‘Philippe, I’m Claude Guimette from the Guardians Office, and this is Chief Inspector Gamache of the S?reté.’
Gamache had expected to meet a frightened boy, and he knew fear came in many forms. Aggression was common. People who were angry were almost always fearful. Cockiness, tears, apparent calm but nervous hands and eyes. Something almost always betrayed the fear. But Philippe Croft didn’t seem afraid. He seemed ... what? Triumphant.
‘So?’
‘We’re here about the death of Jane Neal.’
‘Yeah. I heard about that. What’s it to do with me?’
‘We think you did it, Philippe.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Her blood was on the bow found in your basement, along with your prints. Her blood was also on some of your clothing.’
‘That’s it?’
‘There was blood on your bike, too. Miss Neal’s blood.’
Philippe was looking pleased with himself.
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘How do you explain these things?’ Gamache asked.
‘How do you?’
Gamache sat down. ‘Shall I tell you? This is what I think happened. You went out that Sunday morning, early. Something prompted you to take the old bow and arrows and ride your bike to that spot. We know it was where your grandfather used to hunt. He even built the blind in that old maple tree, didn’t he?’
Philippe continued to stare at him. Or through him, really, thought Gamache.
‘Then something happened. Either your hand slipped and the arrow shot out by mistake, or you deliberately shot, thinking it was a deer. Either way the result was catastrophic. What happened then, Philippe?’
Gamache watched and waited, as did M. Guimette. But Philippe was impassive, his face blank, as though listening to someone else’s story. Then he raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘Go on. This is getting interesting. So the old lady kacks out and I’m supposed to be beside myself with grief? But I wasn’t there, remember?’
‘I forgot,’ said Gamache. ‘So let me continue. You’re a bright lad.’ Here Philippe frowned. He clearly didn’t like being patronised. ‘You could tell she was dead. You searched for the arrow and found it, getting blood on your hands and your clothes. You then came home and hid the bow and arrow in the basement. But your mother noticed the stains on your clothes and asked about it. You probably made up some story. But she also found the bow and arrow in the basement. When she heard about Jane Neal’s death she added it all up. She burned the arrow, but not the bow because it was too big to fit into the furnace.’
‘Look, man. I know you’re old so let me say this again, slowly. I was not there. I did not do it. Comprends?’
‘Then who did?’ Guimette asked.
‘Let’s see, who could have done it? Well, who in this house is an expert hunter?’
‘Are you saying your father killed Miss Neal?’ Guimette asked.
‘Are you two idiots? Of course he did it.’
‘What about the blood stains on your bike? Your clothes?’ Guimette asked, amazed.
‘Look, I’ll tell you what happened. You might want to write this down.’
But Gamache didn’t budge, just watched Philippe quietly.
‘My father came home all upset. He had blood all over his gloves. I went out to see if I could help. As soon as he saw me he gave me a hug, and held my hands, for support. He gave me the bloody arrow and the bow and told me to put them in the basement. I began to get a little suspicious.’
‘What did you suspect?’ Guimette asked.
‘When my father hunted he always cleaned his equipment. So this was weird. And there was no deer in the back of the truck. I just put two and two together and figured he’d killed someone.’
Guimette and Gamache exchanged glances.
‘The basement’s my chore,’ continued Philippe. ‘So when he told me to put the bloody things down there I began to wonder whether he was, well, setting me up. But I put them down there anyway, then he started yelling at me. “Stupid kid, get your effin’ bike off the driveway.” Before I could wash my hands I had to move the bike. That’s how the blood stains got there.’
‘I’d like to see your left arm, please.’ Gamache asked.
Guimette turned to Philippe, ‘I advise you not to.’
Philippe shrugged and shoved back the loose sleeve, exposing a violent purple bruise. A twin for Beauvoir’s.
‘How’d you get that?’ Gamache asked.
‘How do most kids get bruises?’
‘You fell down?’ Guimette asked.
Philippe rolled his eyes. ‘What’s the other way?’
Guimette, with sadness, said, ‘Your dad did that to you?’
‘Duh.’