Still Life (25 page)

They left Croft sitting in the interview room. ‘What’d you think, Jean Guy?’ Gamache asked when they reached the privacy of the station commander’s office.

‘I don’t know what to think, sir. Did Croft do it? Philippe’s story hangs together. It’s possible.’

‘We found absolutely no evidence of Jane Neal’s blood in Croft’s truck, or Mrs Croft’s car. His fingerprints weren’t anywhere—’

‘True, but Philippe said he wore gloves,’ Beauvoir interrupted.

‘You can’t wear gloves and shoot a bow and arrow at the same time.’

‘He could have put them on after he shot, once he saw what he’d done.’

‘So he had the presence of mind to put on gloves, but not enough to call the police and admit the accident? No. On paper it makes sense. But in real life it doesn’t.’

‘I don’t agree, sir. One thing you’ve always impressed on me is that we can never know what happens behind closed doors. What really goes on in the Croft home? Yes, Matthew Croft gives every impression of being a thoughtful and reasonable man, but we’ve found time and again that that’s exactly how abusers appear to the outside world. They have to. That’s their camouflage. Matthew Croft may very well be abusive.’ Beauvoir felt stupid lecturing Gamache on the very things he’d learned from the man himself, but he thought they bore repeating.

‘What about the public meeting, when he was so helpful?’ Gamache asked.

‘Arrogance. He admits himself he never thought we’d find him.’

‘I’m sorry, Jean Guy. I just don’t buy it. There’s absolutely no physical evidence against him. Just the accusation of a very angry teenager.’

‘His bruised son.’

‘Yes. A bruise that’s exactly like yours.’

‘But he’d shot arrows before. Croft said only beginners got bruises like that.’

‘True, but Croft also said he’d stopped hunting a couple of years ago, so he probably hadn’t taken his son hunting since then,’ Gamache reasoned. ‘That’s a long time in kid years. He was probably rusty. Believe me, that boy shot an arrow in the last two days.’

They had a problem and they knew it. What to do about Matthew Croft?

‘I’ve called the prosecutor’s office in Granby,’ said Gamache. ‘They’re sending someone around. Should be here soon. We’ll put it to him.’

‘Her.’

Beauvoir nodded through the glass door at a middle-aged woman standing patiently, briefcase in hand. He got up and brought her in to the now cramped office.

‘Maître Brigitte Cohen,’ Beauvoir announced.

‘Bonjour, Maître Cohen. It’s almost one o’clock; have you had lunch?’

‘Only a brioche on the way over. I consider that an hors d’oeuvre.’

Ten minutes later they were in a comfortable diner across from the station house, ordering lunch. Beauvoir put the situation to Maître Cohen, succinctly. She grasped the pertinent details immediately.

‘So the one with all the evidence against him won’t admit it, and the one with no evidence can’t stop admitting it. On the surface it appears the father’s protecting the son. Yet when you first arrived, Chief Inspector, he seemed willing to let his son be charged with the crime.’

‘That’s true.’

‘What changed his mind?’

‘I think he was stunned and deeply wounded by his son’s accusations. I don’t think he saw that coming at all. It’s
hard to know, of course, but I get the feeling that had once been a very happy home, but hasn’t been for a while now. Having met Philippe I think the unhappiness radiates from him. I’ve seen it before. The angry kid runs the home because the parents are afraid of him.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it too. You don’t mean physically afraid, do you?’ asked Cohen.

‘No, emotionally. I think Croft confessed because he couldn’t stand what Philippe must think of him. It was a desperate, even momentarily insane action designed to win back his son. To prove to Philippe he loved him. There also seemed to be an element of, what?’ Gamache thought back to Croft’s face, across the kitchen table. ‘It was like suicide. A resignation. I think he couldn’t stand the pain of what his son had accused him of, so he just gave up.’

Gamache looked at his two companions and smiled slightly.

‘This is all supposition, of course. Just an impression I got. A strong man finally broken and throwing up his hands. He’ll confess to a crime he didn’t commit. But Matthew Croft is just that; a strong man. A man of convictions. He’ll regret this one day, soon, I hope. From what I saw Philippe is very angry and has his family well trained not to cross him.’ Gamache remembered Croft’s hand on the door knob, then him taking it off. Gamache was under the impression Philippe had given his father hell for opening that door without permission in the past, and Croft had learned that lesson well.

