Matheo looked from his wife, Lea, to his friend Patrick. They were both exactly his age, thirty-three, but they appeared older, surely, than he did. The lines. The hint of gray. Had they always looked like that, or just since the robes and mask had appeared?
Lea, tall, willowy, when they’d met at university, was less willowy. She was now more like a maple. Rounded. Solid. He liked that. Felt more substantial. Less likely to weep.
They had two children, both at home with Lea’s parents. He knew that when they returned, it would be like walking into a ferret’s den. The kids, under the questionable influence of Lea’s mother, would have gone feral.
To be fair, it didn’t take much.
“Gamache’s in the bistro with his wife. Everyone’ll hear,” said Patrick. “Maybe we should wait.”
“But everyone should hear,” said Lea, getting up. “Right? Isn’t that the point?”
The friends weren’t looking at each other as they spoke. Or even at the mesmerizing fire in the grate. All three stared out the window of the B&B. At the village green. Deserted. Except for …
“Why don’t you stay here?” she said to Patrick. “We’ll go.”
Patrick nodded. He’d caught a chill yesterday, and his bones still felt it. He pulled his chair closer to the fire and poured a strong, hot coffee.
*
Armand Gamache wasn’t looking at the mesmerizing fire in the large open hearth of the bistro. He was staring out the leaded-glass window, with its flaws and slight distortions. At the cold November day and the thing on the village green.
It was as though a bell jar, like those put around dead and stuffed animals, had been placed over it. The robed figure stood completely alone, isolated, while around him the villagers went about their lives. Their movements circumscribed, dictated by the dark thing.
The villagers were pushed to the edge. Edgy. Glancing toward it and away.
Gamache shifted his gaze and saw Lea Roux and her husband, Matheo Bissonette, leaving the B&B, walking quickly through the chilly morning. Their breaths coming in puffs.
They arrived with a small commotion, rubbing their hands and arms. They hadn’t brought the right clothing, not expecting weather that was cold even for November.
“Bonjour,” said Lea, walking up to the Gamaches’ table.
Armand rose while Reine-Marie nodded and smiled.
“Mind if we join you?” asked Matheo.
“Please do.” Reine-Marie indicated the empty chairs.
“Actually,” said Lea, a little embarrassed, “I wonder if Myrna would mind if we talked in the bookstore? Would that be okay?”
Armand looked at Reine-Marie, both of them surprised by the suggestion. She got up.
“If it’s all right with Myrna, it’s fine with me,” she said. “Unless—”
She waved toward Armand, indicating perhaps they meant they just wanted to speak with him. She was used to that. Sometimes people had things they wanted to say to a cop, and did not want Madame Cop to hear.
“Non, non,” said Lea. “Please come. We’d like you to hear this too. See what you make of it.”
Picking up their coffees, and curious, the Gamaches followed Lea and Matheo into the bookstore.
Myrna didn’t mind at all.
“It’s a quiet morning,” she said. “Apparently Death standing vigil in the middle of the village isn’t good for business. I’ll alert the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Don’t leave,” said Lea. “We’d like your opinion too. Right, Matheo?”
It really wasn’t a question. Though he looked less sure, he recovered quickly and nodded.
“About what?” asked Myrna.
Lea waved them to take seats on the sofa and in the armchairs, as though it were her place. Far from taking offense, Myrna liked that Lea felt so at home. And there was nothing officious about the gesture. She made it feel inclusive rather than demanding.
When they were settled, Matheo put a bunch of papers on the pine coffee table.
Gamache looked at the pages, mostly articles from Spanish newspapers, in Spanish.
“Can you tell me what they’re about?”
“Sorry.” Matheo sorted through the pages. “I meant to put this one on top.”
It was pink and unmistakable. The Financial Times.
The front page article had the byline Matheo Bissonette. Gamache noted the date.
Eighteen months ago.
A photograph accompanied the article. It showed a man in a top hat and tails, carrying a briefcase with writing on it. The man looked both dapper and seedy.
Gamache put his glasses on and, along with Reine-Marie and Myrna, he leaned over the picture.
“What does it say on the briefcase?” asked Myrna.
“Cobrador del Frac,” said Matheo. “It means debt collector.”
Gamache was reading the article, but stopped and looked up over his half-moon glasses.
“Go on.”
“My parents live in Madrid. About a year and a half ago, my father emailed this article.” Matheo shuffled the printouts and found an article from another newspaper. “He’s always looking for things that might interest me. I’m a freelance journalist, as you know.”
Gamache nodded, his attention taken by the Spanish article, which also had a photo of the top-hat-and-tails debt collector.
“I pitched it to various papers and the Financial Times bought the story from me. So I went to Spain and did some research. The cobrador del frac is a particularly Spanish phenomenon, and with the financial crisis they’ve grown.”
“This man is a debt collector?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Oui.”
“Well, they sure look nicer than the debt collectors in North America,” said Myrna.
“They’re not what they appear,” said Matheo. “They’re not at all civilized or genteel. That’s more a disguise than a costume.”
“And what are they disguising?” asked Gamache.
“What it is they’re collecting,” said Matheo. “A collection agency here will repossess a car or a home or furniture. A cobrador del frac takes away something else entirely.”
“What?” asked Armand.
“Your reputation. Your good name.”
“How does he do that?” asked Reine-Marie.
“He’s hired to follow the debtor. Always keeping a distance, never speaking to the person, but always there.”
“Always?” she asked, while Armand listened, his eyebrows drawing together in unease.
“Always,” said Lea. “He stands outside your home, follows you to work. Stands outside your business. If you go to a restaurant or a party, he’s there.”
“But why? Surely there’re easier ways to collect on a bad debt?” said Reine-Marie. “A lawyer’s letter? The courts?”
“Those take time, and the Spanish courts are clogged with cases since the meltdown,” said Matheo. “It could be years, if ever, before someone pays up. People were getting away with terrible things, taking clients and partners and spouses for all they were worth, knowing they’d almost certainly never be made to pay it back. Scams were proliferating. Until someone remembered—”
He looked down at the photograph. Of a man in a top hat and tails. Only now did the Gamaches notice the man in the crowd, a distance ahead, hurrying forward but glancing back. A look of dread dawning.
And the cobrador del frac following. His face rigid, expressionless. Remorseless.