NINETEEN
Chief Inspector Gamache drove in to Montréal, and now sat at his computer reading the weekly roundup from Inspector Lacoste, from his homicide agents, from detachments around the province.
It was Saturday morning and he was alone in the office. He responded to emails, wrote notes, and sent off thoughts and suggestions on murder investigations under way. He called a couple of inspectors in remote areas with active cases, to talk about progress.
When all that was done, he looked at the last daily report. It was an executive summary of activities and cases from Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s office. Gamache knew he didn’t have to read it, knew if he opened it he was doing exactly as Sylvain Francoeur wanted. It was sent to Gamache not as information, and certainly not as a courtesy, but as an assault.
Gamache’s finger rested on the open message command.
If he pressed down it would be flagged as opened, by him. At his desk, on his terminal. Using his security codes.
Francoeur would know he’d bested Gamache, again.
Gamache pressed anyway, and the words sprang up on the page.
He read what Francoeur wanted him to see. And he felt exactly what Francoeur wanted him to feel.
Impotent. Angry.
Francoeur had assigned Jean-Guy Beauvoir to another operation, this time a drug raid that could easily have been left to the RCMP and border guards. Gamache stared at the words and took a long, slow, deep breath in. Held it for a moment. Then he released it. Slowly. He forced himself to re-read the report. To take it in, fully.
Then he closed the message and filed it.
He sat at his chair and looked through the glass between his office and the open room beyond. The empty room beyond. With its bedraggled strings of Christmas lights. The half-hearted tree, without gifts. Not even fake ones.
He wanted to swing his chair around, to turn his back on all that and stare at the city he loved. But instead he contemplated what he saw, and what he’d read. And what he felt. Then he made a call, got up, and left.
*
He probably should have driven, but the Chief wanted fresh air. The streets of Montréal were slushy underfoot and bustling with holiday shoppers, bumping each other and wishing each other anything but peace and goodwill.
The Salvation Army was performing carols on one of the corners. As he walked, a boy soprano sang, “Once in Royal David’s City.”
But Chief Inspector Gamache heard none of it.
He wove his way between the shoppers, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Deep in thought. Finally the Chief arrived at an office building, pressed a button and was buzzed in. An elevator took him to the top floor. He walked down the deserted corridor and opened a door into a familiar waiting room.
The sight of it, the scent of it, turned his stomach, and he was slightly surprised by the force of the memories that hit him, and the wave of nausea.
“Chief Inspector.”
“Dr. Fleury.”
The two men shook hands.
“I’m glad you could see me,” said Gamache. “Especially on a Saturday. Merci.”
“I’m not normally in on a weekend. I was just clearing my desk before heading off for holiday.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I’m disturbing you.”
Dr. Fleury regarded the man in front of him, and smiled. “I said I’d see you, Armand. You’re not disturbing me at all.”
He ushered the Chief into his office, a comfortable, bright space with large windows, a desk and two chairs facing each other. Fleury indicated one, but he needn’t have. Armand Gamache knew it well. Had spent hours there.
Dr. Fleury was his therapist. Indeed, he was the main therapist for the S?reté du Québec. His offices, though, weren’t in headquarters. It was decided a neutral place would be better.
Besides, if Dr. Fleury’s practice depended upon S?reté agents coming for therapy, he’d starve. S?reté agents were not known for admitting they needed help. And certainly not renowned for asking for it.
But after the raid on the factory, Chief Inspector Gamache had made it a condition of returning to work that all the agents involved, wounded physically or otherwise, needed to get therapy.
Including himself.
“I thought you didn’t trust me,” said Dr. Fleury.
The Chief smiled. “I trust you. It’s others I’m not so sure about. There’ve been leaks about me, my personal life and relationships, but mostly leaks from sessions you had with my team. Information has been used against them, deeply personal information they only admitted to you.”
Gamache’s eyes remained on Dr. Fleury. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was hard.
“Your office was the only place it could’ve come from,” he continued. “But I never accused you, personally. I hope you know that.”
“I do. But you believed my files had been hacked.”
Gamache nodded.
“Do you still?”