‘But why’s he so angry?’ Beauvoir wanted to know.

‘Why is any fourteen-year-old?’ Cohen countered.

‘There’s normal anger, then there’s anger that spills out all over everyone around. Like acid.’ Beauvoir told her about the manure thrown at Olivier and Gabri.

‘I’m not a psychologist, but it sounds like that boy needs help.’

‘I agree,’ said Gamache. ‘But Beauvoir’s question is good. Why is Philippe so angry? Could he be abused?’

He could. The typical reaction of an abused child, though, is to make nice to the abuser and attack the other parent. Philippe seems to scorn both, and have particular disdain for his father. It doesn’t fit the profile, but I’m sure many don’t. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve prosecuted children who have killed their abusive parents. Eventually they turn. Though most don’t turn to murder.’

‘Could he be abused by someone else and be projecting?’ Gamache was remembering Clara’s comment about Bernard Malenfant. She’d said he was a bully and all the boys were terrified of him. She’d even said Philippe would probably admit to murder if it would avoid a beating by Bernard. He passed his thoughts on to Cohen.

‘It’s possible. We’re just getting a handle on how destructive bullies and bullying can be. Philippe might be a victim of bullying and that would certainly make him angry, feel powerless, impotent. And he might become overly controlling at home. It’s a familiar, sadly clichéd, reality. The abused becomes an abuser. But we don’t know.’

‘That’s true. We don’t. But I do know there’s no evidence against Croft in the death of Miss Neal.’

‘Though we have his confession.’

‘The confession of a man who isn’t in his right mind. That can’t be enough. We must have evidence. Sometimes our job is to save people from themselves.’

‘Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?’

This put Beauvoir exactly where he didn’t want to be.

‘I think there’s reason to seriously consider prosecuting Matthew Croft in the death of Jane Neal.’ Beauvoir watched Gamache as he said this. Gamache was nodding. ‘We have Philippe’s eye-witness account,’ continued Beauvoir, ‘which fits all the evidence, and we have strong circumstantial evidence that the death demanded a skilled bow hunter,
which Philippe isn’t. Croft described the scene perfectly, even showing us how Jane Neal was lying. And he knew about the deer trail. All that combined with Croft’s confession should be enough to lay charges.’

Maître Cohen ate a forkful of Caesar salad. ‘I’ll go over your reports and let you know this afternoon.’

On the way back to the station house Beauvoir tried to apologise to Gamache for contradicting him.

‘Now, don’t patronise me,’ Gamache laughed, putting an arm across Beauvoir’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you spoke your mind. I’m just annoyed you made such a strong case. Maître Cohen is likely to agree with you.’

Gamache was right. Cohen called from Granby at 3.30 in the afternoon, instructing Gamache to arrest Croft and charge him with manslaughter, leaving the scene of a crime, obstruction, and destroying evidence.

‘Jesus, she’s really going after him,’ commented Beauvoir. Gamache nodded and asked Beauvoir for a few minutes of privacy in the Commander’s office. Surprised, Beauvoir left. Armand Gamache dialed home and spoke with Reine-Marie, then he called his boss, Superintendent Brébeuf.

‘Oh, come on, Armand, you’ve got to be kidding.’

‘No, Superintendent. I’m serious. I won’t arrest Matthew Croft.’

‘Look, it’s not your call. I don’t need to tell you of all people how the system works. We investigate and get the evidence, lay it before the prosecutors, and they decide who to charge. It’s out of your hands. You’ve been given your instructions, do it, for pity’s sake.’

‘Matthew Croft didn’t kill Jane Neal. There’s absolutely no evidence he did it. There’s the accusation of a probably unbalanced son and his own confession.’

‘What more do you need?’

‘When you were investigating that serial killer in Brossard, did you arrest everyone who confessed?’

‘This is different and you know it.’

‘I don’t know it, Superintendent. Those people who confessed were confused individuals who were fulfilling some obscure need of their own, right?’

‘Right,’ but Michel Brébeuf sounded guarded. He hated arguing with Armand Gamache, and not only because they were friends. Gamache was a thoughtful man and Brébeuf knew he was a man of his convictions. But he isn’t always right, Brébeuf told himself.

‘Croft’s confession is meaningless. I think it’s his form of self-punishment. He’s confused and hurt.’

‘Poor baby.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not saying it’s noble or attractive. But it’s human. And just because he’s begging for punishment doesn’t mean we should comply.’

