As they ate they talked about the Labor Day long weekend, about the chestnut trees and conkers. About kids returning to school and the nights drawing in.
The bistro was empty, except for them. But it seemed crowded to the Chief Inspector. With the lies they’d been told, and the lies being manufactured and waiting.
FIVE
After lunch, while Agent Lacoste made arrangements for them to stay overnight at Gabri’s B and B, Armand Gamache walked slowly in the opposite direction. The drizzle had stopped for the moment but a mist clung to the forests and hills surrounding the village. People were coming out of their homes to do errands or work in their gardens. He walked along the muddy road and turning left made his way over the arched stone bridge that spanned the Rivière Bella Bella.
“Hungry?” Gamache opened the door to the old train station and held out the brown paper bag.
“Starving, merci.” Beauvoir almost ran over, and taking the bag he pulled out a thick sandwich of chicken, Brie and pesto. There was also a Coke and pâtisserie.
“What about you?” asked Beauvoir, his hand hesitating over the precious sandwich.
“Oh, I’ve eaten,” the Chief said, deciding it would really do no good describing his meal to Beauvoir.
The men drew a couple of chairs up to the warm pot-bellied stove and as the Inspector ate they compared notes.
“So far,” said Gamache, “we have no idea who the victim was, who killed him, why he was in the bistro and what the murder weapon was.”
“No sign of a weapon yet?”
“No. Dr. Harris thinks it was a metal rod or something like that. It was smooth and hard.”
“A fireplace poker?”
“Perhaps. We’ve taken Olivier’s in for tests.” The Chief paused.
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked.
“It just strikes me as slightly odd that Olivier would light fires in both grates. It’s rainy but not that cold. And for that to be just about the first thing he’d do after finding a body…”
“You’re thinking the weapon might be one of those fireplace pokers? And that Olivier lit the fires so that he could use them? Burn away evidence on them?”
“I think it’s possible,” said the Chief, his voice neutral.
“We’ll have them checked,” said Beauvoir. “But if one turns out to be the weapon it doesn’t mean Olivier used it. Anyone could’ve picked it up and smashed the guy.”
“True. But only Olivier lit the fires this morning, and used the poker.”
It was clear as Chief Inspector he had to consider everyone a suspect. But it was also clear he wasn’t happy about it.
Beauvoir waved to some large men at the door to come in. The Incident Room equipment had arrived. Lacoste showed up and joined them by the stove.
“I’ve booked us into the B and B. By the way, I ran into Clara Morrow. We’re invited to dinner tonight.”
Gamache nodded. This was good. They could find out more at a social event than they ever could in an interrogation.
“Olivier gave me the names of the people who worked in the bistro last night. I’m off to interview them,” she reported. “And there are teams searching the village and the surrounding area for the murder weapon, with a special interest in fireplace pokers or anything like that.”
Inspector Beauvoir finished his lunch and went to direct the setup of the Incident Room. Agent Lacoste left to conduct interviews. A part of Gamache always hated to see his team members go off. He warned them time and again not to forget what they were doing, and who they were looking for. A killer.
The Chief Inspector had lost one agent, years ago, to a murderer. He was damned if he was going to lose another. But he couldn’t protect them all, all the time. Like Annie, he finally had to let them go.
* * *
It was the last interview of the day. So far Agent Lacoste had spoken to five people who’d worked at the bistro the night before, and gotten the same answers. No, nothing unusual happened. The place was full all evening, it being both a Saturday night and the long Labor Day weekend. School was back on Tuesday and anybody down for the summer would be heading back to Montreal on Monday. Tomorrow.
Four of the waiters were returning to university after the summer break the next day. They really weren’t much help since all they seemed to have noticed was a table of attractive girls.
The fifth waiter was more helpful, since she hadn’t simply seen a roomful of breasts. But it was, by all accounts, a normal though hectic evening. No dead body that anyone mentioned, and Lacoste thought even the breast boys would have noticed that.
She drove up to the home of the final waiter, the young man nominally in charge once Olivier had left. The one who’d done the final check of the place and locked up.
The house was set back from the main road down a long dirt driveway. Maples lined the drive and while they hadn’t yet turned their brilliant autumn colors, a few were just beginning to show oranges and reds. In a few weeks this approach, Lacoste knew, would be spectacular.
Lacoste got out of the car and stared, amazed. Facing her was a block of concrete and glass. It seemed so out of place, like finding a tent pitched on Fifth Avenue. It didn’t belong. As she walked toward it she realized something else. The house intimidated her and she wondered why. Her own tastes ran to traditional but not stuffy. She loved exposed brick and beams, but hated clutter, though she’d given up all semblance of being house-proud after the kids came. These days it was a triumph if she walked across a room and didn’t step on something that squeaked.
This place was certainly a triumph. But was it a home?
The door was opened by a robust middle-aged woman who spoke very good, though perhaps slightly precise, French. Lacoste was surprised and realized she’d been expecting angular people to live in this angular house.
“Madame Parra?” Agent Lacoste held up her identification. The woman nodded, smiled warmly and stepped back for them to enter.
“Entrez. It’s about what happened at Olivier’s,” said Hanna Parra.
“Oui.” Lacoste bent to take off her muddy boots. It always seemed so awkward and undignified. The world famous homicide team of the Sûreté du Québec interviewing suspects in their stockinged feet.
Madame Parra didn’t tell her not to. But she did give her slippers from a wooden box by the door, jumbled full of old footwear. Again, this surprised Lacoste, who’d expected everything to be neat and tidy. And rigid.
“We’re here to speak to your son.”
“Havoc.”
Havoc. The name had amused Inspector Beauvoir, but Agent Lacoste found nothing funny about it. And, strangely, it seemed to fit with this cold, brittle place. What else could contain Havoc?
Before driving out she’d done some research on the Parras. Just a thumbnail sketch, but it helped. The woman leading her out of the mudroom was a councillor for the township of Saint-Rémy, and her husband, Roar, was a caretaker, working on the large properties in the area. They’d escaped Czechoslovakia in the mid-80s, come to Quebec and settled just outside Three Pines. There was, in fact, a large and influential Czech community in the area, composed of escapees, people running until they found what they were looking for. Freedom and safety. Hanna and Roar Parra had stopped when they found Three Pines.