Free Entry Island by Peter May Page A

knew, too, that Crozes would want this particular case wrapped up as quickly as possible. It would be the view from Montreal that a murder on an island with a population of a hundred, more or less, should be a straightforward matter. Besides which, keeping a team of eight detectives for any length of time on the Madeleine islands would be a costly business. And these days the bottom line was all important. ‘I guess Ariane Briand will be a French-speaker,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should lead the interrogation.’
    ‘If you like.’ Blanc shrugged indifferently, but Sime knew it was what he wanted.
    Sime spun the wheel and they turned into the Allée Robert-Vigneau, which developed into little more than a pot-holed track caught in their headlights as it cut into the pine plantation that stretched across this south-east corner of the island. A few hundred metres along it they turned right at amail box into a short pebbled drive that led up to a house surrounded by tall trees that swayed dangerously in the wind. Sime pulled into a parking place out front and they stepped down from the vehicle.
    The Briand house was impressive, not typical of the classical island house. It was wooden, of course, but the roof was steeply pitched in the Scandinavian style, and much of the front of the house was glass. A security light came on and Sime saw their reflections in the glass as they walked up to the front door. An odd couple. One tall, lean, a little stooped, the other small and rotund, with a mop of curly dark hair fringing his bald patch. Like cartoon characters out of a graphic novel, he thought.
    Blanc rang the bell twice, and when there was no reply knocked firmly on the glass. Sime stepped back and looked up at the house. There were no lights on anywhere. ‘No one home,’ he said. Through the trees, the lights of a neighbouring house twinkled in the gathering darkness. ‘Let’s see if the neighbours know where she is.’
    Bracing themselves against the rain, the two men ran through the trees, following a path that took them into the neighbour’s garden. Another security light flooded the patio, and a black SUV stood in the drive, its engine ticking, still hot. Sime rang the bell and a middle-aged woman wearing a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms opened the door, peering cautiously out at the two sodden strangers caught in the rain and the glare of her security lamp. Blanc fished out his IDand pushed it towards her. ‘Sûreté, madame. We’re looking for Madame Briand next door. Any idea where we can find her?’
    ‘Oh, she’s not at home,’ the woman said.
    ‘I think we’d already established that.’ Sime’s voice was laden with sarcasm, but it was lost on her. Dark eyes filled with intrigue opened wide. This could only be to do with the murder on Entry Island.
    ‘Ariane flew out this morning to the mainland,’ she said, as if imparting some important confidence. Then her face clouded. ‘Not sure where she went, though. Or when she’ll be back.’
    Sime and Blanc exchanged looks.
III
    The team was eating in the La Patio family restaurant next to the Auberge Madeli when Sergeant Enquêteur Jacques Arseneau returned with the news.
    Two groups, four in one and three in the other, were squeezed into adjoining stalls. Sime and Marie-Ange sat in different groups, ostentatiously avoiding each other. The thirteen thousand inhabitants of the Madeleine Isles had been warned all evening in TV and radio broadcasts to stay indoors and the restaurant was empty, apart from one chef in the kitchen and a single server.
    Arseneau came in dripping and battered, divesting himselfof his jacket and baseball cap and cursing the weather. He squeezed into the end of one of the stalls.
    Crozes looked at him. ‘So what did Mayor Briand have to say for himself?’
    ‘Not a thing, Lieutenant. He’s not in the islands. Flew out this morning, apparently, for a bunch of political meetings in Quebec City. His secretary doesn’t even know