in frustration she tipped its contents out on the glass tabletop. Rings and bracelets, necklaces and pendants, brooches, clasps, dress pins, all rattled across the glass. Silver, gold and platinum set with precious and semiprecious stones. Some of the items were modern, others clearly from a bygone age.
She tried to sort through them with clumsy, trembling fingers, until he saw her upturned face filled with confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve always kept it in here. Always. And it’s gone.’
Sime was aware of Blanc looking at him. He said, ‘What you may or may not have done with an item of jewellery is of no concern here, Mrs Cowell. Murder is.’ He paused. ‘We’ll see you in the morning, weather permitting.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
There were fewer people on the quayside for the departure of the ferry that afternoon than had met it in the morning. But it was probable that the weather had more to do with it than any lack of curiosity on the part of the Entry islanders. The
Ivan-Quinn
was rising and falling dangerously, even in the sheltered waters of the harbour, and Lapointe had difficulty reversing their minibus up the ramp to the car deck.
James Cowell was zipped into a white plastic body bag and lay on the floor between the seats. Nobody had spoken a word on the drive across the island to the harbour with his body lying among them like a ghost. And now everyone was keen to get into the bowels of the ferry and out of the rain. Except for Sime. His jacket already soaked through, he climbed slippery rusted steps to the upper deck and made his way along a narrow walkway to the stern of the boat. From there he could see over the interlocking concrete fingers that made up the breakwater, back across the bay towards Cap aux Meules. It was already almost lost in rainand low cloud. Just a sliver of blue and gold lay along the horizon behind it. The sea in between looked angry. Rising and falling in foaming slabs of grey water like molten lead.
A klaxon sounded as the ramp was raised, and the ferry slipped its mooring to round the breakwater and head out into the advance legions of the coming storm. Waves broke over the bow as soon as she escaped the comparative shelter of the island.
Sime held on to the white-painted rail and watched as Entry Island slowly receded behind them. Incongruously, the sun had slipped beneath the line of cloud in the west, sending out the last of its light to illuminate the contours of the island against the blue-black sky behind it. Before suddenly it was gone, and the island was swallowed by the rain and mist.
Sime let go of the rail with his right hand and lifted it to examine his ring. Its history went back several generations, he knew, but he had no idea of its original owner. He became aware of Lieutenant Crozes approaching, and grabbed hold of the rail again. Crozes stopped next to him, his waterproof jacket zipped up to the neck, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and he was managing somehow, with feet planted wide, to move his body to the rhythm of the boat and stay balanced. An experienced sailor, Sime thought.
‘So what do you reckon?’ he shouted above the wind and the sea.
‘About the wife?’
Crozes nodded.
‘Hard to say, Lieutenant. She has motive, certainly. And she’s the only witness. Her scratches and bruising are compatible with the story she tells. But they could just as easily have been suffered during a struggle with her husband. Though he was a fit man by the look of him, and she’s slight built. An unequal struggle, you would have thought. Makes you wonder how she could have got the better of him.’
Crozes nodded again and seemed to thrust his hands even more deeply into his pockets.
‘But if we’re just looking at motive,’ Sime added, ‘then there’s also the cuckolded husband. Mayor Briand at Cap aux Meules. We’re going to have to talk to him.’
‘Yes, we are. I’ve already briefed
She tried to sort through them with clumsy, trembling fingers, until he saw her upturned face filled with confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve always kept it in here. Always. And it’s gone.’
Sime was aware of Blanc looking at him. He said, ‘What you may or may not have done with an item of jewellery is of no concern here, Mrs Cowell. Murder is.’ He paused. ‘We’ll see you in the morning, weather permitting.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
There were fewer people on the quayside for the departure of the ferry that afternoon than had met it in the morning. But it was probable that the weather had more to do with it than any lack of curiosity on the part of the Entry islanders. The
Ivan-Quinn
was rising and falling dangerously, even in the sheltered waters of the harbour, and Lapointe had difficulty reversing their minibus up the ramp to the car deck.
James Cowell was zipped into a white plastic body bag and lay on the floor between the seats. Nobody had spoken a word on the drive across the island to the harbour with his body lying among them like a ghost. And now everyone was keen to get into the bowels of the ferry and out of the rain. Except for Sime. His jacket already soaked through, he climbed slippery rusted steps to the upper deck and made his way along a narrow walkway to the stern of the boat. From there he could see over the interlocking concrete fingers that made up the breakwater, back across the bay towards Cap aux Meules. It was already almost lost in rainand low cloud. Just a sliver of blue and gold lay along the horizon behind it. The sea in between looked angry. Rising and falling in foaming slabs of grey water like molten lead.
A klaxon sounded as the ramp was raised, and the ferry slipped its mooring to round the breakwater and head out into the advance legions of the coming storm. Waves broke over the bow as soon as she escaped the comparative shelter of the island.
Sime held on to the white-painted rail and watched as Entry Island slowly receded behind them. Incongruously, the sun had slipped beneath the line of cloud in the west, sending out the last of its light to illuminate the contours of the island against the blue-black sky behind it. Before suddenly it was gone, and the island was swallowed by the rain and mist.
Sime let go of the rail with his right hand and lifted it to examine his ring. Its history went back several generations, he knew, but he had no idea of its original owner. He became aware of Lieutenant Crozes approaching, and grabbed hold of the rail again. Crozes stopped next to him, his waterproof jacket zipped up to the neck, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and he was managing somehow, with feet planted wide, to move his body to the rhythm of the boat and stay balanced. An experienced sailor, Sime thought.
‘So what do you reckon?’ he shouted above the wind and the sea.
‘About the wife?’
Crozes nodded.
‘Hard to say, Lieutenant. She has motive, certainly. And she’s the only witness. Her scratches and bruising are compatible with the story she tells. But they could just as easily have been suffered during a struggle with her husband. Though he was a fit man by the look of him, and she’s slight built. An unequal struggle, you would have thought. Makes you wonder how she could have got the better of him.’
Crozes nodded again and seemed to thrust his hands even more deeply into his pockets.
‘But if we’re just looking at motive,’ Sime added, ‘then there’s also the cuckolded husband. Mayor Briand at Cap aux Meules. We’re going to have to talk to him.’
‘Yes, we are. I’ve already briefed
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