Entry Island(52)

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.’