Entry Island (37 page)

‘And that’s what you’re doing for James?’

‘In a way, yes. He can’t speak for himself. He can’t tell us what happened. And whatever he might have done, whoever he might have been, he didn’t deserve to die like that.’

She looked at him steadily for a long moment. ‘No, he didn’t.’

An awkward silence settled between them. Then he said, ‘Do you really intend to spend the rest of your life here?’

She laughed. ‘Well. That depends on whether or not you put me in jail.’ He found a pale smile in response. ‘But the truth is, Mr Mackenzie, that whatever I might have said in an emotional moment, I really love this island. I played all over it as a child, I’ve walked every inch of it as an adult. Big Hill, Jim’s Hill, Cherry’s Hill. Pimples on the landscape really, but when you’re young they’re the Alps or the Rockies. The island is your whole world, and anything beyond it far off and exotic. Even the other islands in the Magdalens.’

‘Not an easy place to live, I wouldn’t have thought.’

‘Depends what you’re used to. We didn’t know anything else. At least, not until we were older. The weather is hard, sure, but even that you accept, because it’s just how it is. The winters are long, and so cold sometimes that the bay freezes over and it’s possible to walk across to Amherst.’ And for his benefit, ‘That’s Havre Aubert.’

‘How come you speak English here when the rest of the islands are francophone?’

‘Not all of them are,’ she said. A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she carefully drew it aside with her small finger, then shook it back. ‘They speak English at the north end, too. At Grand Entry Island, and Old Harry and GrosseÎle. Old Harry is where James came from originally. But, yes, most of the population of the Magdalen Islands are French-speakers. I guess maybe only 5 or 10 per cent of us speak
English.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s our heritage, our culture. And when you’re a minority you tend to protect those things, nurture them, defend them. Like the French minority in Canada.’

Duke had wandered off, sniffing among the grasses, and was very close to the cliff’s edge. She shouted to him, but all he did was raise his head and cast a dispassionate glance in their direction.

‘Come on,’ she said to Sime. ‘If we head back up the path he’ll follow us.’ She smiled. ‘Duke’s made it his lifetime’s work to follow every visitor to the island.’

They walked up along the path, side by side, at a leisurely rate. Anyone watching from a distance might have taken them for old friends. But the silence between them was tense.

She said suddenly, ‘You probably know, but we still use all the English names for the islands here on Entry. Magdalen rather than Madeleine. Cap aux Meules is Grindstone, Havre Aubert is Amherst – well, I already told you that. Havre aux Maisons is known as Alright Island.’ It was as if she felt that by talking about things of no consequence, those things of enormous consequence that were creating the tension, would be somehow dissipated. ‘The whole archipelago is surrounded by shipwrecks. I saw a map once that pinpointed them all. Hundreds of them, all around the coast.’

‘How come they all washed up here?’

‘Who knows? Bad weather, bad luck, and no lighthouse back in the early days. And I suppose we are slap-bang in the
middle of the main shipping lane to the St Lawrence River and Quebec City.’ She glanced at him and bit her lip. ‘How the hell do you make polite conversation with someone who thinks you’re a murderer?’

‘That’s not necessarily what I think,’ he said, and as soon as he’d said it, regretted it. Because, on balance, it was what he thought. It just wasn’t what he wanted to think.

She looked at him intently. As if those blue eyes could penetrate his outer defences and reach the truth. ‘Sure,’ she said eventually, unconvinced.

Duke hirpled past them and threw himself into a ditch full of water at the side of the path. He splashed about in it for a while, cooling himself down, then hauled himself out again with difficulty. He shook his coat violently, and sent water spraying all over Kirsty and Sime. She let out a yell and stepped back, almost losing her footing, and Sime was quick to grab her arm and stop her from falling.

She laughed. ‘Damn dog!’ And then her smile faded as she realised that Sime was still holding her. They were both immediately awkward and he let go of her, self-conscious, almost embarrassed by their unexpected physical contact.

