Entry Island (45 page)

Her eyes searched his, and she was remembering perhaps that first encounter when she came down the stairs in the summerhouse to find him waiting to interview her.
I know you
, he had said.

She looked back at the phone. ‘Coincidence. Some weird kind of resemblance. But it’s not me.’

‘If I had just shown that to you and asked if it was you, what would you have said?’

‘You just did. And I’m telling you, it might look like me, but it’s not.’

‘Look again. She’s wearing a red pendant.’

Reluctantly she turned her eyes towards it once more. He saw the colour rise high on her cheeks, but her mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘That’s all it is. A red pendant. Nothing to say it’s mine.’

He took back his phone and switched it off, slipping it into his pocket. ‘You told me that your great-great-great-grandmother McKay was Scottish.’

‘I think I told you she was probably Scottish. I don’t know, I’ve never gone into it. As far as I know her parents came from Nova Scotia, almost certainly Scottish immigrants. But whether Kirsty herself was born in Scotland, Nova Scotia or here, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never been interested enough to find out. If you want to know about my family history – though God knows why you would – you would need to ask Jack.’

‘Your cousin?’

‘He’s a fanatic on genealogy. Spends hours on the internet going through family records. Recently he was pestering me for access to papers that got handed down through my side of the family.’

‘I thought you didn’t see much of one another.’

‘We don’t. He hasn’t seen half the stuff I’ve got up at the house. Not that he really needs to. Apparently there’s not much that he doesn’t already know.’ She smiled sadly. ‘He never could understand my lack of interest.’

And Sime thought how she was just like he had been. Indifferent to her past, heedless of her roots. And just as he had done, she had struggled to find her place in a world that lives only for the present, where culture is a disposable commodity, no matter how many generations it has been in the making. ‘Where did this obsession with not leaving Entry Island come from?’

She turned her head sharply. ‘It’s not an obsession! It’s a feeling.’

‘You said your mother was reluctant to leave, too.’

‘As was her mother. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea.’ She was running out of patience with him. ‘Maybe it’s in the DNA.’

‘And your ancestor, Kirsty McKay?’

‘As far as I know, she never left the island once.’ She stood up. ‘Look, I’d like you to go. They’re sending me to prison on the mainland tomorrow. Who knows how long it will take to go to trial? But I can’t see any way I can prove my innocence,
so I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life behind bars. Thanks to you.’

He wanted to tell her about Sime Mackenzie from Baile Mhanais, and the Ciorstaidh he fell in love with on a remote Hebridean island in another century. Of the struggles that brought him to Canada, and how all these generations later it had brought his great-great-great-grandson to Entry Island and a chance encounter with a woman called Kirsty who was almost identical in every way to the Ciorstaidh he had lost on a quayside in Glasgow.

But he knew how it would sound, and he had no rational way of explaining it to her. Even if she had been halfway receptive. Right now all he felt was her hostility. He stood up and looked into her eyes so directly that she had difficulty maintaining eye contact and looked away.

As a policeman, he knew that all the evidence in the murder of her husband had pointed towards her. But he also knew that most of it was circumstantial, and he had never really believed it. Instinct. Or perhaps something even less tangible. Deep down inside he felt as if he knew this woman, and that there was no way she was capable of murder. ‘Kirsty,’ he said. ‘How did you get your husband’s skin under your fingernails?’

‘I’ve no idea. I must have scratched him when I was fighting to pull his killer off him.’ She looked at the floor. ‘Just go.’

But to her surprise he took each of her hands in his, holding them tightly. ‘Kirsty, look at me.’

Her eyes flashed upwards to meet his.

‘Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t kill him.’

She pulled her hands away. ‘I didn’t kill him!’ she shouted, and her voice reverberated around the tiny cell.

He continued to stare at her. ‘I believe you.’

He saw her confusion.

‘I’ll fly back with you to Montreal tomorrow, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove your innocence.’

The rain was battering his windshield as he turned back on to Highway 199 to head south. He had no idea if Jack Aitkens was still on night shift, but it was closer to drive to his home on Havre Aubert to find out than head north to the salt-mine. Besides which, if he was underground, then he wouldn’t be reachable until after six.

