“They’re different.”
“Oui. But if you were still the chief curator at the Musée, which artist would you buy, Clara Morrow or Lillian Dyson?”
Thérèse considered for a moment. “You know, I say they’re different, but they have one big thing in common. They’re both quite joyous, in their own way. How lovely if that’s where art’s heading.”
“Why?”
“Because it might mean that’s where the human spirit’s heading. Out of a period of darkness.”
“That would be good,” agreed Gamache, picking up his dossier. But before he rose he looked at Thérèse, then made up his mind.
“What do you know about Chief Justice Thierry Pineault?”
“Oh, God, Armand, don’t tell me he’s involved?”
“He is.”
Superintendent Brunel took a deep breath. “I don’t know him personally, only as a jurist. He seems very straight, upstanding. No blemishes on his judicial record. Everyone has their stumbles, but I haven’t heard anything against him as a sitting judge.”
“And off the bench?” pressed Gamache.
“I’d heard he liked his drink and could get pretty nasty at times. But then, he had reason to. Lost a grandson, or was it a little girl? A DUI. He quit drinking after that.”
Gamache got up and helped clear the table, carrying the tray into their kitchen. Then he made for the door. But there he paused.
He’d been debating saying anything to Thérèse and Jérôme. But if there was ever a time, it was now. And if there was ever a couple, it was them.
As they stood on the threshold, Gamache slowly closed the door and looked at them. “I have another question for you,” he said quietly. “Nothing to do with the case. It’s about something else.”
“Oui?”
“The video of the attack,” he said, watching them closely. “Who do you really think released it onto the Internet?”
Jérôme looked perplexed, but Superintendent Brunel didn’t.
She looked angry.
TWENTY-TWO
Thérèse led them back into the apartment, away from the door, and away from the open French windows. Into the dim center of the room.
“There was an internal investigation,” she said, her voice low and angry. “You know that, Armand. They discovered it was a hacker. Some kid who found the file and probably didn’t even know what it was. That’s all.”
“If it was some kid with dumb luck why haven’t they found him?” Gamache asked.
“Leave it for the investigators,” she said, her voice softer now.
Gamache considered the two people in front of him. An older man and woman. Creased, worn.
But then, so was he.
Which was why he’d warned Beauvoir away from looking further. Why he hadn’t quietly assigned this to any of his other hundred agents. Any one of them would have gladly dug deeper.
But what would they find buried there?
No, best to do it himself. With the help of two people he trusted. And the Brunels had one other, outstanding, qualification. They were nearer the end than the beginning. As was he. The end of all their careers. The end of all their lives. If they lost either now, they’d still have lived fully.
Gamache would not put a young agent on this case. He would not lose another one, not if he had a choice.
“I waited for the report of the internal investigation,” he said. “I read it, and spent two months studying it, thinking about it.”
Superintendent Brunel considered carefully before asking the question she really didn’t want the answer to. “And what did you conclude?”
“That the investigation was flawed, perhaps even intentionally. In fact, almost certainly intentionally. Someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth.”
There was no use pretending otherwise. That was what he believed.
“What makes you say that?” Jérôme asked.
“Because it would be nearly impossible for a hacker to find the video file. And if one had, the investigators would have found him. That’s what they do. There’s a whole department that only investigates cyber crime. They’d have found him.”
Thérèse and Jérôme were quiet. Then Jérôme turned to his wife.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She looked from her husband to her guest.
“You say someone inside the Sûreté is trying to cover up the truth. What do you think is the truth?”
“That it was an internal leak,” said Gamache. “Someone inside the Sûreté released the video, deliberately.”
Even as he spoke he realized he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, or suspect.
“But why?” she asked. It was clearly a question she’d been asking herself.
“I think the ‘why’ depends on the ‘who,’” said the Chief. He watched her closely. “This is no surprise to you, is it?”
Thérèse Brunel hesitated then shook her head. “I also read the report, as did all the other superintendents. I don’t know what they thought, but I came to the same conclusion you did. Not necessarily that it was an inside job,” she looked at him with warning, “but that for some strange reason, the investigation was inconclusive. Given that it involved the deaths of four officers and the betrayal of their families and the service, I’d have expected the investigation to be rigorous. I’d have thought they’d throw everything they had at it. And they claimed to. And yet the conclusion, under all the rhetoric, was shockingly thin. The tape was stolen by an unknown hacker.”
She shook her head and took a deep breath, exhaling before she spoke again.
“We have a problem, Armand.”
He nodded, looking at both of them. “We have a big problem.”
Superintendent Brunel sat and indicated chairs for the other two, who joined her. She paused, about to cross the Rubicon. “Who do you think did it?”
Gamache held her intelligent, bright eyes. “You know who I think.”
“I do, but I need you to say it.”
“Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur.”
Outside they could hear the shrieks of children chasing each other, running and laughing.
“This’ll be fun,” Jérôme Brunel said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of a thorny puzzle.
“Jérôme!” said his wife. “Haven’t you been listening? The head of the Sûreté du Québec may very well have done something not only illegal, but deeply cruel. An attack on officers dead and alive. And their families. For his own ends.”
Thérèse turned back to Gamache. “If it was Francoeur, why would he do it?”
“I don’t know. But I know he’s been trying to get rid of me for years. He might have thought this would be the final shove.”
“But the video didn’t make you look bad, Armand,” said Jérôme. “Just the opposite. It made you look very good.”
“And what would cripple you, Jérôme?” Gamache looked with affection at the man across from him. “Being falsely accused or being falsely praised? Especially when there was so much pain and so little to praise.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jérôme, looking his friend square in the face.
“Merci,” Gamache inclined his head, “but it wasn’t my finest hour either.”
Jérôme nodded. The spotlight could be a tricky thing. It could send a person rushing for someplace dim to hide. Away from the crippling glare of public approval.
Gamache hadn’t run, but both Jérôme and Thérèse knew he’d been sorely tempted. Had come within a breath of handing in his warrant and retiring. And no one would have blamed him. Just as no one blamed him for the deaths of those young agents. No one, except Gamache himself.
But instead of retiring, retreating, the Chief Inspector had stayed.