A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(105)
“And I’m going to miss you, too, sir. But I won’t miss this.”
He gazed at the fresh young agent standing straight and tall, twenty feet away from the cruddy bar.
Staring.
At a man Chief Inspector Beauvoir, as lead investigator, had let get away with murder.
Jean-Guy did not need anyone staring at him to know that it would be a long time, if ever, before his own conscience was clear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
They spent the balance of the day in the incident room going back over all the evidence. Over and over.
Starting with what little was still admissible, then moving on to what they knew to be true but couldn’t use.
Homer Godin returned to Three Pines, and according to Reine-Marie, after quietly walking Fred around the village green and being offered and declining food, he went into his room and closed the door.
Agent Cloutier stayed in the house, checking on him every now and then, to make sure.…
As Armand talked to Reine-Marie on the phone, he looked through what had once been the ticket window. He could see the bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella, the sandbags still in place. And beyond that, his home on the far side of the village green.
Between him and his home was a stranger, sitting on the bench.
“Who’s that?” he asked Reine-Marie.
“Dominica Oddly.”
Reine-Marie explained who she was and why she was there.
Gamache grimaced. Seemed Clara was having a day to rival his own. Both thanks, in no small part, to Ruth.
He turned and looked up at the photo of the old poet, glaring down at him.
When he hung up, Armand rubbed his eyes. Then, putting his reading glasses back on, he returned to the statements. Trying to find something.
Anything.
Isabelle Lacoste arrived. She barely had her coat off when Jean-Guy handed her a bunch of files.
“Here. You take these.”
They divvied up the evidence, the interviews. Going over one another’s work. Fresh eyes on old evidence. Looking for something overlooked.
“I’d like to speak to Monsieur Bertrand,” said Gamache, getting up.
It still struck Gamache as unlikely that Vivienne would call this man again and again on the day she died, and its being a wrong number.
Surely she knew him. Surely he’s lying.
“So do I,” said Beauvoir, putting on his coat.
* * *
Gerald Bertrand was cordial. Young. Attractive. Holding his baby niece in his arms. He was apparently eager to help, but with nothing helpful to add.
Gamache tried. This way. That. He prodded, looking for holes. For chinks. For hairline fractures in Bertrand’s story. In his demeanor. But found nothing.
They came away just as convinced as Lacoste. Bertrand was telling the truth. He did not know Vivienne. Or Tracey.
“Tracey lied, of course,” said Beauvoir. “Vivienne didn’t have a lover.”
“At least,” said Gamache, “not this lover.”
Still, Vivienne Godin had spent the last few minutes of her life doing one thing.
Reaching out to one person.
But who was it? Who did a desperate, terrified woman call for help?
Not her father—he was too far away, thought Gamache. Was she trying Cameron?
But there was someone else in the picture. Someone who’d been in Vivienne’s life, all her life. Her godmother. Who was, after all, a woman and a cop.
On the way back, they stopped at Pauline Vachon’s place. Her signed statement had implicated Carl Tracey, but not herself. Now the investigators wanted the whole truth.
“Did I want her gone?” Pauline said. “Yes, for sure.”
“Why?”
“So I could have Carl.”
“You don’t seem to even like him,” said Beauvoir.
“I did at first. I like older men.” She leered at Gamache.
“And after that?”
“Well, there’d be money, right? If she divorced him, he’d lose money, probably lose the house. But if she died…”
“Yes?”
“Well, there’d be an inheritance. There’s always money when someone dies.”
“Not always,” said Beauvoir.
Jesus, he thought. Vivienne was killed for money she didn’t have?
“Why didn’t you tell the other investigators this?” he asked.
“What? That there might be a reason I’d want her dead? Let’s guess.…”
“Then why tell us now?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. My lawyer says you can’t touch me. Besides, Carl did it, not me.”
Gamache considered her so closely she began to fidget.
“I’m not going to confess, you know,” she said. “So you might as well leave.”
She got up, and they followed her to the front door. As she held it open, Gamache tried one more time.
“Tell us what happened that day, Pauline. For her father’s sake. For yours. Get it off your chest.”
“Oh, you’re interested in my chest, are you?” she said, in a way that was so artless it made her seem very young. “And as for her father…” She made a rude, dismissive noise. “Have you asked yourself why she’d marry a shithead like Carl Tracey?”