Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(83)

‘Yes, hello, Monsieur Moscher? It’s Chief Inspector Gamache. I’m well, thank you, but I have a question for you. You mentioned that Elle signed the register the few times she stayed at the Old Brewery Mission. Would you mind finding the entry again? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He turned back to his team. ‘We’ll send the necklace to the lab to be tested.’

‘I’ll take it back with me,’ said Lacoste.

‘Good. We should get the results in less than a day. It’ll tell us about fingerprints, but there’s also blood on it. Yes, I’m still here.’ He turned back to the phone. ‘I see. Yes. Could you fax me a copy of the page right away? And I’ll send an agent over tonight to pick up the ledger. Merci infiniment.’

Gamache hung up, looking reflective.

‘What? What’d he say?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘I’ve been a fool. When I asked him the other night to check the register he confirmed that Elle had signed it. Or at least I thought that’s what he said and meant.’ The fax rang and started printing. They all watched as the paper took its excruciating time, inching out of the machine. Finally it was done and Beauvoir snatched up the paper, scanning the signatures.

TV Bob

Frenchie

Little Cindy

L

‘L,’ he said softly, handing the sheet to Gamache. ‘L, not Elle.’

‘Her name was L,’ said Gamache, taking the paper back to his desk and picking up the Li Bien ball. He turned it over until the signature was visible. L. Exactly the same as the ledger.

Whoever had made this exquisite work of art years ago had recently signed into the Old Brewery Mission in Montreal to escape the killing cold. She’d become a vagrant, a homeless bag lady. And finally, a body with a closed file in homicide. But now Gamache felt he’d at least brought her home. To Three Pines. L was CC’s mother. He was sure of it. But that meant something else. L was dead. CC was dead.

Someone was killing the women in that family.





THIRTY




Gamache and Beauvoir hurried into their coats and boots, Beauvoir remembering to press the remote start on his car keys, to at least give it a minute or so to warm up.

‘Just a moment.’ Gamache took off his tuque and returned to his desk, picking up his phone and dialing. ‘This is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the S?reté du Québec. Is this the duty officer?’

Beauvoir was almost out the door when he turned back and signaled to Nichol to join them. She leaped from her desk.

‘No.’ Gamache covered the mouthpiece of the phone and turned to Nichol. ‘You stay here. Agent Lemieux, you come with us.’

Stunned, as though slapped, Nichol stood still and watched as Agent Lemieux hurried past, giving her a slight apologetic smile. She could have killed him.

Beauvoir looked at the chief for a moment, puzzled, then hurried into the cold. He thought he was prepared for the outside world, but he was wrong. The temperature had plummeted even further and now it burned his skin as he walked, then trotted and finally ran the few yards to his car. The vehicle was struggling to keep turning over, its fluids sluggish and near frozen. The windows were etched with frost and Beauvoir opened the groaning door and grabbed a couple of scrapers. Shavings of frost jumped from the blades as though he was a carpenter whittling a car. Lemieux joined him and the two men furiously scraped the windows. Tears obscured Beauvoir’s vision as the bitter cold found every inch of exposed flesh.

‘I called ahead. He’s expecting us,’ said Gamache, getting in and automatically buckling up even though they were going less than a kilometer. On any other night they’d walk. But not tonight.

Up ahead was their destination. Beauvoir had been so intent on getting the car going he hadn’t thought about where they were headed. Now, as he applied the brakes, the reality hit. The old Hadley house. Last time he was here he’d been coughing up blood. This place seemed to crave blood, and fear. Lemieux jumped out of the car and was halfway down the walk before Beauvoir could even stir himself. He felt a heaviness on his arm and looked at Gamache beside him.

‘It’s all right.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ snapped Beauvoir.

‘Of course not,’ said Gamache.

Finally the door opened and Lyon stepped back into the hall to let them in.

‘I’d like to see Crie, please.’ The Chief Inspector was cordial but firm.

‘She’s in the kitchen. We’re just sitting down to eat.’

Lyon’s eyes were blank, bewildered. It was as though, Beauvoir thought, he’d been hollowed out. He wondered what echoed round in Lyon’s head. He looked around. Last time he’d been there the electricity had been off and all he’d seen was what was visible by flashlight. It wasn’t much. Now he was surprised to see it looked like a regular home. But then, that was the real horror of these places and these people. They looked normal. They sucked you in, then slowly the door swung shut and you were trapped. With a monster. Within a monster.

Stop thinking that, his mind commanded. This is just a normal house. This is just a normal house.

‘She’s just through here.’

The men followed Lyon into the kitchen. Beauvoir was surprised to find it smelled good, like home cooking.

‘Ms Landers came over with some food,’ Lyon explained.