Isabelle Lacoste looked up from her computer where she’d been writing her reports on the Fontaine/Malenfant search and her visit to Timmer’s doctor. He’d brought up Timmer’s file on his computer and finally, with extreme caution, admitted it: was a remote possibility someone had helped her into the next life.
‘With morphine; that would be the only way. Wouldn’t really take much at that stage, she was already on it, just a little more could have put her over the top.’
‘You didn’t check?’
‘Saw no need.’ Then he’d hesitated again. Lacoste was a good enough investigator to wait. And wait. Eventually he spoke again. ‘It happens a lot in cases like this. A friend, or more often a family member, gives the person a fatal dose. Mercy. Happens more often than we know or want to know. There’s a kind of unwritten agreement that in terminal cases, at the end of life, we don’t look too closely.’
Lacoste could certainly sympathise and privately thought this was probably a good thing, but this was business, and in this case they weren’t talking about mercy.
‘Is there any way to check now?’
‘She was cremated. Her own wishes.’ He closed his computer.
And now, two hours later, she was closing hers. It was 6.30 and pitch black outside. She needed to speak with Gamache about what she’d found in Bernard’s room before heading home. It was a cold night and Lacoste buttoned her field coat before setting out across the bridge that spanned the Rivière Bella Bella and headed into the heart of Three Pines.
‘Give it to me.’
‘Bonjour, Bernard.’ She’d recognised the surly voice even before she saw him.
‘Gimme.’ Bernard Malenfant was leaning against her.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Fuck off. Give it here.’ He brought his fist to her face, but didn’t strike.
Isabelle Lacoste had faced down serial killers, snipers, and abusive, drunken husbands, and she was under no illusion. A furious, out-of-control 14-year-old was as dangerous as any of them.
‘Drop that fist. I’m not going to give it to you, so it’s no use threatening.’
Bernard grabbed her satchel, trying to yank it away but she’d expected this. She’d found that most boys, and even some not very bright men, underestimated women. She was strong and determined and smart. She kept her cool and twisted the satchel out of his grip.
‘Bitch. It’s not even mine. Do you really think I’d have shit like that?’ The last word was screamed into her face so she could feel his spittle on her chin and the stench of his warm breath.
‘Then whose is it?’ she said evenly, trying to control her gag response.
Bernard gave her a malevolent leer. ‘Are you kidding? I’m not going to tell.’
‘Hey, are you all right?’ A woman and her dog were walking quickly toward them from the direction of the bridge.
Bernard swung around and saw them. He yanked up his bike and rode away, swerving so that he headed toward the dog, but just missed it.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated, and reached out and touched Isabelle’s arm. Lacoste recognised the woman as Hanna Parra. ‘Was that young Malenfant?’
‘Yes. We had a few words. I’m fine, but thanks for checking.’ And she meant it. This wouldn’t have happened in Montreal.
‘Anytime.’ They walked over the Bella Bella into Three Pines, separating at the Bistro and waving goodbye.
The first thing Lacoste did upon reaching the cheerful lights and warmth of the Bistro was head to the washroom, to scrub her face with the fragrant soap and fresh water. Once clean she ordered a Martini and Rossi and caught the chief’s eye. He nodded toward a small, secluded table. The Martini and Rossi, a bowl of nuts and her chief in front of her, Lacoste relaxed. She then told him about her search of Bernard’s room, handing him the item she’d taken as she spoke.
‘Phew,’ said Gamache, examining the item. ‘Get this fingerprinted. Bernard denies it’s his? Did he say whose it was?’
Lacoste shook her head.
‘Did you believe it’s not his?’
‘I don’t know. I think I don’t want to believe him, but some instinct tells me he’s telling the truth.’
Only with Gamache could she talk about feelings, intuition and instinct without feeling defensive. He nodded and offered her dinner before she headed back to Montreal, but she declined. She wanted to see her family before they went to bed Gamache awoke to a pounding on his door. His bedside clock said 2.47. Putting on his dressing gown he opened the door. Yvette Nichol stood there in an impossibly fluffy pink and white number.
