Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(23)

‘Please use her name, agent,’ said Gamache, without reproach. ‘We need to see Madame de Poitiers as a person.’

‘Yes sir. She, Madame de Poitiers, was electrocuted right here.’

It was what Lemieux had said on the phone, and hearing it in his office had sounded strange enough to Gamache, but standing at the scene it was even more bizarre.

How does someone get electrocuted in the middle of a frozen lake? You used to be able to electrocute someone in a bathtub but that was before most appliances had automatic shut-offs. Toss a toaster into your spouse’s bath these days and all you’ll get is a blown fuse, a ruined appliance and a very pissed-off sweetheart.

No. It was almost impossible to electrocute someone these days, unless you were the governor of Texas. To do it on a frozen lake, in front of dozens of witnesses, was lunacy.

Someone had been insane enough to try.

Someone had been brilliant enough to succeed.

How? Gamache turned slowly, but nothing new presented itself. Certainly there were no vintage televisions or toasters smoldering on the ice. But there were three aluminum lawn chairs sitting on the snow, one toppled over. Towering behind the chairs was what looked like a huge chrome mushroom, fifteen feet high. About twenty feet off to the left was a set of bleachers.

Everything was facing onto the lake toward a clearing on the ice twenty feet or so in front of the bleachers. Gamache walked toward it, trying to avoid more deep snow, and saw it was a rectangle, long and narrow, with large round stones scattered about.

Curling.

Gamache had never played the sport, but he’d watched the Briar on television and knew enough to recognize a curling stone when he saw one. The rink had an eerie feel to it now, as all abandoned sites did. Gamache could almost hear the rocks roll down the ice, the voices of the team members, calling to each other. Just hours ago this place had been full of happy people. Except one. One had been so unhappy, so wretched and dis-eased, he’d had to take a life. Gamache tried to imagine what that person had done. Where had he sat? With the others in the bleachers, or had he distanced himself from the rest, knowing he was about to commit an act that would mark him for ever as different? Was he excited or scared to death? Had he planned the murder to the last detail or suddenly been overtaken with a rage so profound he’d had to act? Gamache stood very still and listened carefully now to see whether he could hear the voice of the murderer, whether it distinguished itself from the ghostly laughter of the children and the collegial calls of the team-mates.

But he couldn’t. Yet.

And maybe there were no voices, just the wind as it skittered across the surface of the lake whisking up snow and creating small, frozen waves.

Technicians were putting out the yellow crime scene tape, photographing every inch of the terrain, picking up anything that looked like evidence. Measuring and bagging and fingerprinting, not an easy task at minus ten Celsius. They were racing time, Gamache knew. It was almost two thirty, three hours since the murder, and the elements were closing in. Any murder scene outside was difficult but a lake in the middle of winter was particularly hard.

‘How can someone be electrocuted here?’ Beauvoir asked petulantly. ‘What do the witnesses say?’

‘The curling started at about ten,’ said Lemieux, consulting his notebook. ‘Maybe ten thirty by the time everyone was here. Almost everyone was in the stands over there but the victim and another woman were sitting in those chairs.’

‘The victim in the one that was overturned?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘I don’t know.’ It killed Lemieux to admit it. Strangely enough it was the first time Gamache looked at him with more than polite interest. ‘The first anyone knew there was a problem was when the other woman sitting there called out. At first no one heard because of all the noise at the rink.’

‘There was a curling riot?’ asked Beauvoir, incredulous. The only riot he could imagine was a stampede to leave.

‘I guess someone made a good shot,’ said Lemieux.

‘Best not to guess,’ said Gamache quietly.

‘Yes sir.’ Lemieux lowered his head and tried not to look too upset by the simple criticism. He didn’t want to appear like an eager schoolboy. This was a delicate time. It was important to give just the right impression.

‘Once people realized what had happened they tried to revive Madame de Poitiers. There were members of the volunteer fire department here.’

‘Including Ruth Zardo?’ asked Gamache.

‘How’d you know?’

‘I met her at the last investigation. She still the head of the volunteer fire department in Three Pines?’

‘Yes sir. She was here along with a few others. Olivier Brulé, Gabri Dubeau, Peter and Clara Morrow – ’

Gamache smiled at the names.

‘ – they did CPR then got the victim onto a nearby truck and took her to Cowansville where she was declared dead.’

‘How’d the doctor know she’d been electrocuted?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘Burning. Her hands and feet were scorched.’

‘And no one noticed this while they were giving her CPR?’ Beauvoir asked.

Lemieux knew enough now to be silent. After a moment he continued.

‘Madame de Poitiers had a husband and a daughter. They were here and went with her to the hospital. I have their names and address.’