded for the arrival of the morning ferry. Pickup trucks with colourful Entry Island licence plates stood idling along the quayside. Men of all shapes and sizes, old and young, in baseball caps and trainers, baggy jeans and T-shirts, hung around in knots smoking and talking. The womenfolk stood apart in groups of their own, conducting quite different conversations. A forest of aerials and masts and radar pods broke the skyline behind them, fishing boats berthed along the pier rising and falling on the gentle grey swell.

Sime stood at the end of the quay beyond the yellow ticket hut, the breeze in his face, watching as the now familiar shape of the blue-and-white
Ivan-Quinn
ferry nosed into the harbour. He was aware of the eyes that were on him, of the lowered voices exchanging the latest gossip that was doubtless spreading like wildfire across the island in the wake of the previous night’s attack. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Crozes.

The cut on the side of his head was taped up, the contusion around it angry and inflamed. The nurse had strapped his chest tightly and the support had helped relieve the pain. She thought that he was probably just bruised, but that he should get an X-ray anyway.

He had lain then through all the hours of darkness, feeling the pain ebb away as the paracetamol she had given him took effect. Morning had brought stiffness, and an ache to muscles and joints. After an uncomfortable telephone conversation with Crozes he had taken the minibus to the harbour early and walked along the coast road and back to try to loosen up.

With the ramp down, passengers and vehicles debouched now on to the quayside, locals stepping forward to pick up boxes of groceries and other goods ordered from across the water and beyond. Crozes detached himself from the rest of his team and approached Sime, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He wore dark glasses below the peak of his baseball cap and the only real clue to his mood was in his demeanour. Sime saw Marie-Ange and Blanc glance towards him as they climbed into the minibus to await the lieutenant. The Cap aux Meules cops had brought their own vehicles and set off to resume their search for the missing Norman Morrison.

‘What the fuck were you playing at, Mackenzie?’ Crozes didn’t even look at him. He stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out across the bay.

‘I just went out for some air, Lieutenant. I was only gone a few minutes.’

‘A few minutes in which he could have killed her.’

‘Then why didn’t he?’ Sime said.

Crozes turned his head to look at him for the first time. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he had the chance, but he didn’t. He came after me.’

Crozes stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You got a look at him?’

Sime blew exasperation through pursed lips. ‘Not really. He was wearing dark clothes, and a ski mask. Just like she described.’

Crozes turned away. ‘There won’t be a single person on this island who doesn’t know Mrs Cowell claimed to be attacked by a guy wearing a ski mask. Not very hard to replicate.’ He swung his head back towards Sime. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to attack you, Sime, but it’s just one more complication we really don’t need.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any thoughts?’

Sime shrugged. ‘Not really. There’s Norman Morrison, I suppose. If he was the one who attacked her.’

‘But as you say, why would he attack you?’ Crozes took off his baseball cap and scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘What about the fisherman you and Blanc interviewed?’

‘Owen Clarke?’

Crozes nodded. ‘You give him any reason to be pissed off at you?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Crozes dragged his cap firmly back on his head, pulled a gob of phlegm into his mouth and spat into the water.
‘Let’s go talk to him.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Are you okay?’

Sime found it hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘I’m fine, Lieutenant. Thanks for asking.’

Clarke was wearing an oil-stained blue boiler suit open halfway down his chest to reveal a tangle of wiry hair like silvered copper fusewire. The legs of his trousers gathered around a pair of dirty white trainers that were no longer able to contain his big feet and had burst open along either side. He was out with a strimmer, cutting down the long grass around the house. His face was red and beaded with sweat beneath the peak of his baseball cap. His habitual brown-stained roll-up issued smoke from the corner of his mouth. He saw them coming, but made no attempt to stop the motor until Crozes shouted at him and ran a finger across his throat.

He flicked a switch to cut the fuel supply and turned towards them with a bad grace as the motor spun to a halt. ‘What do you people want now?’

Sime looked at him carefully. He was a big man, which had not been immediately apparent when he and Blanc interviewed him seated at his workbench two days previously. He was certainly big enough to have been Sime’s attacker. Sime glanced at his hands and saw bruised and
skinned knuckles, and he realised what had only registered in his subconscious until now. That his assailant had been gloved.

Crozes said, ‘Where were you last night around midnight?’

Clarke looked at Sime and flicked his head towards Crozes. ‘Do I get an introduction?’

‘Lieutenant Daniel Crozes.’ Crozes showed him his ID. ‘Will you answer the question, please?’

Clarke leaned on his strimmer and leered at them. ‘I was screwing this amazing-looking blonde,’ he said. ‘Tits on her like this.’ And he raised his big-knuckled hands to his chest as if grasping imaginary breasts. Then he laughed at the expression on their faces. ‘In my fucking dreams! I was asleep. Home in bed. Ask my wife.’ He grinned to reveal the remaining handful of brown stumps that passed for teeth. ‘Only, don’t tell her about the blonde, okay?’