‘You’re such a sanctimonious bastard. Lecturing me on the moral role of a police force. I know damn well what our job is. You’re the one who wants to be police, judge and jury. If Croft didn’t do it he’ll be released. Trust the system, Armand.’

‘He won’t even come to trial if he continues in this ludicrous confession. And even if he’s eventually released, you and I know what happens to people arrested for a crime. Especially a violent crime. They’re stigmatised for the rest of their lives. Whether they did it or not. We’d be inflicting on Matthew Croft a wound that will stay with him for ever.’

‘You’re wrong. He’s inflicting it on himself.’

‘No, he’s challenging us to do it. Goading us into it. But we don’t have to react. That’s what I’m saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we’re provoked doesn’t mean we have to act.’

‘So, what are you telling me, Chief Inspector? From now on you’ll only arrest people if you’re guaranteed a conviction? You’ve arrested people before who turned out not to have committed the crime. Just last year, remember the
Gagné case? You arrested the uncle, but it turned out the nephew had done it?’

‘True, I was wrong. But I believed the uncle had done it. That was a mistake. This is different. This would be deliberately arresting someone I believe did not commit the crime. I can’t do it.’

Brébeuf sighed. He’d known from the first minute of this conversation that Gamache wouldn’t change his mind. But he had to try. Really, a most annoying man.

‘You know what I’m going to have to do?’

‘I do. And I’m prepared for it.’

‘So as punishment for insubordination you’ll walk through Sûreté Headquarters wearing Sergeant LaCroix’s uniform?’ Mai LaCroix was the immense desk Sergeant who presided over the entry to HQ like Buddha gone bad. To add to the dimension of the horror, she wore a Sûreté-issue skirt some sizes too small.

Gamache laughed at the image. ‘I’ll make you a deal, Michel. If you can get that uniform off her. I’ll wear it.’

‘Never mind. I guess I’ll just have to suspend you.’ Michel Brébeuf had come close to doing this once before, after the Arnot case. His own superiors had ordered him to suspend Gamache, again for insubordination. That case had almost ended both their careers, and the stink still stuck to Gamache. He’d been wrong then, too, in Brébeuf’s opinion. All he had to do was say nothing, it wasn’t as though their superiors were proposing letting the criminals go. Just the opposite, really. But Gamache had defied the authorities. He wondered if Gamache really believed the Arnot case was over.

Brébeuf never thought he’d be doing this, ‘You’re suspended from this moment for the period of one week, without pay. A disciplinary hearing will be held at that time. Don’t wear a skirt.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘D’accord.
Give me Beauvoir.’

It took a lot to stun Jean Guy Beauvoir, but his conversation with the Superintendent did just that. Gamache knew that he cared deeply for Beauvoir, like a son, but the younger man had never shown him any feelings, except that of junior to respected superior. That had been enough. But now Gamache saw the depth of Beauvoir’s pain at having to do this thing, and he received a great gift. The gift of knowing he was cared for in return.

‘Is it true?’

Gamache nodded.

‘Is this my fault? Did I do this by arguing against you? What a fool. Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?’ Beauvoir was pacing the small office like a leopard trapped.

‘This isn’t about you. You did the right thing. The only thing you could do. As did I. As did Superintendent Brébeuf, for that matter.’

‘I thought he was a friend of yours.’

‘He is. Look, don’t feel badly about this. I knew when I called the Super he’d have to do this. I called Reine-Marie before, to run it by her.’

Beauvoir felt pricked, a tiny little point of pain that the Chief Inspector had consulted his wife but not him. He knew it was unreasonable, but feelings so often were. It was why he tried to avoid them.

‘When she said “do it” I called him with a clear conscience. I can’t arrest Matthew Croft.’

‘Well, if you can’t, I can’t. I won’t do Brébeuf’s dirty work for him.’

‘It’s Superintendent Brébeuf, and it’s your job. What was that this afternoon I heard? Just some Devil’s Advocate bullshit? You know how I hate that. Say what you really think, don’t play pretentious little mind games. Is that all that was? Taking the other position like some empty adolescent intellectual game?’

‘No, it wasn’t. I believe Matthew Croft did it.’

‘So arrest him.’

‘There’s more.’ Now Beauvoir looked really miserable. ‘Superintendent Brébeuf ordered me to take your badge and gun.’