A Fatal Grace (22 page)

‘Sir.’

‘Sir.’

‘Sir.’

As Gamache walked back into the Incident Room he was met with a chorus of people wanting to speak to him.

‘Sir, Agent Lemieux’s on the line from Montreal.’

‘Ask him to hold for a moment. I’ll take it in there.’ He nodded to the small office.

‘Sir,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called across the room. ‘I’ve got a problem here.’

‘Sir.’ Beauvoir came up beside him. ‘We’ve called the lab about the photos. They don’t have them yet, but will let us know as soon as they arrive.’

‘Good. Go see if you can help Agent Lacoste. I’ll be there shortly. Agent Nichol?’

All activity in the room stopped. It seemed impossible that the cacophony could cease so quickly, but it did. All eyes turned to Nichol, then swung back to Gamache.

‘Come with me.’

All eyes, and Nichol, followed Gamache into the tiny office.

‘Please sit.’ Gamache nodded to the only chair in the room, then picked up the phone. ‘Put Lemieux through, please.’ He waited a moment. ‘Agent? Where are you?’

‘I’m at the Old Brewery Mission. But I just came from headquarters. He’ll do what you asked.’

‘Any idea when?’

‘No sir.’

Gamache smiled. He could imagine Lemieux in that horrible room with that brilliant, gifted, horrible man. Poor Lemieux.

‘Good work.’

‘Thank you. You were right, though. They knew the vagrant here at the Mission.’ He sounded excited, as though he’d just split the atom.

‘As Elle?’

‘Yes sir. They have no other name. But you were right about the other thing. I have the director of the Mission with me. Should I put him on?’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Terry Moscher.’

‘
Oui, s’il vous plaît.
Put Mr Moscher on.’

After a pause a deep, authoritative voice came down the line.

‘
Bonjour
, Chief Inspector.’

‘Monsieur Moscher, I want to make it clear this is not our jurisdiction. This is a murder in Montreal, but we’ve been invited to make certain discreet inquiries.’

‘I understand, Chief Inspector. In answer to your question, Elle stuck to herself a lot. Most do here, so I didn’t know her well; none of the staff did. But I asked around and a few of the kitchen staff remember her having a pendant round her neck, some old silver thing they think.’

Gamache closed his eyes in a small prayer for the answer to the next question.

‘Did anyone remember what it looked like?’

‘No. I asked and one of the cooks said she’d once commented on it to Elle, by way of making conversation, and Elle immediately covered it up. It seemed important to her, but then the strangest things can seem important to street people. They get fixations, obsessions. This seemed to be one of Elle’s.’

‘One? Did she have others?’

‘Probably, but if she did we don’t know about it. We try to respect their privacy.’

‘I’ll let you go, Monsieur Moscher. You must be busy.’

‘Winter’s always busy. I hope you find out who killed her. Normally it’s the weather that gets them. It’ll be a killing cold tonight.’

Both men hung up thinking it would be nice to meet the other.

‘Sir.’ Beauvoir poked his head in the door. ‘Could you come out and see what Agent Lacoste has?’

‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

Beauvoir closed the door but not before glancing at Agent Nichol sitting like a statue on the chair, her clothes dull and ill fitting, her hairstyle ten years out of date, her eyes and complexion gray. Most women in Quebec, certainly the Québecoises, were stylish and even elegant. The younger ones were often daring in their dress. Even in the Sûreté. Agent Lacoste, for instance, was only slightly older than Nichol but she seemed a world away. She carried herself with élan. Her hair was always clean and cut in a casually elegant fashion, her clothes were simple with a dash of color and individuality. Of course, Nichol’s attire and demeanor were also unique. Their dullness set her apart. Beauvoir wished he could stay and hear the chief give her hell for daring to show up again.

Once the door closed, Gamache turned to consider the young woman sitting in front of him.

She annoyed him. Just looking at her pathetic, ‘poor-me’ demeanor set his skin on edge. She was manipulative and bitter and arrogant. He knew that.

But he also knew he’d been wrong.

