by Joël Dicker
“I have nowhere to sleep now. The house burned down.”
“You’ve just pocketed two million dollars, writer. I saw it in the newspaper. Just rent a suite at a hotel in Concord. I’ll put my lunches on your tab. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Let’s get going. We’ve got work to do.”
*
During the week that followed, I avoided Somerset. I moved into a suite in a hotel in the center of Concord, and spent my days there working hard on both the investigation and my book. The only news I had of Harry came via Roth, who told me that he had moved into Room 8 of the Sea Side Motel, and that he didn’t want to see me anymore because I had sullied Nola’s name. Then he added: “So, just out of curiosity, why did you tell the press that Nola was a depressed little whore?”
“I didn’t tell them anything at all! I had written a few notes, and I gave them to Barnaski, so he could see that my work was progressing. He faked a robbery and leaked them.”
“If you say so …”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m telling the truth!”
“In any case, bravo! I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Turning the victim into a culprit. That’s the surest way of dealing with an accusation.”
“Harry was freed because of the handwriting analysis. You know that as well as I do.”
“Come off it, Marcus. As I told you before, judges are just human beings. What’s the first thing they do when they drink their coffee in the morning? They read the papers, like everyone else.”
Roth was very down-to-earth, but not necessarily unpleasant, and he tried to comfort me by explaining that Harry was undoubtedly upset by the loss of Goose Cove, and that he would begin to feel better once the police had arrested the perpetrator. And there was a lead on this: The day after the fire, having methodically searched the property, they discovered a can of gasoline hidden in the undergrowth—and had managed to get a fingerprint from it. Unfortunately the print did not match any that the police had on file, and Gahalowood believed that, without more evidence, it would be difficult to catch the culprit. According to him, it was probably someone with no previous police record. Nevertheless he thought we could narrow down the search to locals—someone from Somerset who, having committed the crime in broad daylight, had hastily gotten rid of the incriminating evidence out of fear that he or she might be recognized by a passerby.
I had six weeks to turn the tide and make my book great. It was time to fight, and to become the writer I had always wanted to be. Every morning I devoted myself to the book, and in the afternoon I worked on the case with Gahalowood, who had transformed my suite into an extension of his office, using the hotel bellboys to cart around boxes containing witness reports, newspaper clippings, photographs and forensic reports.
We started the whole investigation over again, rereading the police reports, examining the interviews with all the witnesses at the time. We drew a map of Somerset and its environs, and we calculated all the distances: from the Kellergans’ house to Goose Cove, and from Goose Cove to Side Creek Lane. Gahalowood personally verified all the traveling times, on foot and by car, and even the response time of the local police back then, which turned out to be very fast.
“It is difficult to criticize Chief Pratt’s work,” he told me. “The search was carried out with great professionalism.”
“There’s another thing,” I said. “We know that Harry didn’t write that message on the manuscript. So why was Nola buried at Goose Cove?”
“Because no-one was there, I guess. You told me that Harry had been telling everyone he was going away for a while.”
“That’s true. So you think the murderer knew that Harry wasn’t home?”
“It’s possible. But you have to acknowledge that it’s kind of surprising that, when Harry came back, he didn’t notice that someone had dug a hole on his property.”
“He wasn’t in a normal state of mind,” I said. “He was devastated. He spent all his time waiting for Nola. That would be enough to distract him from a small pile of overturned earth. Especially at Goose Cove: As soon as it rains there, the ground turns to mud.”
“Alright, so the murderer knows that no-one will disturb him there. And if the body is ever found, who will be accused?”
“Harry.”
“Exactly.”
“But then why write that message?” I asked. “Why write Goodbye, darling Nola?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, writer. Well, it is for you, anyway.”
Our main problem was that there were so many divergent clues. Several important questions remained unanswered, and Gahalowood wrote them on large sheets of paper.
Elijah Stern
Why did he pay Nola to pose for a painting?
What motive did he have for killing her?
Luther Caleb
Why did he paint Nola? Why did he hang around Somerset? What motive did he have for killing Nola?
David and Louisa Kellergan
Did they beat their daughter to death?
Why did they hide Nola’s suicide attempt and the fact that she ran away for a week?
Harry Quebert
Guilty?
Chief Gareth Pratt
Why did Nola initiate a relationship with him?
Motive: Did she threaten to talk?
Tamara Quinn states that the page she stole from Harry’s house disappeared. Who took it from the safe at Clark’s?
Who wrote the anonymous letters to Harry? Who knew about him and Nola for thirty-three years and never said anything?
Who set fire to Goose Cove? Who wants to prevent us from finding out the truth?
When Gahalowood had tacked these papers to a wall in my suite, he gave a long, despairing sigh.
“The more we find out, the murkier this gets,” he said. “I think there is some central piece of evidence that would connect all these people and these events. That’s the key to this investigation! If we find the link, we’ll find the murderer.”
