A Trick of the Light (37 page)

So she’d taken herself off to a quite astonished recruiting officer and signed up.

That had been twelve years ago. And now she was one of the senior officers in the Sûreté, outstripping her teacher and mentor. But only, they both knew, because he’d chosen, and been given, a different path.

“How can I help, Armand?” she asked, indicating one of their balcony chairs with an elegant, slender hand.

“Shall I leave you?” Jérôme asked, struggling out of his seat.

“No, no,” Gamache waved him down, “please stay if you’d like.”

Jérôme always liked. A retired emergency room doctor, he’d loved puzzles all his life and was more than amused that his wife, always gently poking fun at his endless ciphers, was now neck deep in puzzles herself. Of a more serious nature, to be sure.

Chief Inspector Gamache put his Perrier down and brought the dossier out of his satchel. “I’d like you to look at these and tell me what you think.”

Superintendent Brunel spread the photographs on the wrought iron table, using their glasses and food platter to pin them down against the slight breeze.

The men waited quietly as she studied them. She took her time. Cars drove by. Across the way, in the park, children kicked around a soccer ball and played on the swings.

Armand Gamache sipped his sparkling water, stirring the bubbly wedge of lime with his finger, and watched as she examined the paintings from Lillian Dyson’s apartment. Thérèse looked stern, a seasoned investigator handed an element in a murder case. Her eyes darted here and there, scanning the paintings. And then they slowed and rested first on one image then another. She moved the paintings about on the table, tilting her coiffured head to the side.

Her eyes never softened, but her expression did, as she began to lose herself in the paintings and the puzzle.

Armand hadn’t told her anything about them. About who’d done them, about what he wanted to know. He’d given her no information, except that they were from a murder investigation.

He wanted her to form her own opinion, unsullied by his questions or comments.

The Chief Inspector had taught her at the academy that a crime scene wasn’t simply on the ground. It was in people’s heads. Their memories and perceptions. Their feelings. And you don’t want to contaminate those with leading questions.

Finally she leaned away from the table and looked up, first as always at Jérôme, then to Gamache.

“Well, Superintendent?”

“Well, Chief Inspector, I can tell you I’ve never seen these works or this artist before. The style is singular. Like nothing else out there. Deceptively simple. Not primitive, but not self-conscious either. They’re beautiful.”

“Would they be valuable?”

“Now there’s a question.” She considered the images again. “Beautiful isn’t in fashion. Edgy, dark, stark, cynical, that’s what galleries and curators want. They seem to think they’re more complex, more challenging, but I can tell you, they’re not. Light is every bit as challenging as dark. We can discover a great deal about ourselves by looking at beauty.”

“And what do these,” Gamache indicated the paintings on the table, “tell you?”

“About myself?” she asked with a smile.

“If you’d like, but I was thinking more about the artist.”

“Who is he, Armand?”

He hesitated. “I’ll tell you in a moment, but I’d like to hear what you think.”

“Whoever painted these is a wonderful artist. Not, I think, a young artist. There’s too much nuance. As I said, they’re deceptively simple, but if you look closely they’re made up of grace notes. Like here.” She pointed to where a road swept around a building, like a river around a rock. “That slight play of light. And over here, in the distance, where sky and building and road all meet and become difficult to distinguish.”

Thérèse looked at the paintings, almost wistfully. “They’re magnificent. I’d like to meet the artist.” She looked into Gamache’s eyes and held them for a moment longer than necessary. “But I suspect I won’t. He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s the victim?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Besides the fact you’re the head of homicide?” She smiled and beside her Jérôme gave a harrumph of amusement. “Because for you to bring these to me the artist would have to be either a suspect or the victim, and whoever painted these would not kill.”

“Why not?”

“Artists tend to paint what they know. A painting is a feeling. The best artists reveal themselves in their works,” said Superintendent Brunel, glancing again at the art. “Whoever painted this was content. Not, perhaps, perfect, but a content man.”

