Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(24)

‘How many people saw this happen?’ asked Gamache.

‘About thirty, maybe more. It was the annual funspiel. There was a community breakfast at the legion beforehand.’

All around them now the Crime Scene Investigators were working, every now and then stopping to approach Gamache with a question or an observation. Beauvoir went off to oversee the gathering of evidence and Gamache paused on the ice to watch his team at work, then slowly began to circle the scene, his pace measured, his gloved hands behind his back. Agent Lemieux watched as the Chief Inspector seemed to walk into his own world.

‘Come with me, please.’ The Chief Inspector had stopped and turned so suddenly that Lemieux was caught staring into Gamache’s lively brown eyes. Galumphing through the snow Lemieux caught up with the chief and walked beside him, wondering what was expected of him. After a minute or two he realized maybe all he had to do was keep the man company. So Lemieux, too, put his hands behind his back and walked slowly round and round the periphery of the crime scene until their boots had worn a snowy path and in the center of their circle, like a bull’s-eye, a smaller circle marked the spot where CC de Poitiers had died.

‘What’s that?’ Gamache finally spoke, pointing to the huge mushroom that towered over the scene like a very small and frozen A-bomb.

‘It’s a heating element, sir. Like a lamp post, except it throws heat.’

‘I’ve seen them on the terrasses in Quebec City,’ said Gamache, remembering the glasses of white wine on the old stone terrasses in Vieux Québec, and the heating elements that allowed people to enjoy outdoor dining into the early autumn. ‘But they were much smaller.’

‘Most are. These are industrial. Used for outdoor construction sites in the winter and some sporting events. I imagine that one was borrowed from the Bantam hockey league in Williamsburg. They play most of their games outside and a few years ago they had a big fundraiser to build bleachers and get something to keep spectators warm.’

‘Are you from round here?’

‘Yes sir. I was raised in St-Rémy. My family’s moved but I wanted to come back here after police college.’

‘Why?’

Why? The question surprised Lemieux. No one had asked him that. Was this a test, a trick on the part of Gamache? He looked at the large man in front of him and decided probably not. He didn’t seem the sort who needed tricks. Still, it was best to give a diplomatic answer.

‘I wanted to work with the S?reté and I figured I’d have an advantage working here since I know so many people.’

Gamache watched him for a moment. An uncomfortable moment, then he turned back to look at the heat standard. Lemieux relaxed a little.

‘That must be electric. The electricity that killed Madame de Poitiers probably came from that. And yet she was so far from it when she collapsed. Could the heater have had a bad connection, and somehow Madame de Poitiers came in contact with it and managed to stagger a few paces before collapsing, I wonder? What do you think?’

‘Am I allowed to guess?’

Gamache laughed. ‘Yes, but don’t tell Inspector Beauvoir.’

‘People use generators all the time round here to make electricity. Everyone has one. I think it’s possible someone attached her to one.’

‘You mean used a jumper cable and clipped the two prongs onto her?’ He tried not to sound incredulous, but it was difficult. ‘Do you think she might have noticed?’

‘Not if she was watching the curling.’

It seemed young Agent Lemieux and Chief Inspector Gamache had different experiences with curling. Gamache liked it enough to watch the national finals on television. It was almost a Canadian requirement. But riveting it never was. And he’d certainly know if Reine-Marie suddenly started up a generator and attached a couple of huge alligator clips to his ears.

‘Any other ideas?’

Lemieux shook his head and tried to give the impression of massive thought.

Jean Guy Beauvoir had broken away from the CSI and joined Gamache, now standing near the heat lamp.

‘How was this powered, Jean Guy?’

‘Not a clue. We’ve dusted and photographed it so you can touch it if you like.’

The two men circled the lamp, alternately bowing and looking heavenward, like two monks on a very short pilgrimage.

‘Here’s the on switch.’ Gamache flipped it and, not surprisingly, nothing happened.

‘One more mystery.’ Beauvoir smiled.

‘Will it never end?’

Gamache looked toward Agent Lemieux sitting on the bleachers, blowing on his frozen hands, and writing in his notebook. The chief had asked him to put his notes in order.

‘What do you think of him?’

‘Lemieux?’ Beauvoir asked, his heart sinking. ‘He’s all right.’

‘But…’

How’d he know there was a but? Not for the first time Beauvoir hoped Gamache couldn’t actually read his mind. There was a lot of junk up there. As his grandfather used to say, ‘You don’t want to go into your head alone, mon petit. It’s a very scary place.’

The lesson had stuck. Beauvoir spent very little time looking around his own head, and even less looking into others’. He preferred facts, evidence, things he could see and touch and hold. He left the mind to braver men, like Gamache. But now he wondered whether the chief hadn’t discovered a way into his own mind. He’d find a lot of embarrassing stuff up there. More than a little pornography. A fantasy or two about Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Even a fantasy about Agent Yvette Nichol, the disastrous trainee from a year or so ago. That fantasy involved dismemberment. But if Gamache was ferreting around in Beauvoir’s mind, he’d only find respect for himself. And if he dug deep enough Gamache might eventually find the room Beauvoir tried to keep hidden even from himself. In that room waited Beauvoir’s fears, fetid and hungry. And slouching there, hidden below the fear of rejection and intimacy, sat the fear that someday Beauvoir would lose Gamache. And beside that fear, in that hidden room, sat something else. It was where Beauvoir’s love hid, curled into a tiny protective ball and rolled into the furthest corner of his mind.