Entry Island

by Peter May

  Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘People say all sorts of things. And a place like this is like a hothouse, Mr Mackenzie. Plant a seed of truth and very quickly it grows into a profusion of lies.’

  ‘So what is the truth?’

  ‘The truth is that Norman Morrison is a lovely, gentle, kind man, who stopped growing any older when he was about twelve. And how many of us are there who wouldn’t trade all our growing old years to be young again?’

  ‘You had a soft spot for him?’

  ‘I did.’ She spoke almost defiantly. ‘We were at school together, here on the island. He always had a crush on me when we were kids. And like everything else it was something he never grew out of.’

  ‘And you encouraged him?’

  ‘Of course not! But he was still a child, and he was still my friend. I could never have hurt him.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason he might have wanted to hurt you?’

  She was shocked. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that it was Norman who attacked me and killed James?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking you.’

  ‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘There’s no way Norman would ever have done something like that.’

  ‘Has he ever been in your house?’

  She frowned. ‘Here?’

  ‘Here, or the big house.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. At least, he hasn’t been here since we were both children.’

  ‘Can you explain, then, how he comes to have a photograph of you in his bedroom, almost certainly taken from the photo album in your study?’

  Her mouth fell open slightly in disbelief. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘There is a print missing from your album. One taken of you at the age of about thirteen or fourteen. We found a photograph of you at the same age in his room, the head cut out from the rest of it.’

  Her sense of shock was palpable. ‘He’s … he’s never been in that house.’

  ‘And you didn’t give him a photograph of yourself?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Sime drew a slow, deep breath. He wasn’t feeling good. ‘Are you aware, Mrs Cowell, of your husband’s jealousy towards Norman Morrison?’

  She was utterly dismissive. ‘Jealous? James? I don’t think so.’

  ‘According to Norman’s mother your husband brought two men to the island to rough him up and warn him to stay away from you.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! When?’

  ‘About six months ago. Early spring.’ He paused. ‘Have you seen Norman since then?’

  She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped herself, and he could see that she was thinking. ‘I … I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  Which meant that she probably hadn’t, and was replaying events of the past in a new light. But whatever those might have been she wasn’t sharing them with him.

  ‘I need a comfort break,’ she said suddenly.

  Sime nodded. He needed a break himself. A chance to escape the heat of the house and grab some air. As Kirsty went upstairs he went out on to the porch and stood holding the rail, breathing deeply. With all the local cops seconded to the search for Norman Morrison, only Arseneau and a young sergeant called Lapierre were left to continue the search of the area around the house. Sime watched them as they moved methodically through the longer grass with sticks. They were searching for anything that might throw illumination on a dark case. The sun was doing its best to help, sprinkling daubs of watery gold in fleeting patches all along the cliffs. A murder weapon would be good. But if Kirsty had murdered her husband, it seemed to Sime that the simplest thing would have been to throw the knife off the cliffs and into the sea. If Cowell had been murdered by the intruder Kirsty described, then he would almost certainly have taken the knife with him, perhaps thrown it in the sea himself. Marie-Ange’s examination of the kitchen had established that all sets of kitchen knives were complete.

  Sime was finding it increasingly hard to accept, no matter how much evidence Marie-Ange might find, that Kirsty had murdered her husband. Yet it was his job to get to the truth, regardless. And while the evidence against her was purely circumstantial for the moment, he was in danger of being a minority of one when it came to believing she was innocent. And that in direct contradiction to all of his instincts as a criminal investigator. It was an impossible dichotomy. He turned to go back inside.

  III

  There was sunlight somewhere. It played in flickering moments of fancy through still air that hung heavy with dust suspended in sharply defined shafts. But there was fog, too, obscuring the light. Rolling in from the sea like a summer haar to obscure all illumination. He heard someone calling. Someone far away. A familiar voice, repeating the same word over and over.

  ‘Sime … Sime … Sime!’

  He was startled awake, but realised that his eyes had not been shut.

  ‘Sime, are you all right?’

  Sime turned his head to see Thomas Blanc standing near the foot of the stairs, the oddest expression on his face.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sime said. But knew that he wasn’t. A polite cough made him turn to face front and see Kirsty sitting in the armchair opposite. Her head was tilted very slightly to one side, an expression of wary curiosity in her eyes.

  ‘If you want to continue this some other time …’

  Continue? And it came to him that they had resumed the interview sometime earlier, and he had no idea for just how long he had been sitting in suspended animation. He was breathing heavily.

  ‘No. No, we should carry on.’ His disorientation was almost paralysing.

  She shrugged. ‘Well, I’m waiting.’

  Sime glanced at Blanc, who raised an eyebrow. An unspoken question. Sime nodded almost imperceptibly, and Blanc returned reluctantly to his monitors in the back room.

  ‘Where were we?’ he said to Kirsty.

  ‘You were asking how James and I met.’

  He nodded. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Then tell me again.’

  Her sigh was laden with impatience and frustration. ‘James was a guest lecturer on business economics during my final year at Bishop’s University in Lennoxville.’

