A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  “He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”

  “So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.

  She nodded. “I think so. As I said, beautiful isn’t in, but then if you’re going to find the next big thing it won’t be among all the people doing what everyone else’s doing. You need to find someone creating their own form. Like her.”

  She tapped the dossier with a manicured finger.

  “And François Marois?” asked Gamache. “How does he fit in?”

  “Ah, now there’s a good question. He gives every appearance of urbane disinterest, certainly in the infighting. Seems to live above the fray. Claims to only want to promote great art and the artists. And he certainly knows it. Of all the dealers in Canada, and certainly in this city, I’d say he’s most likely to recognize talent.”

  “And then what?”

  Thérèse Brunel looked at Gamache closely. “You’ve obviously spent time with him, Armand. What do you think?”

  Gamache thought for a moment. “I think of all the dealers he’s the most likely to get what he wants.”

  Brunel nodded slowly. “He’s a predator,” she finally said. “Patient, ruthless. As charming as can be, as you’ve probably noticed, until he spots what he wants. And then? Best to hide somewhere until the slaughter is over.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad. I’ve never known François Marois not to get his way.”

  “Has he ever broken the law?”

  She shook her head. “Not the laws of man, anyway.”

  The three friends sat quietly for a moment. Until finally Gamache spoke.

  “I’ve come across a quote in this case and wonder if you know it. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”

  He sat back and watched their reactions. Thérèse, so serious a moment before, smiled a bit while her husband guffawed.

  “I know that quote. From a critique, I believe. But many years ago,” said Thérèse.

  “It was. A review in La Presse. Written by the dead woman.”

  “By her or about her?”

  “The review mentions a ‘he,’ Thérèse,” said her husband with amusement.

  “That’s true, but Armand might have misquoted. He’s famous for shoddy work, you know,” she said with a smile, and Gamache laughed.

  “Well, this time, by dumb luck, I got it right,” he said. “Do you remember who the line was written about?”

  Thérèse Brunel thought, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Armand. As I say, it’s become a famous line, but I suspect whoever it was written about didn’t become a famous artist.”

  “Are reviews that important?”

  “To Kapoor or Twombly, no. To someone just starting out, a first show, they’re crucial. Which reminds me, I saw the wonderful reviews of Clara’s show. We couldn’t make the vernissage, but I’m not surprised. Her works are genius. I called to congratulate her but couldn’t get through. I’m sure she’s busy.”

  “Are Clara’s paintings better than these?” Gamache indicated the dossier.

  “They’re different.”

  “Oui. But if you were still the chief curator at the Musée, which artist would you buy, Clara Morrow or Lillian Dyson?”

  Thérèse considered for a moment. “You know, I say they’re different, but they have one big thing in common. They’re both quite joyous, in their own way. How lovely if that’s where art’s heading.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might mean that’s where the human spirit’s heading. Out of a period of darkness.”

  “That would be good,” agreed Gamache, picking up his dossier. But before he rose he looked at Thérèse, then made up his mind.

  “What do you know about Chief Justice Thierry Pineault?”

  “Oh, God, Armand, don’t tell me he’s involved?”

  “He is.”

  Superintendent Brunel took a deep breath. “I don’t know him personally, only as a jurist. He seems very straight, upstanding. No blemishes on his judicial record. Everyone has their stumbles, but I haven’t heard anything against him as a sitting judge.”

  “And off the bench?” pressed Gamache.

  “I’d heard he liked his drink and could get pretty nasty at times. But then, he had reason to. Lost a grandson, or was it a little girl? A DUI. He quit drinking after that.”

  Gamache got up and helped clear the table, carrying the tray into their kitchen. Then he made for the door. But there he paused.

  He’d been debating saying anything to Thérèse and Jérôme. But if there was ever a time, it was now. And if there was ever a couple, it was them.

  As they stood on the threshold, Gamache slowly closed the door and looked at them. “I have another question for you,” he said quietly. “Nothing to do with the case. It’s about something else.”

  “Oui?”

  “The video of the attack,” he said, watching them closely. “Who do you really think released it onto the Internet?”

  Jérôme looked perplexed, but Superintendent Brunel didn’t.

  She looked angry.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Thérèse led them back into the apartment, away from the door, and away from the open French windows. Into the dim center of the room.

  “There was an internal investigation,” she said, her voice low and angry. “You know that, Armand. They discovered it was a hacker. Some kid who found the file and probably didn’t even know what it was. That’s all.”

  “If it was some kid with dumb luck why haven’t they found him?” Gamache asked.

  “Leave it for the investigators,” she said, her voice softer now.

  Gamache considered the two people in front of him. An older man and woman. Creased, worn.

  But then, so was he.

  Which was why he’d warned Beauvoir away from looking further. Why he hadn’t quietly assigned this to any of his other hundred agents. Any one of them would have gladly dug deeper.

  But what would they find buried there?

