‘Let’s get started. Reports, please.’ Gamache sat at the head of the table wearing a shirt and tie and crew neck merino wool sweater beneath his tweed jacket. He held a pen in his hand, but rarely took notes. All around technicians were wiring phones and faxes and computers, setting up desks and blackboards and unloading equipment. But Gamache heard none of that. He concentrated totally on what was being said.
Agent Robert Lemieux had put on his Sunday best and polished his shoes and now was grateful the little voice of instinct had spoken, and even more grateful it had been heard. Beside him a young woman agent sipped her coffee and leaned forward attentively. She’d introduced herself as Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Lemieux wouldn’t describe her as attractive, not the kind you’d notice immediately in a bar. But then she didn’t seem the sort to hang around bars. More the kind you’d find on Mont St-Rémy. Natural and relaxed, without artifice. Her clothes were simple and well cut to fit her comfortable body, a light sweater, scarf and slacks. Her dark eyes were alert and her light brown hair was held off her face by a wide band. Lemieux noticed a string of earrings piercing one ear. She’d come up immediately and welcomed him. Instinctively he’d checked her left hand, and found, to his surprise, a wedding band.
‘Two kids,’ she said, with a smile, her eyes not leaving his face and yet she’d followed his quick glance. ‘A boy, René, and a girl Marie. Toi?’
‘Not married. Not even a girlfriend.’
‘Just as well. At least while the investigation is on. Pay attention.’ She’d leaned in and whispered, ‘And be yourself. The chief only chooses people who don’t pretend.’
‘And who are good at their jobs, presumably,’ he said, thinking he was giving her a compliment.
‘Oh, mais, franchement, you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’
‘Bon.’ Beauvoir leaned forward. ‘The good news is, I know how the electricity got to the curling rink on the lake. Yesterday afternoon I interviewed Billy Williams, the guy who drove the truck with CC to the hospital. He told me he wired up that heat lamp. Here, let me show you. Some of you haven’t been to the site yet.’
Beauvoir picked up a chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand and a magic marker in the other and walked to a large sheet of paper tacked to the wall.
‘This is Lac Brume, and this is the town of Williamsburg. Here’s the Legion. Right?’
Beauvoir was no Picasso, which was a good thing for a homicide inspector. His drawings were always very clear and straightforward. A large circle was Lac Brume. A smaller circle, like a moon, touched its edge. Williamsburg. And an X marked the Legion Hall, close to the shores of the lake.
‘Now, you can’t actually see the lake from the Legion. You have to go down this road and round a corner. Still, it’s only about a five-minute walk. Everyone was at a community breakfast at the Legion just before the curling. Billy Williams told me he’d gotten to the rink before the breakfast and driven his truck onto the ice.’
‘Is that safe?’ one of the officers asked.
‘The ice is about a foot and a half thick right there,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He tested it before Christmas when he put up the stands and the lamp. All he had to do the day of the curling, yesterday, was shovel the rink again and wire up the heat lamp. It was a clear morning so he decided to do both before going to the Legion himself for breakfast. Here’s where he parked his truck. You can see the tire tracks in the crime scene photos.’ He handed out the pictures after marking a small X on his drawing. It was on the ice near the shore.
‘Now, this is important. Here’s his truck, here’s the heat lamp – it’s called a radiant heater – here’re the stands and out here,’ he drew a rectangle on the paper, ‘is the curling rink. Billy Williams is the Canadian Automobile Association’s mechanic in the area, so he has this monster truck. I saw it. Huge mother. Wheels up to here.’ Gamache cleared his throat and Beauvoir remembered where he was. ‘Anyway, he has a generator on the flatbed of his truck for boosting cars. But again, not just any generator. This is immense. Says he needs the power to boost frozen semis and construction equipment. So he simply took his booster cables and connected them onto his generator at one end and the heat lamp at the other. Voilà. Power and heat.’
Agent Lemieux shifted in his seat then caught the eye of Agent Lacoste. She looked at him and gave a curt nod. Of encouragement? he wondered. She nodded again and widened her eyes.
‘Sir,’ he said, grateful his voice didn’t break. Beauvoir turned surprised eyes on the newcomer who had the audacity to interrupt.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, those things’ – he motioned to the drawing – ‘the heating thing? When we saw it yesterday I had a question but I wanted to check it out before I said anything. Those heaters are almost always powered by propane. Not electricity.’ He looked round the table. All eyes were on him. ‘I called a friend who’s an electrician. He also plays hockey in a men’s league here.’
To Lemieux’s surprise Beauvoir smiled. An easy, open smile that made his face seem quite youthful.
‘You’re right. This one was propane once too,’ he said. ‘But it broke and was going to be thrown away when Billy Williams saved it. Knew he could wire it up and it would work well enough for the once-a-year curling extravaganza. That was a couple of years ago. So far it’s held up. But he needs a generator to juice it up.’
‘Agent Lemieux here suggested a generator to me yesterday.’ Gamache nodded to Lemieux who sat up a little taller in his chair. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t take the suggestion seriously. I’m sorry.’
Lemieux had never had a superior apologize to him. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing.
‘Was Mr Williams’s generator powerful enough to kill?’ Gamache asked.
‘That’s the question. The other stop I made yesterday was to the Cowansville hospital to speak to the coroner, Dr Harris. She gave me the autopsy report. She knows Williams and says his generator is powerful enough to do the job. In fact, it doesn’t really take much.’ Beauvoir returned to his seat and ate the last bite of his doughnut while stirring his coffee with a pen. ‘She wants to speak to you, chief. Says she’ll be by later this morning with a more detailed report and the clothing the victim was wearing. But she made it clear this was no accident, in case any of you were wondering.’
Beauvoir looked down at his notes. He didn’t really know where to start. He certainly didn’t want to repeat that this was a bizarre, even possibly insane way to commit a murder. Chief Inspector Gamache already knew that. They all did. But Dr Sharon Harris had said it to him yesterday afternoon several times.
‘I don’t think you completely appreciate the situation, Inspector. Look at this.’ Dr Harris had taken the white sheet off the victim. There on the cold, hard gurney lay a cold, hard woman. She had a snarl on her face and Beauvoir wondered whether her family would recognize the look. Sharon Harris had spent a few minutes circling the woman, pointing out areas of interest like a necropolitan tour guide.
Now, in the morning briefing, he passed out more pictures, these ones taken by Dr Harris at the autopsy. The room grew silent as everyone went through them.
Gamache looked carefully at the images then passed them to Agent Lacoste. He turned slightly in his chair, crossed his legs and stared out the window. Snow was falling and gathering on the cars and houses and piling up on the branches of the trees. It was a peaceful scene, in sharp contrast to the pictures and conversation inside the old railway station. From where he sat he could see the arched stone bridge that connected their side of the Rivière Bella Bella with Three Pines. Every now and then a car would pass slowly and silently, the sound muffled by the snow.