That’s what he’d been considering as he’d circled the village green. Round and round he’d gone but always came back to the same place.

He’d been wrong.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking her directly in the eye. She looked back expectantly, as though bracing herself for more. I’m sorry, but you’re fired. I’m sorry, but you’re going home. I’m sorry, but you’re a pathetic loser and I don’t want you anywhere close to this investigation.

And she was right. There was more.

‘I ignored you and that was wrong.’

Still she waited, watching his face. Watching those deep brown eyes, so stern and thoughtful. He looked down at her, his hands folded casually in front of him, his hair and moustache well groomed. The small room smelled slightly of sandalwood. It was so subtle she wondered whether she was imagining it, but thought not. All her senses were heightened, waiting for the execution. The next sentence that would send her back to Montreal in disgrace. Back to narcotics. And back to her tiny, immaculate home in east end Montreal, with its front vegetable garden now under snow, and her father, so proud of her successes.

How could she tell him she’d been fired, again? This was her last chance. Too many people were counting on her. Not just her father, but also the Superintendent.

‘I’m going to give you another chance, agent. I want you to look into the backgrounds of Richard Lyon and his daughter Crie. School, finances, friends, family. I’d like the information by tomorrow morning.’

Nichol rose as though in a dream. In front of her Chief Inspector Gamache had a small smile on his face and warmth in his eyes for the first time since she’d shown up.

‘You said you’ve changed?’

Nichol nodded. ‘I know I was horrible last time. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better this time. Really.’

He looked at her closely and nodded. Then extended his hand. ‘Good. Then maybe we can begin again. A fresh start.’

She slipped her small hand into his.

The asshole believed her.

Outside in the Incident Room Beauvoir saw the handshake and fervently hoped they were saying goodbye, but he had his doubts. Nichol left the room and he hurried over.

‘You didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what, Jean Guy?’

‘You know perfectly well. You didn’t put her back on the team?’

‘I had no choice. Superintendent Francoeur assigned her to me.’

‘You could have refused.’

Gamache smiled. ‘Choose your battles, Jean Guy. This isn’t one I need to fight. Besides, she might have changed.’

‘Oh, God. How many times are you going to try to kick that football?’

‘You think I’m making the same mistake?’

‘Don’t you?’

Gamache looked out the window to Nichol already on a computer.

‘Well, at least I’ll know when to cringe.’

‘You’re cringing a little now, sir. You don’t really believe her, do you?’

Gamache walked out of the tiny room and made for Agent Isabelle Lacoste’s station.

‘What’ve you got?’

‘I’ve been at it all morning and I can’t find anything on Cecilia de Poitiers or her parents. Nothing. I scanned her book, weird stuff by the way, to see if I could find any clues there. You’d mentioned France, so I’d already put in a request to the Sûreté there. Half an hour ago I got this reply.’

Gamache leaned into the computer and read the email from Paris.

Do not bother us with hoaxes.

‘Well,
zut alors
,’ said Gamache. ‘What did you do?’

‘I wrote this.’ She showed him another email.

Dear stupid, ridiculous fuckers, You running dog assholes in the almighty Sûreté in Paris have your heads so far up your asses you wouldn’t know a legitimate inquiry if one bit you on your scrawny little testicles. We’re busy solving crimes here while you’re dreaming of the day you have half the intelligence we have, you pig-shit farts.

Sincerely, Agent Isabelle Lacoste, Sûreté du Qúebec.

‘That’s certainly one way to handle it.’ Gamache smiled.

Beauvoir was impressed and looking forward to another fantasy.

‘I didn’t send it.’ Lacoste looked wistfully at the message. ‘Instead I placed a call to the homicide squad in Paris,’ she said. ‘If I don’t hear from them in a few minutes I’ll call again. I don’t understand their answer. Have you had dealings with them, sir?’

‘A few. I’ve never had a reply like that.’ He looked again at the terse message from Paris. It was yet another thing about this case that seemed to make no sense.

Why would they think this was a hoax?