  No, best to do it himself. With the help of two people he trusted. And the Brunels had one other, outstanding, qualification. They were nearer the end than the beginning. As was he. The end of all their careers. The end of all their lives. If they lost either now, they’d still have lived fully.

  Gamache would not put a young agent on this case. He would not lose another one, not if he had a choice.

  “I waited for the report of the internal investigation,” he said. “I read it, and spent two months studying it, thinking about it.”

  Superintendent Brunel considered carefully before asking the question she really didn’t want the answer to. “And what did you conclude?”

  “That the investigation was flawed, perhaps even intentionally. In fact, almost certainly intentionally. Someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth.”

  There was no use pretending otherwise. That was what he believed.

  “What makes you say that?” Jérôme asked.

  “Because it would be nearly impossible for a hacker to find the video file. And if one had, the investigators would have found him. That’s what they do. There’s a whole department that only investigates cyber crime. They’d have found him.”

  Thérèse and Jérôme were quiet. Then Jérôme turned to his wife.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She looked from her husband to her guest.

  “You say someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth. What do you think is the truth?”

  “That it was an internal leak,” said Gamache. “Someone inside the Sûreté released the video, deliberately.”

  Even as he spoke he realized he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, or suspect.

  “But why?” she asked. It was clearly a question she’d been asking herself.

  “I think the ‘why’ depends on the ‘who,’” said th
e Chief. He watched her closely. “This is no surprise to you, is it?”

  Thérèse Brunel hesitated then shook her head. “I also read the report, as did all the other superintendents. I don’t know what they thought, but I came to the same conclusion you did. Not necessarily that it was an inside job,” she looked at him with warning, “but that for some strange reason, the investigation was inconclusive. Given that it involved the deaths of four officers and the betrayal of their families and the service, I’d have expected the investigation to be rigorous. I’d have thought they’d throw everything they had at it. And they claimed to. And yet the conclusion, under all the rhetoric, was shockingly thin. The tape was stolen by an unknown hacker.”

  She shook her head and took a deep breath, exhaling before she spoke again.

  “We have a problem, Armand.”

  He nodded, looking at both of them. “We have a big problem.”

  Superintendent Brunel sat and indicated chairs for the other two, who joined her. She paused, about to cross the Rubicon. “Who do you think did it?”

  Gamache held her intelligent, bright eyes. “You know who I think.”

  “I do, but I need you to say it.”

  “Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur.”

  Outside they could hear the shrieks of children chasing each other, running and laughing.

  “This’ll be fun,” Jérôme Brunel said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of a thorny puzzle.

  “Jérôme!” said his wife. “Haven’t you been listening? The head of the Sûreté du Québec may very well have done something not only illegal, but deeply cruel. An attack on officers dead and alive. And their families. For his own ends.”

  Thérèse turned back to Gamache. “If it was Francoeur, why would he do it?”

  “I don’t know. But I know he’s been trying to get rid of me for years. He might have thought this would be the final shove.”

  “But the video didn’t make you look bad, Armand,” said Jérôme. “Just the opposite. It made you look very good.”

  “And what would cripple you, Jérôme?” Gamache looked with affection at the man across from him. “Being falsely accused or being falsely praised? Especially when there was so much pain and so little to praise.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Jérôme, looking his friend square in the face.

  “Merci,” Gamache inclined his head, “but it wasn’t my finest hour either.”

  Jérôme nodded. The spotlight could be a tricky thing. It could send a person rushing for someplace dim to hide. Away from the crippling glare of public approval.

  Gamache hadn’t run, but both Jérôme and Thérèse knew he’d been sorely tempted. Had come within a breath of handing in his warrant and retiring. And no one would have blamed him. Just as no one blamed him for the deaths of those young agents. No one, except Gamache himself.

  But instead of retiring, retreating, the Chief Inspector had stayed.

  And Jérôme wondered if this was why. If there was one more thing Chief Inspector Gamache needed to do. His final duty, to both the living and the dead.

  To find the truth.

  * * *

  Agent Isabelle Lacoste wiped her face with her hands and looked at her watch.

  Seven thirty-five in the evening.

  The Chief had called earlier with what seemed a strange request. A suggestion really. It had meant extra work, but she’d assigned another agent to the search. Now five of them were going over the files in the morgue of the Montréal daily La Presse.

  It was going much more quickly, but not knowing when the review had been published, not the year, not even the decade, was difficult. And Chief Inspector Gamache had just made it more difficult still.

  “Look at this,” one of the junior agents said, turning to Lacoste. “I think I’ve found it.”

  “Oh, thank God,” moaned another.

  The other three agents crowded around the microfiche.

  “Can you magnify it?” Lacoste asked and the agent clicked a dial. The screen leapt closer, and clearer.

  There, in bold type, were the words “A Deeply Moving Exhibit.” And what followed was not so much a review or critique but a comedy routine, a riff on the word “move,” as in “movement.” As in “bodily function.”

  Even the drained agents chuckled as they read.

