A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(50)

“I see.” Gamache paused. Studying the man. “Were you having an affair?”

“No.”

“The truth.”

“No. I wanted to help her. I asked her to call me, to have a coffee together. To just talk. But she never did.”

“Did you go to the house?”

Cameron lowered his head, no longer looking Gamache in the eye. “A few times. When I knew he wasn’t there. When he was in the bar or in jail to sober up.”

“You detained the husband, then went up and propositioned the wife?”

Cameron’s face flushed, the scars turning white against the red. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I think it was,” said Gamache. “And you just don’t want to admit it. She wasn’t interested, but you continued to harass her.”

“I wasn’t harassing her. She was afraid.” Cameron shot a filthy look at the man across the bistro. “She wanted to leave him, I could tell. I was just trying to help her break away.”

He lifted his head and met Gamache’s eyes. “I love my wife. I have two children. But there was something about Vivienne. Something…” He stopped and thought. “Not innocent. Not even fragile. She seemed strong, but confused. Beaten down. I just wanted to help her.”

Gamache looked at Cameron’s face. Disfigured. And knew how deep the blows went. How deep the disfigurement went. And knew how much this man, while a boy, would have wanted someone to help him.

Motivations were rarely straightforward, as he knew all too well. And Gamache wondered how confused Cameron was, between helping Vivienne and helping himself.

Gamache considered the man, then nodded. “Stay where you are,” he said, and walked across the bistro.

He had a duty to perform. No matter how ludicrous it seemed.

“Monsieur Tracey,” said Gamache, squaring himself in front of the man.

“What?”

“I’m sorry to have to inform you—”

“So she is dead,” said Tracey.

“Yes. I’m afraid so. Her body was found in the river, just outside the village. She was thrown off that bridge.”

“Thrown? You make it sound like it was done on purpose.”

“We think it was.”

“Prove it.”

“Pardon?”

“How do you know she was thrown? I think she jumped. Killed herself.” His voice changed. “She was very depressed, you know. It sometimes happens to pregnant women. Hormones. She talked about killing herself for weeks. I did my best. Tried to comfort her. Begged her to get help.” Tracey’s voice had become wheedling. Rehearsing lines for a judge. “But she wouldn’t. She was drinking too much. Then she just disappeared. I was distraught.”

A long, long silence greeted that. While Tracey smiled, the others in the bistro stared.

Gamache tilted his head slightly. Then he nodded. Slightly.

Tracey, with the instincts of a rodent, stopped smiling. Had he had hackles, they would have gone up. And for good reason.

He’d goaded the wrong person.

“Your wife was pregnant,” said Gamache. His voice quiet. Unnaturally calm. “The night she disappeared, she told you the child wasn’t yours. You have a history of drunk and disorderly. Police have been called to your place more than once for domestic violence. Judges are smart. Juries are smart. What do you think they’ll make of that?”

“I’ll tell you what they’d make of it.” His voice rose. “That I’m a shit husband, but not a killer. She was drunk and knocked up, and she left me. Try to prove otherwise.”

“And you never asked who the father was?” demanded Gamache.

“I didn’t care.”

“You cared. You cared about how it looked to others. You cared about being made a fool of. We found blood in your living room and in her car. What did you do to her?”

Tracey was silent.

“What did you do, Carl?”

The others in the room stayed absolutely still. Frozen.

“I have a right to know who my wife was screwing, okay. I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do. Anything any normal guy wouldn’t do.”

He looked around but met only disgust.

“So what did you do? Come on, Carl. Tell me.”

“I gave her what for.”

“You beat her.”

“My drunk and knocked-up wife? She was leaving me to go to the father. What did she think was going to happen? It was her fault.”

But something, besides the grotesque description, struck Gamache.

“Her father or ‘the’ father?” he asked. “What did she say? Who was she going to?”

“The father. Her father. What difference does it make? I took a bottle and went to my studio. Passed out. When I woke up next morning, she was gone. But she was alive when I left her.”

Tracey’s gaze shifted to something over Gamache’s shoulder. Gamache turned.

Homer Godin was standing at the door.

Staring.

“I’m sorry, patron,” said Agent Cloutier, coming through behind Godin. She was out of breath from running. “I was watching the coroner, and when I turned around, he was gone.”

“Don’t let him close to me,” said Tracey, backing away. “He’s crazy.”