Entry Island(90)

Sime sighed and swung his gaze back towards Blanc. ‘Look Thomas, I was a bit emotional, okay? I’d just found out my wife and the lieutenant had been sleeping together behind my back for who knows how long. And if she hadn’t pointed a gun at my head I might just have killed him.’

Blanc stared at his hands as he wrung them in his lap. ‘But you were right, though. Everyone did know.’ He looked up earnestly. ‘No one thought it was okay. But you know, you were never that close to anyone, Sime, so no one really felt it was their business to tell you. I certainly didn’t think it was any of mine.’

Sime shook his head and almost laughed. How would any of them have phrased it? Hey, Sime, did you know that Lieutenant Crozes is screwing your wife? ‘If I’d been you I probably wouldn’t have said anything either. But it really doesn’t matter now. It’s done. Over. Time to move on.’

But Blanc clearly had something else on his mind. He said, ‘What did Crozes say when he came to your room this morning?’

Sime raised an eyebrow. ‘You know about that?’

‘Everyone knows about it, Sime.’

Sime sighed. ‘We agreed to put it behind us.’ And he turned back to the file.

There was a long silence before Blanc said, ‘Does that mean he’s not taking any action against you?’

‘It wouldn’t work out well for either of us if he did, Thomas. So, no, he’s not.’ Sime dragged his eyes away from Arseneau’s briefing notes and looked up to see Blanc shaking his head. ‘What?’

‘Doesn’t make any sense, Sime.’

‘You think he should have charged me?’ Sime couldn’t conceal his surprise.

‘I think he’s like a wounded animal. Bleeding and dangerous.’ Blanc fixed him with his small dark eyes. ‘You gave him a hell of a beating this morning, Sime. In front of his lover. And when you opened the door to that hotel room, there wasn’t a single member of the team who didn’t see him lying naked and bleeding on the floor. Serious humiliation. He’ll feel that for a lot longer than any physical pain you inflicted.’ He looked earnestly at the younger man. ‘If he says he wants to put it behind him, he’s lying. Whatever he said, whatever he promised you, don’t believe him. He’ll fuck you the first chance he gets.’

II

It took their taxi just under twenty minutes to get from the airport to the Auberge Saint-Antoine in the old port area of Quebec City. For all that he had been brought up in the Eastern Townships, it was Sime’s first visit to the provincial capital.

It was an impressive old town, with its walled castle towering over the port and the river, the jumble of ancient houses in narrow streets that clustered beneath the old city walls. Restored now as a tourist attraction and filled with restaurants and hotels.

The St Lawrence river was wide here, and they could see the ferry on its way over from the distant port of Levis on the far bank as their taxi drew up outside Briand’s hotel. Although many of its rooms looked out over the river, the entrance was up the narrow Rue Saint-Antoine, stone-built tenements rising all around, trees covering the hill at the top end of the street. Briand had an attic room on the fourth floor, a huge arched window opening on to a view of the river. A man used to getting his own way, he was in a foul mood when he let them into his room.

He closed the door behind them. ‘Am I under arrest or what?’

‘Of course not.’ Blanc’s voice was full of reassurance. But Briand was not mollified.

‘Well, it feels like it. I had a visit from the local Sûreté last night who told me not to leave my room until you people had spoken to me today. I feel like I’m under house arrest here. I’ve already missed one meeting this morning, and now I’m going to be late for another.’

‘A man is dead, Mayor Briand,’ Sime said. He looked thoughtfully at the mayor. He was a tall man, fit and good-looking. He had the sharp, wide-boy look of the politician, polished and well-manicured, but with the cultivated veneer of sophistication that only money can buy. His thick dark hair was gelled back from a tanned face, and Sime had recognised him the moment he opened his door as the man in the photograph with Ariane Briand that he had seen sitting on her sideboard. He wore dark slacks and a white shirt with carefully rolled-up sleeves.

‘I know that,’ he snapped. ‘But I don’t see what that has to do with me.’

Blanc said, ‘He was your main business competitor, and he was screwing your wife.’

Briand’s skin flushed dark beneath his tan. ‘Whatever may or may not have occurred between Cowell and my wife was over.’ He controlled the anger in his voice by clenching his teeth.