Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(31)

‘Have you?’

Gabri moved to stand beside Olivier. ‘There’s an idea, now that it’s legal. The Chief Inspector could be our best man.’

‘I thought Ruth was going to be our best man.’

‘True. Sorry, chief.’

‘Perhaps I could be your matron of honour. Let me know. I hear you had a tough time of it today trying to save Madame de Poitiers.’

‘No more than Peter, and I suspect considerably less than Ruth.’ Olivier jerked his head toward the window and the invisible woman sitting alone in the cold. ‘She’ll be in soon for her Scotch.’

Her important appointment, thought Lemieux.

Gamache said to Gabri. ‘I’d like to book into your B. & B. Two rooms.’

‘Not for that horrible trainee you had last time, I hope.’

‘No, just Inspector Beauvoir and me.’

‘Merveilleux. We’ll book you in.’

‘Merci, patron. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

Walking to the door he whispered to Lemieux, ‘Rick’s is from the film Casablanca. Here’s lesson number two. If you don’t know something, ask. You have to be able to admit you don’t know something, otherwise you’ll just get more and more confused, or worse, you’ll jump to a false conclusion. All the mistakes I’ve made have been because I’ve assumed something and then acted as though it was fact. Very dangerous, Agent Lemieux. Believe me. I wonder if you haven’t already leaped to a false conclusion?’

This cut Lemieux deeply. He was desperate to impress Gamache. He needed to impress him if he was to get the job done. But now, for some reason, the chief felt he might be on the wrong track. As far as Lemieu knew he wasn’t on any track, nor had he come to any conclusions about the case. Who could, so early?

‘You need to tread very carefully, Agent Lemieux. I often think we should have tattooed to the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, “I might be wrong.”’

Standing outside the bistro Chief Inspector Gamache’s face was in darkness, but Lemieux assumed he was smiling. It must be a joke. The head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec couldn’t possibly be advocating such self-doubt.

Still, he knew his job was to learn from Gamache. And he knew if he watched the chief, and listened, not only would the mystery be revealed, but so would Gamache.

And Robert Lemieux was eager for that to happen.

He took out his notebook and in the biting cold he wrote down the two lessons. Then he waited in case there was more, but Armand Gamache seemed frozen in place, his tuque on, his mitts on, everything ready. Except the man.

He was staring at something in the distance. Something beyond the charming village, something beyond Ruth Zardo and her lit Christmas trees. He was staring at something in the darkness.

As he looked more closely, and let his eyes adjust to the night, Agent Robert Lemieux became aware of the outline of something even darker than the night. A house on the hill overlooking the village. As he stared the darkness seemed to take shape and an image of turrets appeared against the dark sky and darker pine forest. From one of the chimneys he saw just a hint of smoke before it was dragged away like a wraith into the woods.

Gamache took a breath, exhaling puffy white air, and turning to the young man beside him he smiled.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes sir.’

Lemieux didn’t know why but he was suddenly a little afraid and suddenly very glad to be in the company of Armand Gamache.





At the top of the hill Agent Lemieux glided the car to a stop beside a snow bank, hoping he’d left enough room for the chief to squeeze out.

He had, and Gamache stood for the briefest moment surveying the large, dark house before beginning to walk decisively down the long path to the unlit front door. As the old Hadley house got closer Gamache tried to banish the impression it was watching him, its blinds half drawn like hooded serpent eyes.

It was fanciful, but that was a side to himself he’d come to accept and even encourage. It helped sometimes. But sometimes it hurt. Gamache wasn’t sure which this was.





From inside the house Richard Lyon watched the two men approach. One was clearly in charge. Not only was he walking first down their path, but he seemed in command. It was a quality Lyon noticed in others, mostly as a counterpoint to his complete lack of it. The other figure was smaller and slimmer and walked with a bit of a bounce, like a younger man.

Deep breath. Suck it up. Be a man. Be a man. They were almost at the door now. Should he go and open it before they arrived? Should he wait for them to ring? Would making them wait be rude? Would opening the door show anxiety?

Richard Lyon’s mind was racing, but his body was frozen. It was his natural state. He had a very slim brain and a very generous body.

Be a man. Firm handshake. Look him in the eye. Lower your voice. Lyon hummed a little, trying to get his voice below the soprano register. Behind him in the gloomy living room his daughter Crie stared into space.

Now what? Normally at a time like this CC would have told him exactly what to do. Be a man. Suck it up. He wasn’t totally surprised to hear her voice in his head still. It was almost comforting.

God, you’re such a loser.

Almost comforting. It would be helpful if she’d say something constructive, like ‘Go open the door, you idiot’ or ‘Sit down and make them wait. Jesus, do I have to do everything?’