A Trick of the Light (38 page)

“But why?” she asked. It was clearly a question she’d been asking herself.

“I think the ‘why’ depends on the ‘who,’” said the Chief. He watched her closely. “This is no surprise to you, is it?”

Thérèse Brunel hesitated then shook her head. “I also read the report, as did all the other superintendents. I don’t know what they thought, but I came to the same conclusion you did. Not necessarily that it was an inside job,” she looked at him with warning, “but that for some strange reason, the investigation was inconclusive. Given that it involved the deaths of four officers and the betrayal of their families and the service, I’d have expected the investigation to be rigorous. I’d have thought they’d throw everything they had at it. And they claimed to. And yet the conclusion, under all the rhetoric, was shockingly thin. The tape was stolen by an unknown hacker.”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, exhaling before she spoke again.

“We have a problem, Armand.”

He nodded, looking at both of them. “We have a big problem.”

Superintendent Brunel sat and indicated chairs for the other two, who joined her. She paused, about to cross the Rubicon. “Who do you think did it?”

Gamache held her intelligent, bright eyes. “You know who I think.”

“I do, but I need you to say it.”

“Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur.”

Outside they could hear the shrieks of children chasing each other, running and laughing.

“This’ll be fun,” Jérôme Brunel said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of a thorny puzzle.

“Jérôme!” said his wife. “Haven’t you been listening? The head of the Sûreté du Québec may very well have done something not only illegal, but deeply cruel. An attack on officers dead and alive. And their families. For his own ends.”

Thérèse turned back to Gamache. “If it was Francoeur, why would he do it?”

“I don’t know. But I know he’s been trying to get rid of me for years. He might have thought this would be the final shove.”

“But the video didn’t make you look bad, Armand,” said Jérôme. “Just the opposite. It made you look very good.”

“And what would cripple you, Jérôme?” Gamache looked with affection at the man across from him. “Being falsely accused or being falsely praised? Especially when there was so much pain and so little to praise.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jérôme, looking his friend square in the face.

“Merci,”
Gamache inclined his head, “but it wasn’t my finest hour either.”

Jérôme nodded. The spotlight could be a tricky thing. It could send a person rushing for someplace dim to hide. Away from the crippling glare of public approval.

Gamache hadn’t run, but both Jérôme and Thérèse knew he’d been sorely tempted. Had come within a breath of handing in his warrant and retiring. And no one would have blamed him. Just as no one blamed him for the deaths of those young agents. No one, except Gamache himself.

But instead of retiring, retreating, the Chief Inspector had stayed.

And Jérôme wondered if this was why. If there was one more thing Chief Inspector Gamache needed to do. His final duty, to both the living and the dead.

To find the truth.

*   *   *

Agent Isabelle Lacoste wiped her face with her hands and looked at her watch.

Seven thirty-five in the evening.

The Chief had called earlier with what seemed a strange request. A suggestion really. It had meant extra work, but she’d assigned another agent to the search. Now five of them were going over the files in the morgue of the Montréal daily
La Presse.

It was going much more quickly, but not knowing when the review had been published, not the year, not even the decade, was difficult. And Chief Inspector Gamache had just made it more difficult still.

“Look at this,” one of the junior agents said, turning to Lacoste. “I think I’ve found it.”

“Oh, thank God,” moaned another.

The other three agents crowded around the microfiche.

“Can you magnify it?” Lacoste asked and the agent clicked a dial. The screen leapt closer, and clearer.

There, in bold type, were the words “A Deeply Moving Exhibit.” And what followed was not so much a review or critique but a comedy routine, a riff on the word “move,” as in “movement.” As in “bodily function.”

Even the drained agents chuckled as they read.

It was juvenile, immature. But still, quite funny. Like watching someone slip on a banana peel. And fall. Nothing subtle about it. But for some reason laughable.

Isabelle Lacoste did not laugh.

Unlike the others, she’d seen how this review concluded. Not with the period on the page, but with the body sprawled in the late spring garden.

It started with a joke, and it ended in murder.

