Entry Island(115)

For the next half-hour he took a vacuum cleaner over every carpet in the apartment, then went through a whole packet of static-free dust cloths, wiping over cabinets, shelves and tables, amazed by the dirt that came off them. He sprayed air freshener in all the rooms, then nearly choked on its cloying perfume and opened the windows.

By 1 a.m. the apartment was cleaner and fresher than at any time since Marie-Ange’s departure, and there was not a trace of her left in it. Sime stood in the living room breathing hard from his exertions, sweat beading across his forehead. If he had hoped to feel better, he wasn’t sure that he did. It was manic behaviour, he knew. Though at least it was something positive. But when he sat down, somewhere deep inside he knew that all he had been doing was avoiding the moment when he would have to lay his head on the pillow and try to sleep.

He went through to the bedroom and stripped off, careful to drop his clothes in the laundry basket. His new regime. Then he padded through to the bathroom and showered. When he came out he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grateful that it was opaque with steam and that he could not see himself. He took the prescribed dose of SSRIs from their bottle and washed them over with water from his tooth mug, then brushed his teeth.

As he did the steam slowly cleared from the mirror and he saw his ghost staring back at him, hollow-eyed. He had changed everything, and nothing.

Vigorously he rubbed his hair dry with a towel and slipped into a clean pair of boxers. Back in the living room he flicked through the TV channels for half an hour until he turned it off to sit in a silence that screamed. He was so physically fatigued that he could barely stand up. But at the same time his mind was cruising along some astral highway at the speed of light and he felt not the first inclination to sleep.

In spite of warnings to the contrary, he went to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. He poured a large measure, and pulled a face when he took a mouthful. Scotch and toothpaste were a lousy combination. He forced himself to drink it. Then another. And another.

Finally, his head spinning, he went into the bedroom and slipped between the clean sheets. They felt cold, dissipating whatever warmth and sleepiness the whisky had induced. He closed his eyes and let the darkness envelop him. And he lay. And lay. Praying for release.

Nothing happened. He tried hard to keep his eyes shut. But after a time they simply opened and he found himself staring once more at the shadows on the ceiling, tipping his head to one side from time to time to take in the red glow of the digits on the bedside clock, and count away the hours. Sometime, maybe two hours later, the yell of sheer frustration that tore itself from his lips echoed around the apartment.

*

At 7.30 a.m. there was a line of daylight around the edges of the bedroom blinds, and still he had not slept. Reluctantly, wearily, he drew the covers aside and slipped out of bed to get dressed. It was time to go and face the music at Rue Parthenais.

III

It felt odd riding up in the elevator to the fourth floor of the Sûreté as he had done countless times over months and years. He dreaded the doors opening, the long walk along the corridor past all those familiar black-and-white photographs of old crimes and dead detectives. And when, less than a minute later, his footsteps echoed along its length, he felt completely disconnected.

Faces he knew passed him on the walk along to the detectives’ room. Faces that smiled and said bonjour. Awkward smiles, curious eyes.

At the blue plaque inscribed 4.03 Division des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, he turned into the suite of offices that housed the homicide squad. The door to the incident room lay ajar, and he was aware of heads turning in his direction as he walked past. But he didn’t look in.

The offices of the top brass were ranged around an area filled with printers and faxes and filing cabinets, and walkie-talkies on charge. Like fish tanks the offices were open to scrutiny through glass walls.

Captain Michel McIvir emerged from one of them, eyes down, focused on a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He looked up as he became aware of Sime standing there. The most fleeting of shadows crossed his face before he managed a smile and waved a hand towards his office door. ‘Be with you in a minute, Sime.’

Sime sat in the captain’s office. There was a photograph of Paris by night on the wall, and a huge Quebecois flag hung limp from a standing pole. Outside he could see Mount Royal in the distance. Early-morning frost sparkled on the flat roofs of the three-storey brick apartment buildings opposite.

The captain walked in and sat on the business side of his desk. He opened a folder in front of him, and flicked through the several sheets of printed paper it contained. Pure theatre, of course. Whatever their content, he had already read it. He laid his hands flat on the desk and looked up, scrutinising Sime in silence for some moments.