“Or woman,” said the Chief Inspector. “And you’re right, she’s dead.”

He told them about Lillian Dyson, her life and her death.

“Do you know who killed her?” Jérôme asked.

“I’m getting closer,” said Gamache, gathering up the photographs. “What can you tell me about François Marois and André Castonguay?”

Thérèse raised a finely shaped brow. “The art dealers? Are they involved?”

“Along with Denis Fortin, yes.”

“Well,” said Thérèse, sipping her white wine. “Castonguay has his own gallery, but most of his income comes from the Kelley contract. He landed it decades ago and has managed to hold on to it.”

“You make it sound tenuous.”

“I’m actually amazed he still has it. He’s lost a lot of his influence in recent years, with new, more contemporary galleries opening.”

“Like Fortin’s?”

“Exactly like Fortin. Very aggressive. Fortin’s taken a real run at the gentlemen’s club. Can’t say I blame him. They shut him out so he had no choice but to pound down the doors.”

“Denis Fortin doesn’t seem content with pounding down just the doors,” said Gamache, taking a thin slice of cured Italian sausage and a black olive. “I get the impression he wants everything to come crashing down around Castonguay’s ears. Fortin wants it all, and means to get it.”

“Van Gogh’s ear,” said Thérèse, and smiled as Gamache paused before putting the sliced sausage in his mouth. “Not the cold cut, Armand. You’re safe. Though I can’t vouch for the olives.”

She gave him a wicked look.

“Did you just say, ‘Van Gogh’s ear’?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Someone else used the same expression earlier in the investigation. Can’t remember who now. What does it mean?”

“It means scooping up everything for fear of missing something important. Like they missed Van Gogh’s genius in another era. Denis Fortin is doing just that. Grabbing up all the promising artists, in case one of them turns out to be the new Van Gogh, or Damien Hirst or Anish Kapoor.”

“The next big thing. He missed it with Clara Morrow.”

“He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”

“So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.

She nodded. “I think so. As I said, beautiful isn’t in, but then if you’re going to find the next big thing it won’t be among all the people doing what everyone else’s doing. You need to find someone creating their own form. Like her.”

She tapped the dossier with a manicured finger.

“And François Marois?” asked Gamache. “How does he fit in?”

“Ah, now there’s a good question. He gives every appearance of urbane disinterest, certainly in the infighting. Seems to live above the fray. Claims to only want to promote great art and the artists. And he certainly knows it. Of all the dealers in Canada, and certainly in this city, I’d say he’s most likely to recognize talent.”

“And then what?”

Thérèse Brunel looked at Gamache closely. “You’ve obviously spent time with him, Armand. What do you think?”

Gamache thought for a moment. “I think of all the dealers he’s the most likely to get what he wants.”

Brunel nodded slowly. “He’s a predator,” she finally said. “Patient, ruthless. As charming as can be, as you’ve probably noticed, until he spots what he wants. And then? Best to hide somewhere until the slaughter is over.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. I’ve never known François Marois not to get his way.”

“Has he ever broken the law?”

She shook her head. “Not the laws of man, anyway.”

The three friends sat quietly for a moment. Until finally Gamache spoke.

“I’ve come across a quote in this case and wonder if you know it.
He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.
”

He sat back and watched their reactions. Thérèse, so serious a moment before, smiled a bit while her husband guffawed.

“I know that quote. From a critique, I believe. But many years ago,” said Thérèse.

“It was. A review in
La Presse.
Written by the dead woman.”

“By her or about her?”

“The review mentions a ‘he,’ Thérèse,” said her husband with amusement.

“That’s true, but Armand might have misquoted. He’s famous for shoddy work, you know,” she said with a smile, and Gamache laughed.

“Well, this time, by dumb luck, I got it right,” he said. “Do you remember who the line was written about?”

Thérèse Brunel thought, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Armand. As I say, it’s become a famous line, but I suspect whoever it was written about didn’t become a famous artist.”

“Are reviews that important?”

