A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(58)

“No.”

Far from being disappointed, Cloutier smiled. It was the response she’d expected. Hoped for.

A normal potter, approached by a gallery about representing them, would be falling all over themselves to invite them into the private address. To talk business. But Carl Tracey or Pauline Vachon or whoever Cloutier was communicating with, was not.

Now, why was that?

Only one answer. They didn’t want anyone else to see what was on the private account. Posts. Photographs.

She had them in her sights now. It would just take a little time. A little teasing. A tastier bait. But she’d get there. She’d get them.

With effort, she didn’t type the response she’d already formulated.

Let them stew.

Before leaving, she checked on Homer.

“Do you need anything?”

There was no answer. He was staring straight ahead.

She wondered what he was seeing, though she could guess. The image he would see for the rest of his life.

“We’re searching the home. I’m heading there now. We’ll get him.”

That penetrated, at least a little. Homer turned to her and smiled weakly.

“Merci, Lysette.”

Her fingers were around the bars, and he reached out and touched her hand.



* * *



It took most of the day to go over the Tracey property.

Where the earlier search was for Vivienne, today they were looking for her killer. And the evidence to convict him.

It had been decided that Lacoste would stay behind in the incident room, to coordinate the information as it came in and assign agents as necessary.

Beauvoir dropped Gamache off at the Tracey house, while he himself continued to the dirt road and the car. And the bridge.

His team had been there for hours, calling in engineers to first secure the bridge so they could walk on it safely.

While one crew did that, another went over the car.

“Tell me what you know.”

“There’re smears of blood on the outer and inner door handles, the steering wheel, the gearshift, a small smear on the trunk handle, and a drop on the backseat.”

“A drop, not a smear?”

“Exactly.” The agent showed Beauvoir. It had the telltale splatter of blood that had formed a drop, then hit. Maybe from a bleeding nose or lip.

“Prints?” Beauvoir asked.

“From at least three different people. There’re butts in the cigarette holder. We’ve bagged them, and we’ve taken dirt samples from the tires, of course. To see if we can work out where she’s been recently.”

“Tire tracks?”

“None. The rain washed everything away, including boot prints.”

“Damn,” said Beauvoir, looking around.

“Chief,” said an agent standing by the bridge. “We’re ready.”



* * *



“Chief?”

“Oui?” Gamache turned to see Agent Cloutier at the door to the living room.

“There’s something curious in the bedroom,” she said. “Something different from when we were here yesterday.”

He followed her through the rambling old farmhouse to the bedroom and saw immediately what Agent Cloutier meant.

When he was last there, the room was a mess. Now it was tidy. Not, perhaps, ready for a photo shoot in Country Living, but far neater than it had been.

He brought out his phone.

“There’s no reception, sir,” said the inspector in charge.

“Merci,” he said, and continued to scroll until he found what he was looking for. The photographs he’d downloaded the day before, from the first search of the Tracey home.

“Here’s what this room looked like yesterday when we came looking for Vivienne Godin.”

He turned the phone so that the inspector could see. The photo was taken from exactly the place where they now stood.

It showed a room in disarray. Clothing scattered on the floor and draped on a chair. Bed unmade and sheets dirty. Though not bloody. Which wasn’t to say traces of blood weren’t there. Just unnoticeable except by people trained to find them.

“Get Monsieur Tracey up here, please,” said Gamache, and Cloutier hurried away.

“We’ve looked, patron, and we can’t find any clothes that obviously belonged to Madame Godin.”

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and Tracey appeared.

“What do you want?”

“What did you do with your wife’s belongings?” asked Gamache.

“Well, she didn’t need them anymore.”

“How did you know? You haven’t been back here since her body was found. Which means you got rid of her things before you knew she was dead. Unless you did know.”

“All I knew is that she’d left me and I was pissed off. Before I went to bed last night, I took all her shit and burned it in the kiln.”

“I’ll get Scene of Crime to check the kiln,” said Cloutier, and left.

“You cleaned the place with bleach?” The inspector held up a swab.

“What can I say? Place was a shithole.” He turned to Gamache. “You saw it. What did you think?”

When Gamache didn’t answer, Tracey sneered. “I live in a pigsty and you judge. I clean it up and you judge. Well, fuck you. I’m finally free to live the way I want.”