  It was juvenile, immature. But still, quite funny. Like watching someone slip on a banana peel. And fall. Nothing subtle about it. But for some reason laughable.

  Isabelle Lacoste did not laugh.

  Unlike the others, she’d seen how this review concluded. Not with the period on the page, but with the body sprawled in the late spring garden.

  It started with a joke, and it ended in murder.

  Agent Lacoste had copies of the review printed out, making sure the date was clear. Then she thanked and dismissed the other agents and got into her car for the drive back to Three Pines. Convinced that in her car she carried a conviction.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Peter sat in Clara’s studio.

  She’d gone off right after a fairly silent supper to speak with Myrna. He hadn’t been enough after all. He’d been tested, he knew. And found wanting.

  He was always wanting. But up until now he hadn’t really known what he wanted, so he’d gone after everything.

  Now, at least, he knew.

  He sat in Clara’s studio and waited. God, he knew, lived here too. Not just in St. Thomas’s on the hill. But here, in the cluttered space, with the dried-up apple cores, the tins with oil-hardened brushes shoved into them. The paintings.

  The big fiberglass feet and the uteruses rampant.

  Across the hall in his pristine studio he’d made space for inspiration. All clean and tidy. But inspiration had mistaken the address, and landed here instead.

  No, thought Peter, it wasn’t just inspiration he was looking for, it was more.

  That had been the problem. All his life he’d mistaken the one for the other. Thinking inspiration was enough. Mistaking the created for the Creator.

  He’d brought a bible with him into Clara’s studio, in case that would help. In case God needed proof he was sincere. He flipped through it, finding the apostles.

  Thomas. Like their church. Doubting Thomas.

  How odd that Three Pines would have a church named after a doubter.

  And his own name? Peter. He was the rock.

  To pass the time until God found him Peter skimmed the bible for any references to his name.

  He found lots of very satisfying ones.

  Peter the rock, Peter the apostle, Peter the saint. A martyr even.

  But then Peter was something else too. Something Jesus had said to Peter when the apostle had been faced with an obvious miracle. A man walking on water. And Peter, though he himself was also walking on water, hadn’t believed it.

  Hadn’t believed all the evidence, all the proof.

  “O, ye of little faith.”

  It had been said of Peter.

  He closed the book.

  * * *

  It was twilight by the time Agent Isabelle Lacoste parked the car and entered the Incident Room. She’d called ahead and Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir were waiting for her.

  She’d read them the review over the phone, but still both men met her, anxious to actually see it.

  She handed a copy to each of them and watched.

  “Holy shit,” said Beauvoir, having raced through it. They both turned to Gamache, who had his reading glasses on and was taking his time. Finally he lowered the paper and removed his glasses.

  “Well done.” He nodded gravely to Agent Lacoste. To say what she found was surprising was an understatement.

  “Well, that just about does it, don’t you think?” said Beauvoir. “He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” he quoted without looking at the review. “How’d so many get it wrong, though?”

  “Over time things can get a little warped
,” said Gamache, “we all know that from interviewing witnesses. People remember things differently. Fill in the blanks.”

  “So, what now?” asked Beauvoir. It was clear what he thought should happen. Gamache considered for a moment then turned to Agent Lacoste.

  “Would you do the honors? Inspector, perhaps you could go with her.”

  Agent Lacoste laughed. “You don’t expect trouble, surely.”

  But she instantly regretted it.

  The Chief, though, smiled. “I always expect trouble.”

  “So do I,” said Beauvoir, checking his gun, as did Lacoste. The two headed out into the night while Chief Inspector Gamache sat down, and waited.

  * * *

  Monday being a quiet night at the bistro it was only half full.

  As Lacoste entered she scanned the room, not taking anything for granted. Just because it was familiar, and comfortable, didn’t mean it was safe. Most accidents happen close to home, most murders happen in the home.

  No, this was not the time, or place, to let her guard down.

  Myrna and Dominique and Clara were having tisane and dessert, talking quietly at a table by the mullioned window. In the far corner, by the stone fireplace, she could see the artists, Normand and Paulette. And at a table across from them sat Suzanne and her dinner companions, Chief Justice Thierry Pineault and Brian, dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket.

  Denis Fortin and François Marois shared a table, Fortin telling some anecdote that amused him. Marois looked polite and slightly bored. There was no sign of André Castonguay.

  “Après toi,” Beauvoir murmured to Lacoste as they moved into the bistro. By now most had noticed the two Sûreté officers. At first the patrons looked, some smiled, then went back to their conversations. But after a moment some looked up again, sensing something different.

  Myrna, Clara, Dominique grew quiet and watched as the officers walked between the tables, leaving silence in their wake.

  Past the three women.

  Past the art dealers.

  At Normand and Paulette’s table they stopped. And turned.

  “May I have a word?” Agent Lacoste asked.

  “Here? Now?”

  “No. I think perhaps someplace more private, don’t you?” And Agent Lacoste quietly placed the photocopied article on the round wooden table.