She’d been lying awake, tossing and turning, and finally just curling on her side, staring at the wall. How had it come to this? She was in trouble. Something had gone wrong. Something always went wrong, it seemed. But how? She’d tried so hard.
Now, in the tiny new day the familiar old voice spoke to her, It’s because you’re Uncle Saul, after all. Stupid Uncle Saul. They were counting on you, your family, and you’ve fucked up again. Shame on you.
Nichol felt the lump in her chest harden and she turned over. Looking out the window she saw a light go on across the village green. She leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, and ran up the stairs to Gamache’s room.
‘There’s a light on,’ she said without preamble.
‘Where?’
‘Across the way, at Jane Neal’s home. It went on a few minutes ago.’
‘Get Inspector Beauvoir. Have him meet me downstairs.’
‘Yes, sir.’ And she left. Five minutes later he met a disheveled Beauvoir on the stairs. As they were leaving they heard a noise and saw Nichol descending.
‘Stay here,’ commanded Gamache.
‘No, sir. It’s my light.’ She might have said, ‘purple door candlestick’, for all the sense that made to Gamache or Beauvoir.
‘Stay here. That’s an order. If you hear shots, call for help.’
As the two men walked briskly across the green toward Jane Neal’s home, Gamache thought to ask, ‘Did you bring your gun?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘No. But you’ve got to know Nichol had her’s. Oh, well.’
They could see two lights in the home, one upstairs and another in the living room. Gamache and Beauvoir had done this hundreds of times before, they knew their routine. Gamache was always the first through, Beauvoir on his heels, ready to throw the chief out of any line of fire.
Gamache entered the dark mudroom silently and crept up the two steps into the kitchen. He tiptoed to the living-room door and listened. He could hear voices. A man’s and a woman’s. Unrecognisable, and unintelligible. He signaled to Beauvoir, took a breath, and shoved the door open.
Ben and Clara stood stunned in the middle of the room. Gamache felt as though he’d stumbled into a Noel Coward drawing-room comedy, all Ben needed was an ascot tied around his neck and a Martini glass. Clara, though, belonged more in a circus. She was wearing a bright red single-piece flannel outfit, complete with feet, and probably a hatch at the back.
‘We surrender,’ said Clara.
‘So do we,’ said Beauvoir, looking at her outfit, amazed. You’d never find a francophone woman in that.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Gamache went right to the point. It was 3 a.m. and he’d just geared himself up for some unpleasantness. He wanted to go back to bed.
‘That’s what I was asking Ben. I haven’t been sleeping so well since Jane died, so I got up to use the bathroom and saw the light. I came over to see.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to disturb Peter, and besides, this is Jane’s home,’ she said, as though that explained it. Gamache thought he understood. Clara considered it a safe place. He’d have to have a talk with her.
‘Mr Hadley, what are you doing here?’
Ben was looking very embarrassed by now. ‘I set my alarm to come here. I wanted to, well, sort of go upstairs, you know.’
This was so deeply uninformative and uninteresting Beauvoir thought he might actually fall asleep on his feet.
‘Go on,’ said Gamache.
‘Well, to do more work. On the walls. You’d said yesterday how important it was to see everything, and well. Then there’s Clara, of course.’
‘Go on,’ said Gamache. In his peripheral vision he could see Beauvoir swaying.
‘You tried to hide it, but I could tell you were getting impatient with me,’ Ben said to Clara. ‘I’m not a very fast worker. I’m not a very fast person, I guess. Anyway, I wanted to surprise you by doing some work tonight. It was probably a dumb idea.’
‘I think it’s a beautiful idea,’ said Clara, going over and giving Ben a hug. ‘But you’ll just exhaust yourself, you know, and be slow again tomorrow.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted Ben. ‘Do you mind, though, if I just put in a couple of hours?’
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Gamache. ‘But next time, please tell us.’
‘Should I stay and help?’ Clara offered. Ben hesitated and seemed on the verge of saying something, but simply shook his head. As he left Gamache looked back at Ben standing alone in the living room. He looked like a little lost boy.