For a long time he lay, eyes closed, with kaleidoscope colours appearing like inkblots behind his lids before vanishing again into darkness. He turned over and focused on his breathing. Slow, steady. Letting his mind and his thoughts wander. Trying to relax his body, let the weight of it sink into the bed.
And then he was on his back. Eyes open and staring at the ceiling. And although every part of him cried out for sleep he was wide awake.
*
It was possible that he had drifted off into periods of semi-consciousness, but it didn’t feel that way. Unable to prevent himself, he had followed the painful passage of time through the digital figures that counted away his life during the small hours, the wind and rain raging without cease outside the glass doors of his room. Four, five, six o’clock. Six-thirty now, and he felt more tired than when he had lain down the night before. The headache was there, as it always was, and he finally rose to drop an effervescent painkiller into his plastic cup and listen to it fizz. It seemed impossible now to face the day without it.
Back in the bedroom he picked his clothes off the floor and slowly got dressed. His cotton hoodie, which he had hung over the bath the night before, was still damp. But he had brought nothing else, and so pulled it on anyway. He slid open the glass doors and slipped out into the car park. The first grey light of dawn was seeping through clouds so low they were scraping the surface of the island, propelled by a wind that was not yet spent. The tarmac was littered with the debris of the storm. Upturned garbage cans, their contents carried off into the night. Roof tiles. The branches of pine trees from the plantation that grew all around this island conurbation. A child’s trampoline, all buckled out of shape, had been plucked from a garden somewhere and come to rest lodged between a pickup truck and a saloon car. The cross above the steeple of the ugly modern church building across the street had snapped at its base and hung precariously from the roof, attached only by its lightning conductor.
And still the air was not cold. The wind, though little diminished, was soft in his face, and he breathed it in deeply, letting it fill his mouth. Between the hospital and the church, a broad street led down towards the bay, and he could see the ocean piling in along the island’s shoreline in huge green breakers that broke in fearsome froth around the curve of the coast. He crossed the road and walked towards it, hands thrust deep in his pockets, and stopped and stood for a long time on the slope of the hill just watching the power of the sea below him as the day began to make some impression on the storm.
*
Crozes was sitting in the breakfast room on his own, nursing a coffee. Two slices of hot buttered toast lay on the plate in front of him, a single bite taken. But he was no longer chewing when Sime came in, and he didn’t appear to have an appetite for the remainder.
Sime poured himself a coffee and sat down opposite, placing his mug on the stained expanse of white melamine that lay between them. Crozes looked up from his silent thoughts. ‘Jesus, man, did you sleep at all?’
Sime shrugged. ‘A bit.’
Crozes scrutinised him carefully for some moments. ‘You should see a doctor.’
Sime took a sip of his coffee. ‘Already have. He gave me some pills. But they just make me drowsy during the day, and don’t help me sleep at night.’
‘Didn’t sleep much myself last night. With all that damned noise. I thought the roof was going to lift off the hotel, or the windows were going to come in. They were creaking like they were ready to shatter.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘I got a call about fifteen minutes ago. The King Air got struck by debris on the apron at the airport during the night. Damage to the windshield, apparently. If they can’t fix it here, they’re going to have to send over a replacement aircraft with the parts. Upshot is, we ain’t getting off the islands today. So the body and all the other evidence is going to have to sit on ice till we can get us back in the air.’
‘Tough break.’
Black eyes darted quickly in Sime’s direction, as if perhaps Crozes suspected sarcasm. Both men knew it would reflect badly on Crozes if their investigation dragged on beyond a day or two. He delved into his pocket to retrieve a set of car keys and tossed them across the table. ‘Lapointe has rented us a couple of vehicles. Those are for the Chevy. It’s out front. Take it and go talk to Kirsty Cowell’s cousin, Jack Aitkens. If you think it’s worthwhile, bring him back to the station here on Cap aux Meules and we’ll video a formal interview.’
‘What do you think he might be able to tell us?’
Crozes tossed a frustrated hand into the air. ‘Who the hell knows? But I’ve been looking at the tapes. She’s a weirdo, right? The Cowell woman. Maybe he can give us some insight into her personality, her relationship with the husband. Anything that’ll give us something more than we have.’