It was still just mid-afternoon, but the light was so poor that every car had turned on its headlights, a dazzle of red and yellow lights reflecting on a wet, black road surface.

Sime drove up over the hill, and saw power cables swinging overhead in the wind. He had no idea what drew his attention, but as he passed the car park of the Cooperative supermarket he glanced left and saw a face he recognised. A face caught in the momentary flash of a car’s headlights. Pale under a black umbrella, but lit up by a smile. And then it was gone as the umbrella dipped in the wind.

Ariane Briand. And she wasn’t alone. Richard Briand had his arm around her, sharing her umbrella.

Sime slammed on his brakes and took a hard left turn into the far entrance of the car park. Car horns sounded in the rain, and he caught the glimpse of an angry face behind flashing wipers. He slowed and cruised among the lines of cars towards where he had last seen the couple, peering past his own wipers through the rain.

There they were, still beneath the umbrella, putting a shopping basket in the trunk of a car, huddled together against the elements. At that final briefing, it was Crozes himself who’d said Briand actually had more to gain that any of the others from Cowell’s death. And yet he had never seriously been considered a suspect because his wife had provided his alibi. Even Sime had dismissed him, because on the night that Sime was attacked on Entry Island, Briand had been in Quebec City. Or so he said. No one had actually checked that. He and his wife claimed to have shut themselves away from the world in their hotel, but there was no proof that this was true. All the investigators had was their word for it. The focus had been so much on Kirsty that any other possibility had simply been ignored.

Sime ran through the sequence of events in his mind as the windows inside his car began to steam up. Arseneau had gone looking for Briand on the evening of their first day here. The start of the investigation. Briand’s secretary had told him that Briand had left for Quebec City that morning,
but that he’d booked his own travel and accommodation, so no one knew where to find him. Had anyone even checked with the airline that Briand had actually left the island?

He wiped the mist from his windscreen in time to catch Ariane Briand and her husband laughing, caught unexpectedly in the rain as their umbrella blew inside out in the wind. Briand stooped to give her a quick kiss before they ran around opposite sides of the vehicle to jump in.

Sime took out his phone and tapped the name of Briand’s hotel in Quebec City into Google. Up came the website and a telephone number. He tapped dial, and sat listening as a phone rang somewhere 1,200 kilometres away.

‘Auberge Saint-Antoine. Reception. How may I help you?’

‘This is Sergeant Enquêteur Sime Mackenzie with the Sûreté in Montreal. You had a guest staying with you recently by the name of Richard Briand. I’d like to check his arrival date, please.’

‘One moment, Sergeant.’

Sime watched Briand’s car turn out of the car park into a side street and then drive up to the main highway.

‘Hello, Sergeant. Yes, Monsieur Briand checked in on the 28th. He left us yesterday.’

Sime hung up. The 28th was the day before he and Blanc had flown to Quebec City to interview him. Where had he and Ariane Briand been for the previous two days if not there? Had Briand left the islands at all before the 28th? Because if not, then he could just conceivably have been
Sime’s attacker. His flights in and out of Havre aux Maisons could be checked with the airline. Sime would do that first thing in the morning before flying out with Kirsty.

The thought that the Briands might have been lying elevated his pulse rate. But that same old doubt still nagged at the back of his mind. Even if he wasn’t in Quebec City as he claimed, why would Briand attack Sime?

The rain had eased off a little by the time Sime found himself driving directly south along a narrow strip of land towards Havre Aubert. The sea was breaking all along the Plage de la Martinique on his left. On his right the wind rippled across the surface of the Baie du Havre aux Basques, which was protected from the full force of the storm surge by sand dunes all along its western perimeter. Kite surfers were out in force on this side, taking advantage of the powerful sou’westerly.

He had been preoccupied on the drive south by thoughts of the Briands, but as he approached La Grave, at the southeastern end of Havre Aubert, he forced himself to refocus.

