Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(74)

‘We’re pretty certain she didn’t throw it away because it was stretched out of shape.’ He wasn’t following her and now he could hear the static begin.

‘…know that. Not too bad…need one.’

Then the line went dead.





Saul saw the car winding up his snowy drive. He picked up the film and held it in his palm as though, by osmosis, it might tell him what to do. As CC always had.

And then he had his answer. He was finally free. He felt light, buoyant for the first time in months. Years. He even felt bright, as though perhaps he could hold his own in a conversation, as though overnight he’d been buffed up, his shine restored.

He was no longer dull.

He smiled gently and gratefully and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm and red through his lids. He could start again here, in this place with so much light. He could buy this charming, cozy chalet and maybe take pictures of the beauty he saw all around. Maybe he could track down the artist whose portfolio CC had savaged and tell him what had happened. And say he was sorry for his part, and maybe the artist would become his friend.

The men were getting out of the car. S?reté officers, Saul knew. He looked at the roll in his palm, walked over to the fireplace, and threw it in.





TWENTY-SIX




‘Sit down, please.’ Saul took their heavy coats and stuffed them into the closet, closing the door quickly before they tumbled out. He’d decided this was Day One, the beginning of a new life, and any new life should begin without regret. Saul Petrov had decided to tell everything. Well, almost everything.

Gamache looked around the room, and sniffed. There was a smell of burning, and not of the wood in the fireplace. This was more pungent, less natural. He felt his nerves sharpen and everything seemed to slow down. Was there a fire? An electrical fire perhaps? These old chalets were often slapped together by some backwoods pioneer who knew a great deal about the cycles of nature and almost nothing about wiring. Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the walls, the outlets, the lamps for wisps of smoke, as his ears searched out a telltale crackling as the electricity leaped and arced and his nose struggled to identify the strange acrid smell.

Beside him Lemieux was suddenly aware of the chief’s heightened attention. He stared at Gamache, trying to figure out what the problem was.

‘What’s that smell, Monsieur Petrov?’ Gamache asked.

‘I don’t smell anything,’ he said.

‘I do,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Smells like plastic or something like that.’

Now Lemieux could smell it too.

‘Oh, that,’ said Petrov with a laugh. ‘I tossed some old film into the fire. Outdated stuff. I guess I should have just put it in the garbage. Wasn’t thinking.’ He smiled disarmingly. Gamache walked over to the fireplace and sure enough there was a sizzling blob of black and yellow. An old roll of film. Or maybe not so old. Either way, it was destroyed.

‘You’re right,’ said Gamache. Petrov was used to people, especially CC, looking right through him, but this was a new experience. He had the impression Gamache was looking into him. ‘You weren’t thinking. That may not have been a wise thing to do.’

Petrov’s new life was barely half an hour old and already he was feeling regret. Still, this quiet man looked as though he might understand. Petrov showed them to chairs then sat down himself. He was feeling almost giddy with anticipation. He could hardly wait to confess and get on with life. Start again. He almost felt tearful and was deeply grateful to this homicide inspector for hearing his confession. Saul Petrov had been raised a staunch Catholic and like most of his generation had rejected the church, the priests and all the trappings of religion. But, now, in this modest even silly room where in place of stained glass there were plastic placemats stapled to the wall, he felt like falling to his knees.

Oh, for a fresh start.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Gamache didn’t say a word. Petrov looked into his kindly, thoughtful eyes and suddenly no one else existed.

‘CC and I were having an affair. Had been for about a year. I’m not sure, but I think her husband knows about it. We weren’t very discreet, I’m afraid.’

‘When were you last together?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘The morning of the day she died.’ It took a force of will to drag his eyes from Gamache over to the tense man in the other chair. ‘She came over and we had sex. It was only a physical relationship, nothing more. She didn’t care for me and I didn’t care for her.’

There it was. A mean little thing. He exhaled, feeling lighter already.

‘Did she tell you why she bought a place here?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘In Three Pines? No. I wondered that myself. She had a reason for everything, though, and most of the time it was money.’

‘You think money motivated her?’

‘It always did. Even our affair. I’m not stupid enough to think she slept with me for the great sex. It was to get a photographer cheap. Payment in kind.’

He was surprised how ashamed he felt. Even as he spoke it seemed unbelievable. Had he really given CC a break on his bill in exchange for sex?

‘I could be wrong, but I had the impression CC bought a place here because there was something in it for her, and I don’t mean peace and quiet. From what I could tell the only thing CC de Poitiers loved was money. And prestige.’