  ‘That’s an English-language university?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the one lecture?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been invited to talk to us as a classic example of entrepreneurial achievement. A small local business transformed into a multi-million-dollar international success.’

  ‘And your subject was?’

  ‘Economics.’ She shrugged her shoulders, and her smile was sad and ironic. ‘Don’t ask me why. You’re forced to make decisions about these things when you’re still too young to know. I’d always been good with numbers, so …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Anyway, there was a drinks reception held for him afterwards and I went along.’

  ‘Why? Were you attracted to him?’

  She thought about it. ‘I suppose I was. But not in any conventional way. He was twelve years older than me, which is a lot when you are in your early twenties. He wasn’t what I would have described as good-looking, or handsome. But he had charm, and knew how to make his audience laugh. And I was impressed by his success, and his confidence, and everything he seemed to know about the world. But what I found, I suppose, most compelling about him was that he came from the Magdalen Islands, just like me. It made me see that no matter who you are, or where you come from, you can be anything you want. If you want it enough.’

  ‘Why would that interest you if your intention was never to leave Entry Island?’

  ‘I wasn’t set on that course, then, Mr Mackenzie. The instinct was there, perhaps, but my parents were still alive. They were my anchor. Even if I wasn’t there, they would be. So I still felt free at that time to do whatever I wanted. I never dreamt that within twelve months they would both be gone, and that my world would have narrowed to this tiny pinpoint of land in the Gulf of St Lawrence.’

&nbs
p; ‘Do you feel it like a prison?’

  ‘Not a prison, exactly. But I do feel tied to it.’

  Sime took a moment to re-examine her. Her expression was weary. Tired eyes heavy from lack of sleep. He knew how she felt. Weird, was the word both Aitkens and Crozes had used to describe her, and he wondered what strange sort of compulsion it was that tied her to this place for no other reason than some vague feeling of missing something if she left. ‘So you met him for the first time at the drinks party after his lecture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was introduced to him as a fellow Madelinot, and I felt his intensity from that first moment. In the way he held my hand for far too long. In the way that he locked me in his gaze and held me there, as if there was no one else in the room.’

  ‘Love at first sight?’

  She glanced at him sharply, as if suspecting sarcasm. ‘For him, yes. Or so he always said.’

  ‘But not for you?’

  ‘Oh, I was flattered by his attentions, of course. But like I told you, he pursued me relentlessly for the next two years. When I returned to the island after the death of my parents he proposed to me. I told him I wouldn’t make much of a wife since I had no desire to leave the island. This was my home, and this was where I wanted to stay.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And he said in that case he would make it his home, too. That he would build a house here for us. That we would raise a family, establish a dynasty.’

  ‘But you never had any children.’

  ‘No.’ Now she wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘Turned out he was sterile. Children were out of the question.’

  This was clearly an emotional subject, leaving her momentarily vulnerable. Sime took the opportunity to switch focus and catch her off balance.

  ‘If it wasn’t Norman Morrison, who else might want to kill you, Mrs Cowell?’

  She seemed startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You claim that you were the object of the attack, and not your husband. So someone must have wanted to kill you.’

  It was almost as if the thought had never occurred to her before, and she seemed flustered, discomposed by the question. ‘I … I really have no idea.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mrs Cowell! This is a small community. Is there no one you might have offended, someone who might have a reason to bear you a grudge?’

  ‘No!’ Her denial was almost too fierce. ‘There’s no one.’

  ‘Then why would someone attack you?’

  She was at a loss, the colour rising on her cheeks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe … maybe he was a burglar and I just got in the way.’

  Sime said, ‘Do you know how many instances of burglary have been reported on Entry Island in the last ten years, Mrs Cowell?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Unless you’d asked. As I did. And do you want to know what the answer was?’

  She looked at him with naked hostility in her eyes, her lips firmly locked together.

  ‘Exactly zero.’ Sime drew a long, slow breath to steady himself. ‘But let’s assume for a moment that your intruder was a burglar, unlikely though that is. Why would he pursue you across the room, knock you to the floor, as you described, and then attempt to stab you? Apart from the fact that a burglar is unlikely to enter a house where lights are still on and the residents have clearly not gone to bed, wouldn’t he be more likely to run if disturbed? And if the real object of his entry into the house was theft, why would he be carrying a knife?’

  She glared at him. ‘I have no idea.’ Her voice was tight and small. ‘I told you what happened. I’m not a psychic. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘It seems there are a lot of things you can’t explain, Mrs Cowell.’

  It wasn’t a question, and she clearly felt no obligation to respond, and so they sat looking at each other for what seemed like an interminable length of time.

  He felt like the school bully, cruelly and relentlessly harassing the class weakling. She seemed crushed and vulnerable, all alone in the world without anyone to stand up for her with the exception of her truculent cousin. He tried to see her again, as he had that first time when he had been so convinced that he knew her. But now it just felt as if he had known her all his life.

  He said, ‘Kirsty’s a Scottish name, isn’t it?’

  She appeared startled by the question, and a frown of consternation furrowed her brow. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Does your family have Scottish roots?’

  She sighed her impatience. ‘As far as I know, yes.’

  ‘Your mother’s great-great-grandmother was called McKay.’