Jack Aitkens’s house was a stone’s throw from the Palais de Justice, where only a few hours earlier Kirsty had made her first court appearance. It was a typical maroon and cream island home with a steeply pitched roof and overhanging eaves. A covered veranda ran around the front and south
side to an entry porch at the south-east corner. Unlike most of the other houses dotted around, it looked in need of fresh paint. The garden, such as it was, had been allowed to go to seed. There was an air of neglect about the place.

Sime parked on the road and hurried up the path to the shelter of the veranda. He couldn’t find a doorbell and knocked several times. Nothing stirred inside. There were no lights on, and as he looked around Sime could see no sign of Aitkens’s car. It seemed like he was out of luck and that Aitkens had come off nights and was on the day shift.

‘Are you looking for Jack?’

Sime spun around to see a middle-aged man working on the engine of an old truck in the shelter of a carport attached to the neighbouring house. ‘Yes. I guess he must be at the mine.’

‘No, he’s on night shift just now. He went down to the marina to secure his boat. Can’t take too many precautions with this storm on the way.’

*

The main street ran along a spit of land that curved around to a tiny harbour sheltered by the crook of the bony finger that was Sandy Hook. A collection of wooden and brick buildings lined each side of the street. Stores, bars, restaurants, a museum, holiday lets. Just behind it, in the shelter of La Petite Baie, lay a tiny marina that played host to a collection of fishing and sail boats. They were tied up along either side of a long pontoon that rose and fell on the troubled water.

Aitkens was securing his boat front and rear to an access pontoon. It was a twenty-five-foot fishing boat with an inboard motor and a small wheelhouse that afforded at least some protection from the elements. It had seen better days.

He was crouched by a capstan and looked up from his ropes as Sime approached. He seemed startled to see him and stood up immediately. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to Kirsty?’ He had to raise his voice above the wind, and the clatter of steel cables on metal masts.

‘No, she’s fine.’

Aitkens frowned. ‘I thought you people had gone home.’

‘We had,’ Sime said. ‘But I’m not done here yet.’

‘They’re sending her to Montreal,’ Aitkens said, as if Sime wouldn’t know.

‘Were you in court?’

‘Of course. It’s just two minutes from my door.’ He paused. ‘There’s not much evidence against her, you know.’

Sime nodded. ‘I know that.’

Aitkens was taken aback. ‘Really?’

‘I need to talk to you, Monsieur Aitkens.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t really have time.’

‘I’d appreciate it if you’d make some.’ Sime’s tone conveyed the strong impression that it was more than a request. But, all the same, he wondered why Aitkens’s first response had not been to ask what Sime wanted to talk to him about. Almost as if he already knew.

Aitkens said, ‘Well, not out here. Let’s get a coffee.’

*

Most of the shops and restaurants on the main street were closed for the season, but the Café de la Grave was open, yellow light spilling out into the sulphurous afternoon. There were no customers. Just rows of polished wooden tables and painted chairs, wood-panelled walls peppered with colourful childlike paintings of fish and flowers. A menu chalked up on a blackboard had earlier offered
Quiche à la Poulet
or
Penne sauce bolognese à la merguez
for lunch. Sime and Aitkens sat by an old upright piano and ordered coffees. Aitkens was ill-at-ease and fidgeted with his fingers on the table in front of him.

‘So what do you want to talk to me about?’ At last the question.

‘Your family history.’

Aitkens swung his head towards Sime, frowning. He thought about it for a moment. ‘Is this an official line of enquiry?’ His tone was hostile. Sime, after all, was the man who had arrested his cousin for murder.

Sime was caught momentarily off-balance, but couldn’t lie. ‘My interest is more personal than professional.’

Now Aitkens tilted his head and squinted at Sime with both suspicion and confusion. ‘What? About my family history?’

‘Well, it’s Kirsty’s more than yours that interests me. But I guess much of it will be shared. She told me that genealogy was something of an obsession of yours.’

‘Not an obsession,’ Aitkens said defensively. ‘A hobby. What the hell else does a man do with his life when he’s not working?
The hours I work, and a geriatric father in the hospital, I’m not exactly an eligible bachelor, am I? Winters here aren’t only hard, they’re long and damn lonely.’

‘So how far back have you been able to trace your lineage?’