Gamache sat at his desk and began to go through the stack of papers and messages waiting for him. He came across Lemieux’s list of the contents of CC de Poitiers’s garbage. It was a routine check and rarely helpful since murderers were almost never stupid enough to just throw evidence in their own trash. But Richard Lyon had struck Gamache as, if not stupid, at least close kin to it.

He got himself a coffee, sat down and began reading.

Assorted foods

Milk and pizza cartons

Old, broken bracelet

Two wine bottles, cheap variety

Newspapers

Empty cereal box, fruit loops

A video cassette –
The Lion in Winter

Plastic juice containers

Candy wrappers – Mars bars

Gift wrapping

Box from Inuit shop in Montreal

These people certainly didn’t believe in recycling, thought Gamache. He presumed the video was broken and that the box from the Inuit shop had contained the boots. There was no material for wiring up a heat lamp. There was no empty container of windshield washer fluid.

Too much to ask, really.

Saul Petrov paced the living room of his rented chalet. Outside the snow was beginning to let up. Should he tell the cops about what CC had said? She’d been looking for something in Three Pines, she’d made that clear enough. Money, he was sure. Had she found it?

He’d visited her husband that morning after talking to the Sûreté, just to try to get a feel for the place, and maybe snoop around. Richard Lyon had been cool; unwelcoming even. In fact, his response had surprised Petrov. He hadn’t thought the man capable of standing up for himself. Lyon had always seemed so weak, so bumbling. But he’d managed to make it clear that Saul wasn’t welcome.

Lyon had reason to dislike him, Saul knew. And soon he’d have even more reason.

Now Petrov paced from one end of the overstuffed living room to the other, kicking the day’s newspapers out of his way and toward the fireplace. He was losing patience. What should he tell the cops? What should he keep for himself? Maybe he’d wait until the pictures were developed. He’d told the cops the truth. He had sent them off to his lab. But not all. He’d kept one roll back. One roll that might make him enough money to finally retire and maybe buy this place, and get to know the people of Three Pines. And maybe even find that fantastic artist whose portfolio CC had trashed.

He smiled to himself. CC might not have found her treasure in Three Pines, but he had. He picked up the small roll of film and looked at it, black and hard in his palm. He was an ethical man, though his ethics were situational and this was a very promising situation indeed.

‘
Vous avez dit “l’Aquitaine”? J’ai besoin de parler à quelqu’un làbas? Mais pourquoi?
’ Isabelle Lacoste was struggling to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She knew the person she was most annoyed at was herself. She felt stupid. It was not something she felt often, but here was a quite patient and apparently intelligent agent with the Sûreté in Paris telling her to call the Aquitaine. She didn’t even know what the Aquitaine was.

‘What is the Aquitaine?’ she had to ask. Not to would have been even stupider.

‘It’s a region in France,’ he said, his voice in his nose. Still, it was a nice voice and he wasn’t trying to make her feel bad, just trying to give her information.

‘Why would I want to call there?’ This was turning into a game.

‘Because of the names you gave me, of course. Eleanor de Poitiers. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Here’s the number of the local gendarmerie there.’

He’d given her the number and the officer there had also laughed and said no, she couldn’t speak to Eleanor de Poitiers, ‘unless you’re planning to die in the next moment’.

‘What do you mean?’ She was getting tired of hearing laughter, and getting tired of asking the same question. Still, working with Armand Gamache she’d watched his near endless supply of patience and knew that was what was called for here.

‘She’s dead,’ the constable said.

‘Dead? Murdered?’

More laughter.

‘If you have something to tell me, please do.’ She’d practice patience tomorrow.

‘Think about it. Eleanor de Poitiers.’ He said it very slowly and loudly as though that would help. ‘I must go. My shift ends at ten o’clock.’

He hung up. Lacoste automatically checked her watch. Quarter past four. In Quebec. Quarter past ten in France. The man had at least given her extra time.

But to what end?

She looked around. Gamache and Beauvoir had left. So had Agent Nichol.

Turning back to her computer Agent Lacoste went to Google and typed in ‘Eleanor of Aquitaine’.

NINETEEN