A good word. That reminded him of something else. Crie. Like Elle, she longed for a good word. Begged for it as surely as Elle had begged for food.
The tattoo of filth spoke of Elle’s external life, but was mute about what happened inside, beneath the layers of fetid clothing and dirt and alcohol-shriveled skin. Staring at the picture of the body on the gurney Gamache wondered what this woman had thought and felt. Gamache knew those things had probably died with her. Knew he might find her name, might even find her killer, but he would probably never find her. This woman had been lost years ago.
Like Crie, only further down the road?
And then he saw it. A small discoloration different from the rest. It was dark and circular, too even to be random filth. It was on her chest, on her breastbone.
Lifting his magnifying glass again he spent some time looking at it. He wanted to be certain. And when he looked up Armand Gamache was.
He took out the other pictures again and stared at one in particular. Then he rooted through the evidence box, looking for one small thing. Something that would be easy to overlook. But it wasn’t there.
He carefully replaced everything in the box and put it by the door. Then he returned to his warm chair by the fire and sat a moment watching Reine-Marie reading, her lips moving ever so slightly now and then and her brows rising and lowering in a way only he, who knew her so well, could see.
Then he picked up Be Calm and started reading.
FOURTEEN
Jean Guy Beauvoir reached for his Tim Horton’s Double Double coffee, cradling it in his hands to keep them warm. The huge black wood stove in the center of the room was trying its best, but so far it hadn’t managed to throw much heat.
It was ten o’clock on a snowy morning, almost exactly twenty-four hours after the murder, and the S?reté team had assembled in their situation room in Three Pines. They shared it with a large red fire truck. The white walls above the dark wood wainscoting were plastered with detailed maps of the area, diagrams of firefighting strategies and a huge poster commemorating past winners of the Governor-General’s Awards for Literature.
This was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, under the baton of Ruth Zardo.
‘Tabernacle. She’s a senile old hag. Won’t let us move that out.’ Beauvoir shoved his thumb toward the truck taking up half the room.
‘Did Madame Zardo give you a reason?’ Gamache asked.
‘Something about needing to make sure the truck doesn’t freeze up in case there’s a fire,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I asked her when the last fire was and she told me it was confidential. Confidential? Since when was there a secret fire?’
‘Let’s get started. Reports, please.’ Gamache sat at the head of the table wearing a shirt and tie and crew neck merino wool sweater beneath his tweed jacket. He held a pen in his hand, but rarely took notes. All around technicians were wiring phones and faxes and computers, setting up desks and blackboards and unloading equipment. But Gamache heard none of that. He concentrated totally on what was being said.
Agent Robert Lemieux had put on his Sunday best and polished his shoes and now was grateful the little voice of instinct had spoken, and even more grateful it had been heard. Beside him a young woman agent sipped her coffee and leaned forward attentively. She’d introduced herself as Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Lemieux wouldn’t describe her as attractive, not the kind you’d notice immediately in a bar. But then she didn’t seem the sort to hang around bars. More the kind you’d find on Mont St-Rémy. Natural and relaxed, without artifice. Her clothes were simple and well cut to fit her comfortable body, a light sweater, scarf and slacks. Her dark eyes were alert and her light brown hair was held off her face by a wide band. Lemieux noticed a string of earrings piercing one ear. She’d come up immediately and welcomed him. Instinctively he’d checked her left hand, and found, to his surprise, a wedding band.
‘Two kids,’ she said, with a smile, her eyes not leaving his face and yet she’d followed his quick glance. ‘A boy, René, and a girl Marie. Toi?’
‘Not married. Not even a girlfriend.’
‘Just as well. At least while the investigation is on. Pay attention.’ She’d leaned in and whispered, ‘And be yourself. The chief only chooses people who don’t pretend.’
‘And who are good at their jobs, presumably,’ he said, thinking he was giving her a compliment.
‘Oh, mais, franchement, you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’
‘Bon.’ Beauvoir leaned forward. ‘The good news is, I know how the electricity got to the curling rink on the lake. Yesterday afternoon I interviewed Billy Williams, the guy who drove the truck with CC to the hospital. He told me he wired up that heat lamp. Here, let me show you. Some of you haven’t been to the site yet.’
Beauvoir picked up a chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand and a magic marker in the other and walked to a large sheet of paper tacked to the wall.
‘This is Lac Brume, and this is the town of Williamsburg. Here’s the Legion. Right?’
Beauvoir was no Picasso, which was a good thing for a homicide inspector. His drawings were always very clear and straightforward. A large circle was Lac Brume. A smaller circle, like a moon, touched its edge. Williamsburg. And an X marked the Legion Hall, close to the shores of the lake.
‘Now, you can’t actually see the lake from the Legion. You have to go down this road and round a corner. Still, it’s only about a five-minute walk. Everyone was at a community breakfast at the Legion just before the curling. Billy Williams told me he’d gotten to the rink before the breakfast and driven his truck onto the ice.’
‘Is that safe?’ one of the officers asked.
‘The ice is about a foot and a half thick right there,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He tested it before Christmas when he put up the stands and the lamp. All he had to do the day of the curling, yesterday, was shovel the rink again and wire up the heat lamp. It was a clear morning so he decided to do both before going to the Legion himself for breakfast. Here’s where he parked his truck. You can see the tire tracks in the crime scene photos.’ He handed out the pictures after marking a small X on his drawing. It was on the ice near the shore.
‘Now, this is important. Here’s his truck, here’s the heat lamp – it’s called a radiant heater – here’re the stands and out here,’ he drew a rectangle on the paper, ‘is the curling rink. Billy Williams is the Canadian Automobile Association’s mechanic in the area, so he has this monster truck. I saw it. Huge mother. Wheels up to here.’ Gamache cleared his throat and Beauvoir remembered where he was. ‘Anyway, he has a generator on the flatbed of his truck for boosting cars. But again, not just any generator. This is immense. Says he needs the power to boost frozen semis and construction equipment. So he simply took his booster cables and connected them onto his generator at one end and the heat lamp at the other. Voilà. Power and heat.’
Agent Lemieux shifted in his seat then caught the eye of Agent Lacoste. She looked at him and gave a curt nod. Of encouragement? he wondered. She nodded again and widened her eyes.
‘Sir,’ he said, grateful his voice didn’t break. Beauvoir turned surprised eyes on the newcomer who had the audacity to interrupt.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, those things’ – he motioned to the drawing – ‘the heating thing? When we saw it yesterday I had a question but I wanted to check it out before I said anything. Those heaters are almost always powered by propane. Not electricity.’ He looked round the table. All eyes were on him. ‘I called a friend who’s an electrician. He also plays hockey in a men’s league here.’
To Lemieux’s surprise Beauvoir smiled. An easy, open smile that made his face seem quite youthful.