EIGHT
‘Did you find something?’
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache poured his wife a glass of Perrier and kissed the top of her head as he leaned over to peer at the document in her hand. It was Boxing Day and they were in his office at S?reté headquarters in Montreal. He was in gray flannels, a shirt and a tie, which he always wore to the office, and an elegant cashmere cardigan, an acknowledgment that he was on holiday, after all. Though he was only in his early fifties there was an old world charm about Gamache, a courtesy and manner that spoke of a time past. He smiled down at his wife, his deep brown eyes taking in the soft wave of her graying hair. From where he stood he could just faintly pick up the subtle fragrance of Joy by Jean Patou, the eau de toilette he gave his wife each Christmas. Then he moved round in front of her and eased himself into the leather chair opposite, finding the familiar curves worn into the seat. His body spoke of meals enjoyed and a life of long walks rather than contact sports.
His wife, Reine-Marie, was sitting in another leather chair, a huge red and white check napkin on her lap, a dossier in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other. She took a bite then dropped her reading glasses from her face, to dangle on their strings.
‘Thought I’d found something, but no. I thought there was a question the investigating officer hadn’t asked, but I see here he did a little later.’
‘Who was it?’
‘The Labarré case. Man pushed in front of the metro car.’
‘I remember.’ Gamache poured himself some water. Around them on the floor were neat stacks of file folders. ‘I didn’t realize it wasn’t solved. You didn’t find anything?’
‘Sorry, my love. I’m not doing so well this year.’
‘Sometimes there’s just nothing to find.’
The two of them picked up fresh folders and resumed reading in companionable silence. It had become their Boxing Day tradition. They’d take a picnic lunch of turkey sandwiches, fruit and cheese to Gamache’s office in the homicide division and spend the day reading about murder.
She looked across at her husband, head buried in a file, trying to tease from it the truth, trying to find in the dry words, in the facts and figures, a human form. For in each of these manila folders there lived a murderer.
These were the unsolved murders. A few years earlier Chief Inspector Gamache had approached his opposite number in the Montreal Metropolitan Police and over cognac at the Club Saint-Denis had made his proposal.
‘An exchange, Armand?’ Marc Brault had asked. ‘How would that work?’
‘I suggest Boxing Day. It’s quiet at S?reté headquarters and probably in your office as well.’
Brault had nodded, watching Gamache with interest. He, like most of his colleagues, had immense respect for the quiet man. Only fools underestimated him, but Brault knew the service was full of fools. Fools with power, fools with guns.
The Arnot case had proved that beyond doubt. And had almost destroyed the large, thoughtful man in front of him. Brault wondered whether Gamache knew the whole story. Probably not.
Armand Gamache was speaking, his voice deep and pleasant. Brault noted the graying of the dark hair at the temples and the obvious balding head, without attempt to comb it over. His dark moustache was thick, well trimmed and also graying. His face was lined with care, but also laughter, and his deep brown eyes, looking at Brault over his half-moon glasses, were thoughtful.
How does he survive? Brault wondered. Brutal as the world inside the Montreal police could be, he knew the S?reté du Québec could be even worse. Because the stakes were higher. And yet Gamache had risen to run the largest and most distinguished department in the S?reté.
He’d go no further, of course. Even Gamache knew that. But unlike Marc Brault, who was ambition itself, Armand Gamache seemed content, even happy with his life. There had been a time, before the Arnot case, when Brault had suspected Gamache was a bit simple, a bit beyond his depth. But he didn’t think that any more. He knew now what was behind the kind eyes and calm face.
He had the strangest feeling just then that Gamache understood everything that was going on, in Brault’s head and in the labyrinthine minds at the S?reté.
‘I suggest we give each other our unsolved cases and spend a few days reading over them. See if we can find something.’
Brault took a sip of his cognac and leaned back in his chair, thinking. It was a good idea. It was also unconventional and would probably cause a stink if anyone found out. He smiled at Gamache and leaned forward again.
‘Why? Don’t you have enough work through the year? Or maybe you’re desperate to get away from your family at Christmas.’
‘Well, you know if I could I’d move into my office and live off vending machine coffee. I have no life and my family despises me.’
‘I’ve heard that about you, Armand. In fact, I despise you.’
‘And I you.’
The two men smiled. ‘I would want someone to do this for me, Marc. It’s pretty simple and pretty selfish. If I was murdered I’d like to think the case wouldn’t just sit unsolved. Someone would make an extra effort. How could I deny someone else that?’
It was simple. And it was right.
Marc Brault reached out and shook Gamache’s large hand. ‘Done, Armand, done.’
‘Done, Marc. And if anything happened to you, it wouldn’t remain unsolved.’ It was said with great simplicity and it surprised Brault how much it meant.
And so for the past few years the two men had met in the parking lot at S?reté headquarters to exchange boxes, ironically, on Boxing Day. And each Boxing Day Armand and Reine-Marie opened the boxes and looked for murderers inside.
‘Now this is odd.’ Reine-Marie lowered her dossier and caught him staring at her. She smiled and continued. ‘Here’s a case from just a few days ago. I wonder how it made it into the pile.’
‘Christmas rush. Someone must have made a mistake. Here, give it to me and I’ll put it in the out tray.’ He held out his hand, but her eyes had dropped once again to the file and she was reading. After a moment he lowered his hand.
‘I’m sorry, Armand. It’s just that I knew this woman.’
‘No.’ Gamache set his own dossier aside and came beside Reine-Marie. ‘How? What’s the case?’
‘She wasn’t a friend or anything. You probably knew her too. That bag lady down by the Berri bus station. You know, the one with all the layers in all weather. She’d been there for years.’
Gamache nodded. ‘Still, it can’t be considered an unsolved case yet. You say she’s only been dead a few days?’
‘She was killed on the twenty-second. And this is strange. She wasn’t at the Berri bus station. She was over on de la Montagne, by Ogilvy’s. That’s a good, what? Ten, fifteen blocks away.’
Gamache resumed his seat and waited, watching Reine-Marie as she read, a few strands of her graying hair falling across her forehead. She was in her early fifties and lovelier than when they’d married. She wore little make-up, comfortable with the face she’d been given.
Gamache could sit all day watching her. He sometimes picked her up at her job at the Bibliothèque nationale, intentionally arriving early so he could watch her going over historic documents, taking notes, head down and eyes serious.
And then she’d look up and see him watching her and her face would break into a smile.
‘She was strangled.’ Reine-Marie lowered the file. ‘Says here her name was Elle. No last name. I can’t believe it. It’s an insult. They can’t even be bothered to find her real name so they call her She.’
‘These things are difficult,’ he said.
‘Which is probably why kindergarten children aren’t homicide detectives.’
He had to laugh as she said it.
‘They didn’t even try, Armand. Look at this.’ She held the dossier up. ‘It’s the thinnest file there. She was just a vagrant to them.’
‘Would you like me to try?’
‘Could you? Even if it’s just to find her name.’
He found the box for Elle’s case, stacked with the others from Brault against one wall of his office. Gamache put on gloves and removed the contents, spreading them on the floor of his office. Before long it was full of rancid, putrid clothing, and a smell that put their blue cheese to shame.
Old newspapers, curling and filthy, sat next to the clothing. Used for insulation, Gamache suspected, against the brutal Montreal winter. Words could do many things, he knew, but they couldn’t halt the weather. Reine-Marie joined him and together they sifted through the box.
‘She seems to have literally surrounded herself with words,’ said Reine-Marie, picking up a book. ‘Those papers for insulation and even a book.’
Opening it she started to read at random.
‘Long dead, and buried in another town,
my mother hasn’t finished with me yet.’