  Her impatience gave way to astonishment. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There’s a photograph of her in your family album.’

  ‘You have been busy. I suppose you’ve been through all my private things.’

  ‘This is a murder investigation, Mrs Cowell. There is no such thing as private.’

  Her hands were trembling now, and she wrung them in her lap. ‘I don’t see the point in any of this.’

  But Sime had embarked on his course, and there didn’t seem any way back. It had nothing, he knew, to do with the investigation, but he felt impelled to pursue it. ‘Just trying to establish your background.’

  ‘Most people on the island are of Scots or Irish, or even English descent,’ she said. ‘They came here from Nova Scotia, or Prince Edward Island. Some were shipwrecked en route to Quebec City. Great-great-great-granny McKay probably was Scottish. It’s a Scottish name. But there’s been a lot of intermarrying since then. My mother’s maiden name was Aitkens. Mine was Dickson.’ She sucked in a tremulous breath. ‘Now are you going to tell me what any of this has to do with the murder of my husband?’

  ‘Sime?’

  Sime turned to see Blanc standing in the hallway. He had a curious expression on his face, the faintest hint of incomprehension creasing around his eyes.

  ‘I think we should wrap this up.’

  *

  The shadows of clouds raced across the slopes and hills of Entry Island as the stiffening wind blew them quickly overhead from south-west to north-east. But there was no threat of rain in them.

  Thomas Blanc hefted the silver flight cases containing their monitors into the back of the minibus and turned to look at Sime. He kept his voice low. ‘What the hell was that all about in there, Sime?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come on, you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Blanc’s eyes narrowed, clearly suspecting Sime of disingenuity. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually fell asleep sitting upright, with your eyes open, mid-interview.’ Sime could hardly deny it, especially since he had no idea how long he’d actually sat like that. ‘When’s the last time you had a proper sleep? Days? Weeks?’

  Sime shrugged.

  ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Not a medical doctor. A shrink. Someone who can figure out what’s going on in your head.’ He drew a frustrated breath. ‘I mean, what was all that about Scottish roots and great-grannies? Jesus, man! Crozes is going to be reviewing these tapes. And so will others.’ He paused and his expression softened. He put a hand on Sime’s arm. ‘You need help, Sime. You’re not up to this. Really. And there’s not a single member of the team that doesn’t know it. You should be on sick leave. Not attached to a murder case.’

  Sime suddenly felt an almost overpowering sense of failure and, like a mask, the brave face he’d been wearing for the world slipped. He let his head drop and couldn’t meet Blanc’s eyes. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like, Thomas,’ he heard himself say. But his voice seemed disembodied, far away. As if it belonged to someone else. ‘Night after night after night. Staring at the goddamn ceiling. Counting your heartbeats. Seconds turning to minutes, minutes to hours. And the harder you try to sleep the harder it gets. Then in the morning you’re even more
tired than when you went to bed, and you wonder how the hell you’re going to get through another day.’

  He looked up, and the sympathy in Blanc’s eyes was almost harder to take than his earlier frustration. Blanc shook his head slowly. ‘You really shouldn’t be working, man. I don’t know what they were thinking of, attaching you to this case.’

  He clammed up, suddenly, averting his eyes and stooping to pick up a camera case. Sime turned and saw Crozes approaching.

  ‘How did it go?’ he said when he reached them.

  Sime glanced at Blanc, but his co-interrogator was ostentatiously busying himself packing camera cases into the minibus. He said, ‘She can’t explain how Norman Morrison comes to have a photograph of her in his room, or how he got it. And she claims to have no idea why anyone might want to kill her. It didn’t even seem to have occurred to her that if she was the object of the attack, then her attacker must have had a reason.’

  ‘Unless, of course, there was no attacker, and she simply hasn’t thought it through.’ Crozes paused. ‘How did she seem to you?’

  Sime had no recourse other than to answer honestly. ‘Flustered, Lieutenant. Not very convincing.’

  ‘How about you, Thomas? Did she convince you?’

  Blanc straightened up. ‘Not at all, boss. She’s hostile and evasive, and guilty as hell, if you ask me.’

  Aitkens stepped on to the porch from inside the summer-house and they turned as he came down the steps towards them. He shrugged hopelessly. ‘She doesn’t want me to stay with her overnight.’ Then he turned hostile eyes on Sime. ‘I don’t know what you said to her in there, but you really upset her.’

  Sime didn’t know what to say, and it was Crozes who rescued him from having to respond. ‘A man is dead, Monsieur Aitkens. It’s not easy to avoid trampling on people’s sensibilities when you’re trying to find out why. We appreciate that Madame Cowell has been widowed, but she is also our only witness.’ And he closed further discussion on the subject. ‘You can come back on the boat with us.’

  Aitkens gave him a long hard look, but said nothing before turning and going back into the house.

  Crozes turned to Sime and Blanc. ‘If Norman Morrison hasn’t been found before dark, I’m going to have to leave one of our people to watch over Mrs Cowell. However unlikely it might be, if it was Morrison who murdered Cowell and he’s still at large, there’s a chance that Mrs Cowell could be in danger.’