TWENTY-FOUR
WHO BENEFITS?
Beauvoir wrote in very large, very clear, very red capital letters on the foolscap. Instinctively he wafted the magic marker under his nose as he surveyed his work.
Now that was art. Or, if not actually art, it was definitely beautiful. It represented structure and order, and both those things thrilled the Inspector. Soon they’d have a list, of names, of motives, of clues, of movements. They’d connect them all up. Some would be dead ends, some murky alleys, but some would be superhighways, and they’d follow those speeding clues to the end.
Inspector Beauvoir looked over at the Chief Inspector, his elbows on the dark wooden table, his large fingers intertwined, his eyes thoughtful and attentive.
And then what?
But Beauvoir knew the answer to that. When they’d gone as far as the known world took them, when he and Lacoste and all the other investigators could see no further, Chief Inspector Gamache stepped forward. He walked into the unknown. Because that’s where murderers lurked. They might appear to walk in the same sun and drizzle, along the same grass and concrete, and even to speak the same language. But they didn’t really. Chief Inspector Gamache was willing to go where few others could. And he never, ever asked them to follow him, only to help him find the way.
Both men knew that one day Beauvoir would step forward. And both men knew the burned and desolate spot Gamache sought wasn’t exclusive to the murderer. The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn’t totally foreign to him. He knew it because he’d seen his own burned terrain, he’d walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark.
And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case.
He hoped so.
Now he put the capped magic marker in his mouth and jogged it up and down like a giant red cigar, staring at the blank page, except for the expectant heading.
WHO BENEFITS?
‘Well, David Martin does,’ said Agent Lacoste. ‘He doesn’t have to pay alimony.’
Beauvoir wrote the name and the reason. He also wrote, One less witness.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘Well, at his trial she testified, but basically said she knew nothing about his business dealings. But suppose that wasn’t true? I get the feeling these Morrows aren’t very smart – in fact, they’re so stupid they think they’re smart. But they are cunning. And she grew up in a home where business was talked about, and she adored her father, so she probably paid attention.’
He stopped to gather his run-on thoughts. He was pretty sure this was leading somewhere. His colleagues waited. There was a tap at the door and he strolled over to open it.
Lunch.
‘Hello, Elliot,’ said the chief as the lithe young waiter gave him a barbecued steak sandwich with sauteed mushrooms and caramelized onions on top.
‘Bonjour, Patron,’ the young man smiled, then beamed at Lacoste, who looked quite pleased.
He put a lobster salad in front of her. And Beauvoir got a hamburger and string fries. For the last twenty minutes they’d smelled the charcoals warming up in the huge barbecue in the garden, with the unmistakable summer scents of hot coals and lighter fluid. Beauvoir hadn’t stopped salivating. Between that and the sweating he thought he should order a cold beer. Just to prevent dehydration. The chief thought that sounded good, as did Lacoste, and before long each had a beer in a tall frosted glass.
As he looked out of the French doors he saw the maitre d’ walk by with a platter of steak and shrimp from the barbecue, presumably for the Morrows.
‘You were saying?’ The Chief Inspector was looking at him.
Beauvoir took the burger with him to the foolscap.
‘D’accord, the husband. Doesn’t it seem as though he’s been here the whole time?’ said Beauvoir. ‘I mean, even before the murder you said people were talking about him, telling you and Madame Gamache who Julia’s husband was. It was as though the Morrows couldn’t figure out if they loved him or hated him.’
‘You’re right,’ said Gamache. ‘He’s been the uninvited guest.’
Beauvoir let that go, suspecting it must be a quote. Still, it was a good way of putting it. The one not necessarily wanted, not expected, not watched for or prepared for. The one, therefore, with the advantage.
‘So many things come back to him.’ Beauvoir circled Martin’s name. It was easy, since it was the only name on the page so far. ‘She was only here because of the divorce.’
‘And his conviction,’ said Lacoste. ‘What was the case about anyway?’
They both turned to Gamache.
‘You’ll have to double check all this because it’s been a few months since it was in the papers, but David Martin ran the Royale Assurance Company, a very old, very proud Canadian company that specialized in marine insurance. It started, I believe, in Nova Scotia more than a century ago, but moved to Vancouver as the shipping trade grew with the Pacific Rim.’
‘Only shipping?’
‘Not under Martin. He did two things, if I’m remembering right. He expanded into buildings and infrastructure. Bridges, dams, roads. But the most brilliant thing he did, and his downfall, was he decided to spread the risks. He created a thing called Partners.’
‘Surely not the first business person to have partners,’ Lacoste smiled.
‘Very astute of you.’ Gamache smiled back. ‘But he spelled his with a capital P. It was like a pyramid scheme, though all perfectly legal, at first. He’d insure a bridge project, let’s say, and get a bunch of companies to take some of the risk. They in turn would sell interests to smaller companies, and they’d sell on to individuals. All called Royale Partners.’
‘And what would they get in return?’ Lacoste asked, her lobster salad forgotten for a moment. This sort of Byzantine dealing fascinated her.
‘They paid no money,’ said Gamache, leaning towards her, remembering as he went. ‘And they got a share of the company profits, which were huge. Most of the Partners became millionaires many times over.’
‘But?’ said Beauvoir.
‘But they had to guarantee they’d pay for any loss.’
Beauvoir was lost. But Lacoste was with him.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘He sold some of the profits and all the risk. He was making hundreds of millions and wasn’t in any danger if there was ever a huge claim.’
‘Exactly. It worked for years, with everyone, even the smallest Partner, making a great deal of money. People were falling all over themselves to invest.’
‘Did you?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘We were invited, but said no.’
‘Smart,’ said Lacoste.
‘I’d like to think so, but it was really just fear. I can talk about it, and on some level I think I understand it, but honestly I don’t. What I did understand was that if something went wrong we’d be ruined.’
‘And something eventually went wrong?’ asked Lacoste.
‘Cigarettes,’ said Gamache. ‘One of the first things Royale Assurance under Martin expanded into was insuring the tobacco companies. They made enormous amounts of money out of the deals. Fortunes. But ten years ago a woman in Oregon sued Jubilee Tobacco after she developed emphysema. She was sixty. Family history, her mother had died of it. The tobacco company won the first round and the woman died, but her husband took it further, and eventually it became a class action suit and two years ago the Supreme Court ruled that Jubilee Tobacco was liable.’
The door to the library opened and Sandra Morrow stepped in. Beauvoir deftly stepped in front of their lists and Gamache got to his feet and went across to her.
‘May I help you?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you. I’m just here to find a book and settle in.’
She made to go around the Chief Inspector, who stepped in front of her.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, her voice frigid.
‘I’m sorry, madame, but this room is no longer available for guests. I thought that was clear. If not, I’m terribly sorry for the confusion, but we need it as our headquarters.’
‘Headquarters? You make it sound very grand. We’re paying guests. And I paid to use this room too.’
‘That won’t be possible,’ said Gamache, his voice firm but friendly. ‘I understand your frustration, and I know it’s a difficult time, but you’ll have to go elsewhere.’
She gave him a look of such loathing it surprised even Beauvoir, who’d given and received a few of those looks in his life.
‘I understand you need to investigate the death of my sister-in-law but you don’t need this particular room. There must be bedrooms. Hers even. Smaller rooms. Surely the Manoir has a back office you could use. These are public rooms, for the guests.’
‘Goodbye, Madame Morrow,’ he said and held out his arm to indicate the door.
She looked at him closely.
‘I know your type. You always take the best. You’re a little man with a little power and it’s made you a bully. I wonder where you get it from?’
She left.