Crozes leaned forward unexpectedly and whipped off the man’s baseball cap, exposing the swirls of hair that sweat had flattened to his skull, and a nasty bruise high on his left cheekbone.

‘Hey!’ Clarke grabbed for his hat, but Crozes held it out of reach.

‘Where’d you get the bruise, Mr Clarke?’

Clarke’s fingers went automatically to the bruising on his face, and he touched it lightly. His smile had vanished. ‘Slipped on the boat and fell,’ he said defiantly, as if challenging them to contradict him. He swung his gaze towards Sime
and the grin returned, ugly and without humour. ‘Where did you get yours?’

*

There seemed little point in asking Mary-Anne Clarke to confirm her husband’s whereabouts of the night before. Wherever he might have been she was going to tell them he was at home in bed with her. But Crozes said he would send someone to take a statement from her later. Just for the record. He was nothing if not punctilious.

As they drove back along the track to Main Street, they could see groups of islanders in the distance, each led by a police officer, working their way methodically across the island in the hunt for Norman Morrison. More than thirty islanders had volunteered, and they were searching old barns and disused sheds, raking through overgrown gullies and creeks. The breeze was getting up now and blew among the long grasses, shifting them in waves and currents like wind on water. The cloud cover was high, allowing only a little hazy sunshine through to lift the brooding darkness of the ocean that moved in restless swells all around the island.

Sime drove, and Crozes stared bleakly out of the window at the searchers. ‘I’m going to assign most of our team to help with the search,’ he said. ‘The sooner we find this guy and rule him either in or out the better. Then we can get back to bringing this investigation to a conclusion.’ He dipped his head to peer up towards the near horizon. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

Sime craned to see, and caught sight of half a dozen quad bikes rising and falling with the contours of the island as they followed a parallel course to the minibus on Main Street. ‘Looks like the Clarke boy and his pals.’

Crozes frowned. ‘Blanc said you had a run-in with some kids on quad bikes. He didn’t say one of them was Clarke’s boy.’

‘Damn near ran me down and managed to tip himself off in the process.’

Crozes grunted. ‘Loss of face in front of his friends. Did you have words?’

‘He told us in no uncertain terms to leave his father alone.’

Crozes sat up. ‘Let’s talk to him.’

Sime swung left and took the road up towards the church, accelerating over ruts and potholes. The minibus rattled and juddered over the uneven surface, and it seemed to take some moments for the bikers to realise it was going to cut them off. Sime pulled the wheel hard left and the vehicle careened across the track to end up side-on to the approaching bikers. They immediately altered course, turning away towards Big Hill. Crozes jumped down and shouted at them to stop. The bikes drew to a reluctant halt in an idling knot of diesel fumes and revving motors. Crozes raised his ID above his head. ‘Police,’ he shouted. ‘Come here.’ And he waved them towards him. The kids exchanged glances, then one by one engaged gears and turned to motor slowly towards the minibus as Sime climbed out of it. At the last
they fanned out to form a semicircle around the two policemen. ‘Which one of you’s Clarke?’ Crozes said.

Chuck Clarke was in the middle of the group, clearly its leader. The spikes of his gelled hair stood firm against the breeze. ‘What do you want with me?’ he said.

‘Turn off those motors,’ Crozes instructed, and in the ensuing silence Sime heard the wind blowing through the grass, and the sound of the sea washing all along the southern shore. Crozes looked at Chuck. ‘Get off the bike, son.’

The teenager thrust out a belligerent jaw. ‘And what if I don’t?’

Crozes slowly removed his sunglasses. ‘I’m conducting a murder investigation here, kid. If you want to obstruct me in the course of that I’ll have you over on Cap aux Meules kicking your heels in a police cell before you can say quad bike.’ He replaced his shades on the bridge of his nose. ‘Now get off the fucking bike.’

It was a further loss of face for the Clarke boy, but he had little alternative but to comply. He dismounted slowly and stood with his legs slightly apart, gloved hands on his hips, glaring at Crozes.

The lad was built. Six feet or more, and Sime ran his eyes over the jeans and black leather jacket. He wore scuffed Doc Martens, and Sime thought that they could easily have been the boots that had bruised his ribs. His gaze fell on the expensive, hand-stitched leather gloves. Kirsty had spoken about the gloves of her attacker, and the stitching in the leather.

‘Where were you last night?’ Crozes said.

Chuck glanced uneasily towards the others. ‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question, son.’

One of the girls said, ‘We had a party last night. My dad’s got a barn over the far side of Cherry Hill. We can play music as loud as we like there and don’t disturb nobody.’

‘How long did that go on for?’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’ she said. ‘Maybe till about three.’

Crozes cocked his head. ‘And Chuck was with you the whole time.’

‘He was.’ This from one of the other boys. He leaned back on the comfortable leather seat behind him, lacing his fingers together at the back of his head and lifting his feet to cross them on the handlebars of his bike. ‘Any law against that?’