Agent Lacoste had copies of the review printed out, making sure the date was clear. Then she thanked and dismissed the other agents and got into her car for the drive back to Three Pines. Convinced that in her car she carried a conviction.

TWENTY-THREE

Peter sat in Clara’s studio.

She’d gone off right after a fairly silent supper to speak with Myrna. He hadn’t been enough after all. He’d been tested, he knew. And found wanting.

He was always wanting. But up until now he hadn’t really known what he wanted, so he’d gone after everything.

Now, at least, he knew.

He sat in Clara’s studio and waited. God, he knew, lived here too. Not just in St. Thomas’s on the hill. But here, in the cluttered space, with the dried-up apple cores, the tins with oil-hardened brushes shoved into them. The paintings.

The big fiberglass feet and the uteruses rampant.

Across the hall in his pristine studio he’d made space for inspiration. All clean and tidy. But inspiration had mistaken the address, and landed here instead.

No, thought Peter, it wasn’t just inspiration he was looking for, it was more.

That had been the problem. All his life he’d mistaken the one for the other. Thinking inspiration was enough. Mistaking the created for the Creator.

He’d brought a bible with him into Clara’s studio, in case that would help. In case God needed proof he was sincere. He flipped through it, finding the apostles.

Thomas. Like their church. Doubting Thomas.

How odd that Three Pines would have a church named after a doubter.

And his own name? Peter. He was the rock.

To pass the time until God found him Peter skimmed the bible for any references to his name.

He found lots of very satisfying ones.

Peter the rock, Peter the apostle, Peter the saint. A martyr even.

But then Peter was something else too. Something Jesus had said to Peter when the apostle had been faced with an obvious miracle. A man walking on water. And Peter, though he himself was also walking on water, hadn’t believed it.

Hadn’t believed all the evidence, all the proof.

“O, ye of little faith.”

It had been said of Peter.

He closed the book.

*   *   *

It was twilight by the time Agent Isabelle Lacoste parked the car and entered the Incident Room. She’d called ahead and Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir were waiting for her.

She’d read them the review over the phone, but still both men met her, anxious to actually see it.

She handed a copy to each of them and watched.

“Holy shit,” said Beauvoir, having raced through it. They both turned to Gamache, who had his reading glasses on and was taking his time. Finally he lowered the paper and removed his glasses.

“Well done.” He nodded gravely to Agent Lacoste. To say what she found was surprising was an understatement.

“Well, that just about does it, don’t you think?” said Beauvoir.
“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,”
he quoted without looking at the review. “How’d so many get it wrong, though?”

“Over time things can get a little warped,” said Gamache, “we all know that from interviewing witnesses. People remember things differently. Fill in the blanks.”

“So, what now?” asked Beauvoir. It was clear what he thought should happen. Gamache considered for a moment then turned to Agent Lacoste.

“Would you do the honors? Inspector, perhaps you could go with her.”

Agent Lacoste laughed. “You don’t expect trouble, surely.”

But she instantly regretted it.

The Chief, though, smiled. “I always expect trouble.”

“So do I,” said Beauvoir, checking his gun, as did Lacoste. The two headed out into the night while Chief Inspector Gamache sat down, and waited.

*   *   *

Monday being a quiet night at the bistro it was only half full.

As Lacoste entered she scanned the room, not taking anything for granted. Just because it was familiar, and comfortable, didn’t mean it was safe. Most accidents happen close to home, most murders happen in the home.

No, this was not the time, or place, to let her guard down.

Myrna and Dominique and Clara were having tisane and dessert, talking quietly at a table by the mullioned window. In the far corner, by the stone fireplace, she could see the artists, Normand and Paulette. And at a table across from them sat Suzanne and her dinner companions, Chief Justice Thierry Pineault and Brian, dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket.

Denis Fortin and François Marois shared a table, Fortin telling some anecdote that amused him. Marois looked polite and slightly bored. There was no sign of André Castonguay.

“Après toi,”
Beauvoir murmured to Lacoste as they moved into the bistro. By now most had noticed the two Sûreté officers. At first the patrons looked, some smiled, then went back to their conversations. But after a moment some looked up again, sensing something different.