They turned and followed Duke as he ran off with renewed vigour to where the road dipped down over the top of the hill. The wind was stronger here. Below them the bay simmered intermittently in flitting sunlight. Cowell’s house stood proud on the edge of the cliffs, the summerhouse where Kirsty had
been born just beyond it. The roof of the police patrol car glinted in the sunshine next to Cowell’s beige Range Rover.

‘Don’t you have a car?’ Sime said suddenly.

‘No.’

‘How do you get around?’

‘You don’t need a car on the island. There’s nowhere you can’t walk to.’

‘But James felt the need for one.’

‘He often brought stuff over on the plane with him. I suppose if I’d ever needed one, I could have used his. Except that I don’t drive.’

Sime was surprised. ‘That’s unusual.’

But she didn’t respond, her attention caught by his right hand as he ran it back through his hair. ‘What happened to your hand?’

He looked at it and saw that the knuckles were bruised and grazed, slightly swollen where he had struck Crozes. He pushed it into his pocket, embarrassed. ‘Nothing,’ he said. And to his amazement she reached forward to seize his wrist and pull his hand back out of the pocket so that she could examine it.

‘You’ve been in a fight.’

‘Have I?’

She was still holding his hand, and pushed up an eyebrow. ‘This is a tough island, Mr Mackenzie. There are no policemen here. Men often settle their differences with fists. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen busted knuckles.’ She
paused, glancing down again at his hand. ‘And yours weren’t like this yesterday.’

She let him go, and he took his hand back to rub it gently with his other, almost as if trying to hide the damage, and became aware again of the ring with the arm and sword. In spite of a strange compunction to tell her the truth all he said was, ‘It’s a personal matter.’ He avoided her eye.

‘Let me guess. Men don’t usually hit complete strangers, and since you don’t know anyone here it’s probably someone you know. One of your co-workers. A fellow investigator. Am I right?’

Now he met her gaze full on. But still said nothing.

‘Since I don’t see any damage to your face other than the cut you got the other day, it might be fair to assume that you were the aggressor. Which means that you must have had some pretty powerful motivation for attacking a colleague. My guess would be that there’s a woman involved?’ She raised an eyebrow to ask the question. When there was no response she said, ‘And since the only woman on the team is your ex …’

‘He’d been sleeping with her.’ It was out before he could stop himself. And immediately wished he could take it back. He felt his face redden.

‘Since before the break-up?’

He nodded.

‘And you just found out?’

‘Yes.’

‘And gave him a beating?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good for you.’

Somehow she seemed to have turned the tables on him. She was the interrogator, he the guilty party defending his actions.

She smiled and said, ‘We’re really not so different then, are we?’ He gave her an odd look. ‘Each of us capable of losing our cool in the face of losing a lover.’ She paused and sighed. ‘You of all people, Mr Mackenzie, should understand what drove me over to Cap aux Meules that night to confront James and the Briand woman.’

His mouth was dry. ‘Did it also drive you to kill him?’

She stared at him for a long time. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

Duke had tired of waiting for them and wandered back to drop himself in a huff at their feet.

She said, ‘When we first met you thought you knew me.’

He nodded. He wanted to tell her about the diaries. About his dreams. About the little girl called Kirsty whose life his ancestor had saved. The teenage girl he had kissed on a windswept Hebridean island and lost on a quayside in Glasgow. How somehow in his dreams, in his mind, she had become one with the woman who stood before him here on this blustery hill on Entry Island.

She reached out unexpectedly to run fingertips lightly down his cheek and said, ‘You don’t know me at all.’

Some instinct, or some fleeting movement, made him turn his head. He saw the patrolman from Cap aux Meules approaching on the path, a couple of hundred metres away down the hill. Even from here Sime could see his consternation. How bizarrely intimate this moment must have seemed. Sime the detective, Kirsty the murder suspect, standing so close together on the hill, her fingers extended to touch his face.

She took her hand away, and Sime left her to hurry down the hill towards the policeman. Duke struggled to his feet and ran after him.

The young policeman continued up the slope to meet him halfway. He gave Sime the oddest look, but kept his thoughts to himself. ‘Lieutenant Crozes has been trying to reach you, sir.’

