Olivier stood at the window of the bistro and watched the S?reté officers walking down the road from the church.
He wasn’t alone. The rest of the village, and those from outlying farms, had gathered in the bistro, the focal point for the community, in good times and bad.
And it was very clear which one they were now in.
They watched, silently, as Armand Gamache, Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste walked toward them through the cold November drizzle that turned, every now and then, into sleet. Then back again.
Olivier and Gabri had been handing out coffee and tea, juices, and fresh, warm cookies from Sarah’s bakery. No alcohol. No need to feed already heightened emotions.
A fine mist had accompanied the drizzle so that Three Pines appeared socked in.
Both fireplaces, on either end of the bistro, were lit. And now the only sound, besides some labored breathing, was the cheery crackle of the logs.
The place smelled of woodsmoke and rich coffee. And wet wool from those who’d arrived late, hurrying through the damp afternoon.
On any other day, in any other circumstances, the bistro would’ve felt snug and safe and comforting. A refuge. But today, it did not.
They looked out the window, toward the trinity, and the bad news appearing out of the mist.
Then Olivier looked behind him.
At Patrick Evans. He was sitting, his legs no longer able to hold him. Lea sat beside him, holding his hand, and Matheo stood, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
But someone was missing. The only one not there.
Katie.
Though they were fairly sure they knew where she was.
At that moment, she was still alive.
But as soon as the S?reté officers arrived, and began to speak, she would die. They all knew that whatever had happened, however it had happened, the “who” was not in doubt.
Patrick’s breathing was fast, shallow. His hands cold. His eyes wide.
As he waited.
*
“When you arrived at the restaurant, Chief Superintendent, did you get the impression the people there already knew?” asked the Crown.
“I did.”
“But how? Had Madame Gamache told them?”
“No, she did not.”
“Then how did they know? All they’d seen was a bunch of patrol cars. Why automatically think it was a murder?”
He obviously doesn’t know Three Pines, thought Gamache.
“When the local S?reté agents arrived and positioned themselves at the church and my home, the villagers knew something was going on. And they knew that Madame Evans was missing. When I showed up, followed by Chief Inspector Lacoste, well, their fears were confirmed.”
“Ahhh, of course. That was stupid of me,” said the Crown, turning once again to the jury and trying to look humble. “For a moment I’d forgotten how well the villagers know you and your work and your colleagues. They’d know Chief Inspector Lacoste was now the head of homicide. But while they know you, Chief Superintendent, you also know them. Well.”
He said it with his back to Gamache, but the insinuation was clear.
The normal, the healthy, the necessary line between cops and suspects was blurred, if not erased altogether. And that was, the Crown seemed to be suggesting, highly unprofessional, perhaps even suspicious.
“That’s a good point,” said Gamache. “And, as it turns out, a great advantage. Murder might be calculating, but it’s not calculus. It isn’t the sum of evidence. What tips someone over into murder?”
Now Armand Gamache was addressing the jury directly, and they’d turned their attention from the Crown Prosecutor to the Chief Superintendent.
Monsieur Zalmanowitz, sensing this shift, turned and glared at Gamache.
“What makes someone kill isn’t opportunity, it’s emotions.” Gamache spoke quietly, softly even. As though confiding in a good friend. “One human kills another. Sometimes it’s a flash of uncontrollable anger. Sometimes it’s cold. Planned. Meticulous. But what they have in common is an emotion out of control. Often something that has been pent up. Buried. Clawing away at the person.”
The men and women on the jury were nodding.
“We’ve all had resentments like that,” said Gamache. “And most of us have felt, at least once in our lives, that we genuinely wanted to kill someone. Or, at the least, we wanted them dead. And what stops us?”
“Conscience?” mouthed a young woman in the second row of the jury box.
“Conscience,” said the Chief Superintendent, looking at her and seeing her smile just a little. “Or maybe cowardice. Some think they’re the same thing. That the only thing that stops us from doing something awful is the fear of getting caught. What would we do, after all, if we were guaranteed not to get caught? If we knew there’d be no consequences. Or if we didn’t care. If we believed the act was justified. If we believed, as Gandhi did, that there’s a higher court than a court of justice.”
“I object,” said the Crown.
“On what basis?” Judge Corriveau asked.
“Irrelevance.”
“He’s your own witness, Monsieur Zalmanowitz,” the judge reminded him. “And you’re the one who asked the question.”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture on the nature of murder and conscience.”
“Maybe you should have,” she said, and looked down at the clock embedded into the judge’s desk. “This is probably a good time to break for lunch. Back in an hour, please.”
She stood up, and in the hubbub of chairs scraping the floor, she whispered to Gamache, “I’ve given you enough leeway. Watch yourself.”
He bowed very slightly to show he’d heard, and caught the eye of the Crown, who was at his desk angrily stuffing papers into his briefcase.
When the judge had gone and the jury was just being shown out, Monsieur Zalmanowitz finally erupted, striding across the courtroom to Gamache, who was just descending the steps from the witness box.
“What the hell was that about?” the Crown demanded. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Gamache glanced over at the jury, the last few of whom were filing through the door, and had clearly heard.
“Not here,” he said to the Crown.
“Yes, here.”
Gamache turned and walked past him, but the Crown reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
Gamache jerked free and swung around to face him.
The journalists, still in the room, were staring. Those on the court beat had never seen anything like this.
“Why’re you sabotaging my case?” demanded Zalmanowitz.
“Not here. If you want to talk, come with me.”
He turned to Beauvoir. “Please find—”
“I’ll find a room, patron,” said Beauvoir, and took off, with Gamache following him, not bothering to see if the Crown was indeed behind him.
Monsieur Zalmanowitz glared after the Chief Superintendent and muttered, “Prick,” just loud enough for the reporters to hear.
Then he grabbed his briefcase and followed.
*
The two men were left alone in the office.
The Chief Crown Prosecutor and the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté. Allies by decree and bureaucratic structure. But not by nature or choice.
When the door had closed, Gamache walked over and locked it. Then turned to Zalmanowitz.