Myrna, Clara, Dominique grew quiet and watched as the officers walked between the tables, leaving silence in their wake.

Past the three women.

Past the art dealers.

At Normand and Paulette’s table they stopped. And turned.

“May I have a word?” Agent Lacoste asked.

“Here? Now?”

“No. I think perhaps someplace more private, don’t you?” And Agent Lacoste quietly placed the photocopied article on the round wooden table.

Then that table too fell silent.

Except for Suzanne’s groan, “Oh, no.”

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache rose as they entered and greeted them as though it was his home and they honored guests.

No one was fooled. Nor were they meant to be. It was a courtesy, nothing more.

“Would you have a seat, please?” He motioned to the conference table.

“What’s all this about?” Chief Justice Thierry Pineault asked.

“Madame,” said Gamache, ignoring Pineault and concentrating on Suzanne, pointing to a chair.

“Messieurs.” The Chief then turned to Thierry and Brian. The Chief Justice and his tattooed, pierced, shaved companion took chairs across from Gamache. Beauvoir and Lacoste sat on either side of the Chief.

“Can you explain that, please?” Chief Inspector Gamache’s voice was conversational. He pointed to the old
La Presse
article in the middle of the table, an island between their sparring continents.

“In what way?” Suzanne asked.

“In any way you choose,” said Gamache. He sat quietly, one hand cupped in the other.

“Is this an interrogation, Monsieur Gamache?” the Chief Justice demanded.

“If it was, neither of you would be sitting with us.” Gamache looked from Thierry to Brian. “This is a conversation, Monsieur Pineault. An attempt to understand an inconsistency.”

“He means a lie,” said Beauvoir.

“You’ve gone too far.” Pineault turned to Suzanne. “I’m going to advise you to stop answering questions.”

“Are you her lawyer?” Beauvoir asked.

“I’m a lawyer,” snapped Pineault. “And good thing too. You can call this what you like, but using a soothing voice and nice words doesn’t disguise what you’re trying to do.”

“And what’s that?” demanded Beauvoir, matching the Chief Justice’s tone.

“Trap her. Confuse her.”

“We could have waited until she was alone and questioned her then,” said Beauvoir. “You should be glad you’re even allowed in here.”

“All right,” said Gamache, raising his hand, though his voice was still reasonable. Both men paused, mouths open, ready to attack. “Enough. I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Justice Pineault. I think my Inspector has a good point.”

But before speaking with the Chief Justice, Gamache took Beauvoir aside and whispered, “Keep yourself in check, Inspector. No more of that.”

He held Beauvoir’s gaze.

“Yessir.”

Beauvoir took himself off to the bathroom and sat once again in a stall. Quietly. Gathering himself up. Then he washed his face and hands, and taking half a pill he looked at his reflection.

“Annie and David are having difficulties,”
he whispered and felt himself calm down.
Annie and David are having difficulties.
The pain in his gut began to slip away.

Outside in the Incident Room, Chief Inspector Gamache and Chief Justice Pineault had walked a distance from the others and now stood beside the large red fire truck.

“Your man is treading too close to the line, Chief Inspector.”

“But he’s right. You need to decide. Are you here as Suzanne Coates’s advocate or her AA—” he paused, not sure what word to use, “—friend.”

“I can be both.”

“You can’t, and you know it. You’re the Chief Justice. Decide, sir. Now.”

Armand Gamache faced Chief Justice Pineault, waiting for an answer. The Chief Justice was taken aback, clearly not thinking he’d be challenged.

“I’m here as her AA friend. As Thierry P.”

The answer surprised Gamache and he showed it.

“You think that’s the weaker role, Chief Inspector?”

Gamache didn’t say anything, but he obviously did.

Thierry smiled briefly, then looked very serious. “Anyone can make sure her rights aren’t violated. I think you can. But what you can’t do is guard her sobriety. Only another alcoholic can help her stay sober through this. If she loses that she loses everything.”