‘Why didn’t he call me on my cellphone?’ Sime dug a hand into his pocket to find it, and realised he had never gone back to the incident room to get it. ‘Damnit! I’ll call him back from the phone at the house.’

And with only the most fleeting of backward glances, he headed quickly off down the road with the patrolman towards the summerhouse. Kirsty stood on the prow of the hill watching them go.

*

He could hear the contained fury in Crozes’s voice. What the hell was he doing on Entry? But he was barely listening. From where Sime stood holding the phone in the living
room of the summerhouse, he could see Kirsty walking slowly down the hill. He let Crozes rail at him without response. Until finally the lieutenant ran out of steam and said coldly, ‘We’ll deal with that later. The preliminary report from forensics is in. Lapointe had them do priority DNA testing. They just faxed the results.’

‘And?’ Sime knew it would not be good news.

‘The samples taken from beneath Kirsty Cowell’s fingernails contain skin matching the scratchmarks on her husband’s face.’ He paused, and Sime heard something that sounded almost like pleasure in his voice. ‘Maybe it’s just as well you’re over there, Sime. I want you to arrest her and bring her back here to be formally charged with murder.’

Sime said nothing.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

‘Good. We’ll see you both back here around six, then.’ He hung up.

Sime stood holding the receiver for a long time before slowly replacing it in its cradle. Through the window he saw that Kirsty had reached the big house now and was walking across the grass towards the summerhouse. Duke had gone to meet her and was gambolling excitedly around her legs, as enthusiastically as his arthritis would allow. Sime turned to find the patrolman looking at him. ‘I’m going to need a witness for this,’ he said. The young man flushed with anticipation. It was clear to him that something previously outside of his experience was about to go down.

Sime stepped out on to the porch as Kirsty climbed the steps. She could tell at once that something had changed. ‘What’s wrong?’

Sime said, ‘Kirsty Cowell, you are under arrest for the murder of James Cowell.’

All the colour drained from her face. ‘What?’ Her shock was clear. Her voice trembling.

‘Do you understand?’

‘I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t understand why you’re saying it.’

Sime drew a long breath, aware of the patrolman at his shoulder. ‘You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. I am taking you back to the police station at Cap aux Meules where we will provide you with a toll-free telephone line to a lawyer referral service if you do not have your own lawyer. Anything you say can be used in court as evidence. Do you understand?’ He waited. ‘Would you like to speak to a lawyer?’

She stood staring at him for a very long time, every conflicting emotion reflected in her eyes. Until she lifted her hand and slapped him hard across the face where just a few minutes earlier she had touched him with tender fingers.

The patrolman stepped in quickly to grab her wrists.

‘Let her go!’ The imperative in Sime’s voice had almost as powerful an effect on the young man as Kirsty’s slap, and he released her immediately, as if she were electrically charged. Sime felt an ache of regret as he met her eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

He left her in the care of the patrolman while she packed a bag and he went to get the minibus from the harbour. Which gave him plenty of time to think on the walk there and the drive back. But cogent thought did not come easily. From the moment he first set eyes on Entry Island he had felt something ominous in the dark shadow it laid along the horizon. The sense of destiny he had experienced on arrival had now reached some kind of perverse fulfilment. The woman who had become somehow synonymous in his mind with the girl in his dreams and the Ciorstaidh of the diaries had, after all, murdered her husband. And it had fallen on him to arrest her.

Back at the summerhouse he put her bag in the minibus and she slipped sullenly into the passenger seat beside him. They left the patrolman guarding the scene of the crime, and drove in silence across the island. The sun was dipping low in the western sky, edging pink and grey clouds with gold and lying shimmering like lost treasure across the bay.

It was the last time, he knew, that he was likely to set foot on the island, and he let his eyes wander sadly across its gentle green undulations, its colourfully painted houses, and the mountains of lobster creels piled up along the roadside. As the pitted track that passed for a road wound down below the church, he glanced up the shallow slope where headstones punctured the grass. Somewhere up there was the lichen-crusted stone that marked the final resting place of Kirsty’s many-times distant grandmother, and it seemed to him that he could almost feel the old lady’s reproach.