He collapsed into an armchair. It was 7 p.m. and he was too tired to think anymore. As I had done every evening for the past several days, I got ready to box. I had found a boxing gym a fifteen-minute drive away—the hotel concierge, who went there himself, had recommended it—and had decided to make my return to the ring.
“Where are you going?” Gahalowood said.
“Boxing. You want to come?”
“Absolutely not.”
I threw my things in a bag and waved goodbye. “Stay as long as you like. Just close the door behind you.”
“Don’t worry, I got them to give me another key for the room. Are you really going boxing?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, and then, as I crossed the threshold, I heard him call out.
“Hang on, writer. Maybe I’ll come with you, after all.”
“What changed your mind?”
“The temptation of beating you up.”
*
On Thursday, July 17, we went to visit Neil Rodik, the police captain who had been jointly in charge of the 1975 investigation with Chief Pratt. He was now eighty-five years old and wheelchair bound, and he lived in a nursing home by the ocean. He still remembered the search for Nola; he said it was the biggest case of his career.
“That girl who disappeared … what a crazy story!” he told us. “What surprised me most was the part about the father playing music. That always bothered me. I always wondered how he could fail to notice that his daughter had been abducted.”
“So you think she was abducted?” Gahalowood asked.
“It’s difficult to say. No proof either way. Could the girl have gone for a walk outside and been picked up by a maniac in a van? Yeah, sure.”
“Do you, by any chance, remember what the weather was like while you were searching for her?”
“It was terrible. It was raining, very misty. Why do you ask?”
“We were wondering how Harry Quebert
could have failed to notice that someone had been digging in his yard.”
“It’s not impossible. It’s a huge property. Do you have a yard, Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“How big is it?”
“Small.”
“Do you think it would be possible for someone to dig a small hole while you were away that you wouldn’t notice when you got back?”
“Actually, I guess it’s possible.”
On the way back to Concord, Gahalowood asked what I thought.
“The manuscript proves to me that Nola was not abducted from her home,” I replied. “She went to meet Harry. They had arranged to meet at that motel. She left home discreetly, taking with her the only thing that mattered, Harry’s book, which she had kept with her. She must have been abducted on the way to the motel.”
Gahalowood smiled. “I think I’m beginning to like that theory,” he said. “She runs away from home, which explains why no-one heard anything. She walks along Shore Road to reach the Sea Side Motel. And it is here that she’s abducted. Or picked up by someone she trusted. The murderer wrote ‘darling Nola.’ So he knew her. He offers to give her a ride. And then he starts to touch her. Maybe he pulls over to the side of the road and puts his hand up her dress. She puts up a fight. He hits her, and tells her to stop struggling. But he hasn’t locked the car doors, and she manages to escape. She wants to hide in the forest, but who lives close to Shore Road and the Side Creek forest?”
“Deborah Cooper.”
“Exactly. The assailant runs after Nola, leaving his car by the side of the road. Deborah Cooper sees them and calls the police. While that’s happening, the assailant catches Nola in the spot where her blood and hair is later found; she defends herself, and he beats her severely. Perhaps he even rapes her. But that’s when the police arrive. Officer Dawn and Chief Pratt start searching the forest and gradually move closer to him. So he drags Nola into the depths of the forest, but she manages to escape again and gets back to Deborah Cooper’s house, where she takes refuge. Dawn and Pratt continue searching the forest. They are too far away to realize what’s happening. Deborah Cooper lets Nola into the kitchen and rushes to the living room to call the police. When she comes back, the assailant is there; he has entered the house to get Nola back. He shoots Cooper in the heart and takes Nola with him. He takes her to his car and throws her in the trunk. She is maybe still alive, but probably unconscious: She has lost a lot of blood. It is at this point that he passes the deputy sheriff’s car. A chase begins. Having eluded his pursuers, he goes to hide out at Goose Cove. He knows the house is empty; that nobody will disturb him there. The police are searching for him farther away, on the Montburry road. He leaves his car in Goose Cove, with Nola inside; maybe he even hides it in the garage. Then he goes down to the beach and walks back to Somerset. Yes, I’m sure he lives in Somerset: He knows all the roads, he knows the forest, he knows Harry is away. He knows everything. He goes home without anyone noticing him. He showers, changes his clothes, and then, when the police arrive at the Kellergan house, where Nola’s father has just announced her disappearance, he mingles with the crowd of onlookers on Terrace Avenue. That’s why the murderer was never found: because, when everyone was searching for him in the area around Somerset, he was actually in Somerset, in the center of the action.”
“Goddamn it,” I said. “So he was there?”
“Yes. I think he’s been there all this time. All he would have to do is return to Goose Cove in the middle of the night, getting there via the beach. By this point, I think, Nola must have been dead. So he buries her on the property, at the edge of the forest, where nobody will notice that the ground has been dug up. Then he picks up his car and parks it in his own garage, where he leaves it for quite a while so as not to awaken suspicions. The perfect crime.”
I was blown away.
“What does that suggest about our suspect?” I said.
“A single man. Someone who was able to act without anyone asking questions, without anyone wondering why he no longer took his car out of the garage. Someone with a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo.”
