‘You were the ones found her?’
‘Uh-huh.’
There was something unnerving about the steady, unyielding gaze. The stillness of the fellow was in stark contrast to his companion, who shuffled his feet nervously as he glanced around him.
Hollis removed a small memo pad from the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Your name?’ he asked the taller one.
‘Conrad Labarde.’
Hollis looked up. ‘What is that, French?’
‘Basque.’
Basque. It rang a bell, some distant memory of a geography lesson.
‘And you?’ asked Hollis. The nervous fellow froze, then looked to his tall friend as if for assistance.
‘Rollo Kemp,’ replied the Basque. Even Hollis had heard of the Kemps, an old dynasty of farmer-fishermen, one of those families that went back all the way.
‘Cat got his tongue?’
‘You make him a little jumpy is all.’
There was no hint of aggression in his tone, no allocation of blame despite the phrasing. Hollis looked the Kemp boy over—something not quite right about him, he could see it now. Not ‘overburdened’, as his mother would have said. The product of inbreeding, perhaps.
‘You want to tell me what happened?’
Hollis took notes while the Basque, in an even monotone, described the events leading up to the discovery of the body. When he was finished, Hollis closed the pad and placed it in his hip pocket.
‘Any idea who she is?’
‘No.’
‘And what did you do with her earrings?’ It was an old cop trick—a question charged with assumptions, asked ever so casually.
The Basque held Hollis’ gaze, no trace of a flicker. Hollis showed him the earring back-stud.
‘Wait here,’ said the Basque, making for the group of fishermen. Hollis followed, damned if he was going to be ordered around.
The Basque stopped and turned.
‘It’s best,’ he said.
Hollis was too far away to hear the specifics of the exchange. At a certain moment, the Basque must have mentioned Hollis, because everyone glanced over at him. Not long after, the young fisherman with the beard became agitated, raising his voice. With a dismissive sweep of his arm, he turned on his heel.