“To Kapoor or Twombly, no. To someone just starting out, a first show, they’re crucial. Which reminds me, I saw the wonderful reviews of Clara’s show. We couldn’t make the
vernissage,
but I’m not surprised. Her works are genius. I called to congratulate her but couldn’t get through. I’m sure she’s busy.”

“Are Clara’s paintings better than these?” Gamache indicated the dossier.

“They’re different.”

“
Oui.
But if you were still the chief curator at the Musée, which artist would you buy, Clara Morrow or Lillian Dyson?”

Thérèse considered for a moment. “You know, I say they’re different, but they have one big thing in common. They’re both quite joyous, in their own way. How lovely if that’s where art’s heading.”

“Why?”

“Because it might mean that’s where the human spirit’s heading. Out of a period of darkness.”

“That would be good,” agreed Gamache, picking up his dossier. But before he rose he looked at Thérèse, then made up his mind.

“What do you know about Chief Justice Thierry Pineault?”

“Oh, God, Armand, don’t tell me he’s involved?”

“He is.”

Superintendent Brunel took a deep breath. “I don’t know him personally, only as a jurist. He seems very straight, upstanding. No blemishes on his judicial record. Everyone has their stumbles, but I haven’t heard anything against him as a sitting judge.”

“And off the bench?” pressed Gamache.

“I’d heard he liked his drink and could get pretty nasty at times. But then, he had reason to. Lost a grandson, or was it a little girl? A DUI. He quit drinking after that.”

Gamache got up and helped clear the table, carrying the tray into their kitchen. Then he made for the door. But there he paused.

He’d been debating saying anything to Thérèse and Jérôme. But if there was ever a time, it was now. And if there was ever a couple, it was them.

As they stood on the threshold, Gamache slowly closed the door and looked at them. “I have another question for you,” he said quietly. “Nothing to do with the case. It’s about something else.”

“Oui?”

“The video of the attack,” he said, watching them closely. “Who do you really think released it onto the Internet?”

Jérôme looked perplexed, but Superintendent Brunel didn’t.

She looked angry.

TWENTY-TWO

Thérèse led them back into the apartment, away from the door, and away from the open French windows. Into the dim center of the room.

“There was an internal investigation,” she said, her voice low and angry. “You know that, Armand. They discovered it was a hacker. Some kid who found the file and probably didn’t even know what it was. That’s all.”

“If it was some kid with dumb luck why haven’t they found him?” Gamache asked.

“Leave it for the investigators,” she said, her voice softer now.

Gamache considered the two people in front of him. An older man and woman. Creased, worn.

But then, so was he.

Which was why he’d warned Beauvoir away from looking further. Why he hadn’t quietly assigned this to any of his other hundred agents. Any one of them would have gladly dug deeper.

But what would they find buried there?

No, best to do it himself. With the help of two people he trusted. And the Brunels had one other, outstanding, qualification. They were nearer the end than the beginning. As was he. The end of all their careers. The end of all their lives. If they lost either now, they’d still have lived fully.

Gamache would not put a young agent on this case. He would not lose another one, not if he had a choice.

“I waited for the report of the internal investigation,” he said. “I read it, and spent two months studying it, thinking about it.”

Superintendent Brunel considered carefully before asking the question she really didn’t want the answer to. “And what did you conclude?”

“That the investigation was flawed, perhaps even intentionally. In fact, almost certainly intentionally. Someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth.”

There was no use pretending otherwise. That was what he believed.

“What makes you say that?” Jérôme asked.

“Because it would be nearly impossible for a hacker to find the video file. And if one had, the investigators would have found him. That’s what they do. There’s a whole department that only investigates cyber crime. They’d have found him.”

Thérèse and Jérôme were quiet. Then Jérôme turned to his wife.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She looked from her husband to her guest.

“You say someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth. What do you think is the truth?”

“That it was an internal leak,” said Gamache. “Someone inside the Sûreté released the video, deliberately.”

Even as he spoke he realized he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, or suspect.