I let myself get carried away. “All we have to do is find out who in Somerset had a black Chevy at the time, and we’ll have our man!”
Gahalowood instantly calmed me down.
“Pratt thought of that back then. Pratt thought of everything. His report includes a list of people who owned Monte Carlos in and around Somerset. He went to visit each of them, and they all had solid alibis. All but one: Harry Quebert.”
Harry again. It always came back to Harry. We kept coming up with new criteria to uncover the murderer, and he kept being the common denominator.
“What about Luther Caleb?” I asked. “What kind of car did he have?”
“A blue Mustang.”
I sighed. “What do you think we should do now, Sergeant?”
“Well, there’s Caleb’s sister. We still haven’t questioned her. I think maybe it’s time to pay her a visit. It’s the only line of inquiry we haven’t really explored yet.”
*
That evening, after boxing, I decided to bite the bullet and go to the Sea Side Motel. It was about 9.30 p.m. Harry was sitting in a plastic chair in front of Room 8, enjoying the warm evening and drinking a can of soda. He said nothing when he saw me; for the first time I felt uncomfortable in his presence.
“I needed to see you, Harry. To tell you how sorry I am about all of this.”
He nodded for me to sit down in the chair next to his.
“Soda?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“The machine is at the end of the corridor.”
I smiled and went to buy a Diet Coke. When I came back I said: “That’s what you said to me the first time I went to Goose Cove. I was a junior. You’d made lemonade. You asked me if I wanted any, I said yes, and you told me to go to the fridge and help myself.”
“Those were good times.”
“Yeah.”
“What changed, Marcus?”
“Nothing. Everything changed, but nothing changed. We all changed, the world changed. The World Trade Center collapsed, we went to war. But the way I look at you has not changed. You’re still my master. You’re still Harry.”
“What changed, Marcus, is this fight between the master and the pupil.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“And yet we are. I taught you how to write books, and look what your book has done to me. Look what harm it’s caused me.”
“I never wanted to cause you harm, Harry. We’ll find whoever it was who burned Goose Cove, I promise.”
“But will that give me back the thirty years of memories I’ve lost? My whole life went up in flames! Why did you write those things about Nola?”
I didn’t reply. We sat in silence for a moment. In spite of the weak light from the wall lanterns, he noticed the cuts on my hands.
“Your hands,” he said. “Have you started boxing again?”
“Yes.”
“Your punches are badly placed. That was always your flaw. You hit well, but the first phalanx of your middle finger always stuck out too far, so it was grazed on impact.”
“Let’s box,” I suggested.
“If you like.”
We went into the parking lot together. There was no-one around. We took off our shirts. Harry was very thin. He looked at me.
“You’re good-looking, Marcus. Go get married, for God’s sake! Go and live!”
“I have to finish this investigation first.”
“To hell with your investigation!”
We squared up to each other and exchanged punches; one of us hit, while the other kept his guard position to protect himself. Harry hit hard.
“Don’t you want to know who killed Nola?” I asked.
He stopped dead. “Do you know?”
“No. But we’re getting closer. Sergeant Gahalowood and I are going to see Luther Caleb’s sister tomorrow, in Portland. And we still have people to quest
ion in Somerset.”
He sighed. “Somerset … I haven’t seen anyone since I got out of prison. The other day I stood outside my burned house for a while. A firefighter told me I could go inside. I retrieved up a few things and walked over here. Since then I haven’t moved. Roth is taking care of the insurance and all that. I can’t go to Somerset anymore. I can’t look those people in the face and tell them I loved Nola and wrote a book for her. I can’t even look myself in the face anymore. Roth said your book is going to be called The Harry Quebert Affair.”
“That’s true. It’s a book about how great your book is. I love The Origin of Evil. It’s the book that inspired me to become a writer.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth. It’s probably the most beautiful book I’ve ever read. You’re my favorite writer.”
“Oh, please shut up, for the love of God!”
“I want to write a book that will defend yours, Harry. When I first found out that you wrote it for Nola, I was shocked—I admit it. But then I read it again. You say it all in that book. Especially the ending. You describe the grief that will always be with you. I can’t let people attack that book—it made me what I am. You know, the day I opened your fridge to get the lemonade, on my first visit to you, and saw how empty the fridge was, I understood your solitude. And that day I realized: The Origin of Evil is a novel about solitude. You wrote brilliantly about it.”
“Please stop,” Harry said.
“The ending is so beautiful. You give up Nola: She has disappeared forever, and you know it, and yet you wait for her in spite of everything. I have only one question, now that I have come to truly understand your book, and that concerns the title. Why did you give such a dark title to such a beautiful book?”
“It’s complicated, Marcus.”
“But I need to under—”
“It’s too complicated …”
We looked at each other, face to face, both in the guard position, like two warriors. Finally he said, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you, Marcus.”
“Forgive me? But I’ll rebuild Goose Cove. I’ll pay for everything. With the money I’m getting for this book, we’ll reconstruct the whole house. You can’t just end our friendship like that!”
