His six-foot frame was large, substantial. Not exactly muscular, but neither was he fat. He was solid.
Solid, thought Lacoste. Like the mainland. Like a headland, facing a vast ocean. Was the now relentless buffeting beginning to wear deeper lines and crevices? Were cracks beginning to show?
At this moment Chief Inspector Gamache showed no sign of erosion. He stared at the offending agent, and even Lacoste couldn’t help feeling just a little sympathy. This new agent had mistaken the mainland for a sandbar. And now, too late, realized what he’d come up against.
She could see the insolence turn to disquiet, then to alarm. He turned to his friends for support, but like a pack of hyenas, they backed off. Almost anxious to see him torn apart.
Until this moment, Lacoste hadn’t realized how willing the pack was to turn on their own. Or, at least, to refuse to help.
She glanced at Gamache, at his steady eyes not leaving the squirming agent, and she knew that was what the Chief was doing. Testing them. Testing their loyalty. He’d cut one from the pack and waited to see if any would come to the rescue.
But they did not.
Isabelle Lacoste relaxed a little. Chief Inspector Gamache was still in control.
Gamache continued to stare at the agent. Now the others fidgeted. One even got up with a sullen “I’ve got work to do.”
“Sit down,” said the Chief, not looking at him. And he dropped like a rock.
Gamache waited. And waited.
“Désolé, patron,” said the agent at last. “I haven’t interviewed that suspect yet.”
The words slid down the table. A rotten admission. They’d all heard this agent lie about the interview, and now they waited to see what the Chief Inspector would do. How he’d maul this man.
“We’ll talk about this after the meeting,” said Gamache.
“Yessir.”
The reaction around the table was immediate.
Sly smiles. After a display of strength on the Chief’s part, they now sensed weakness. Had he ripped the agent to shreds they’d have respected him. Feared him. But now they only smelled blood.
And Isabelle Lacoste thought, God help me, even I wish the Chief had humiliated, disgraced this agent. Nailed him to the wall, as a warning to anyone else who’d cross Chief Inspector Gamache.
This far and no farther.
But Isabelle Lacoste had been in the S?reté long enough to know how much easier it was to shoot than to talk. How much easier it was to shout than to be reasonable. How much easier it was to humiliate and demean and misuse authority than to be dignified and courteous, even to those who were themselves none of those things.
How much more courage it took to be kind than to be cruel.
But times had changed. The S?reté had changed. It was now a culture that rewarded cruelty. That promoted it.
Chief Inspector Gamache knew that. And yet he’d just exposed his neck. Was it on purpose? Lacoste wondered. Or was he really so weakened?
She no longer knew.
What she did know was that over the past six months the Chief Inspector had watched his department being gutted, bastardized. His work dismantled. He’d watched those loyal to him leave. Or turn against him.
He’d put up a fight at first, but been pounded down. Time and again, she’d seen him return to his office after arguing with the Chief Superintendent. Gamache had come back defeated. And now, it seemed, he had little fight left in him.
“Next,” said Gamache.
And so it went, for an hour. Each agent trying Gamache’s patience. But the headland held. No sign of crumbling, no sign this had any effect at all on the Chief. Finally the meeting was over and Gamache rose. Inspector Lacoste rose too and there was a hesitation before first one then the rest of the agents got to their feet. At the door the Chief Inspector turned and looked at the agent who’d lied. Just a glance, but it was enough. The agent fell in behind Gamache and followed him to the Chief’s office. Just as the door closed Inspector Lacoste caught a fleeting look on the Chief’s face.
Of exhaustion.
*
“Sit down.” Gamache pointed to a chair, then he himself sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. The agent tried on some bravado, but that faded before the stern face.
When he spoke, the Chief’s voice carried an effortless authority.
“Are you happy here?”
The question surprised the agent. “I suppose.”
“You can do better than that. It’s a simple question. Are you happy here?”
“I have no choice but to be here.”
“You have a choice. You could quit. You’re not indentured. And I suspect you’re not the fool you pretend to be.”
“I don’t pretend to be a fool.”
“No? Then what would you call failing to interview a key suspect in a homicide investigation? What would you call lying about it to someone you must have known would see through that lie?”