On one side stood Superintendent Arnot and his two co-defendants, charged with murder. And on the other, Chief Inspector Gamache. To say the Sûreté was split in half would be wrong. Every officer Beauvoir knew was appalled by Arnot, absolutely sickened. But many were also appalled by what Gamache did.
‘So you know it all,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I don’t know it all, and you know that. What’s wrong? Why are you freezing me out of this? I know there’s something going on. The Arnot case isn’t dead, is it?’
Beauvoir turned and walked slowly down the road, further into the woods.
‘What?’ Lacoste called after him. But Beauvoir was silent. He brought his hands behind his back and held them, walking slowly and thinking it through.
Should he tell Lacoste everything? How would Gamache feel about that? Did it matter? The chief wasn’t always right.
Beauvoir stopped and looked behind him to Isabelle Lacoste standing firmly in the middle of the road. He gestured her to him and as she approached he said, ‘Tell me what you know.’
The simple phrase surprised him. It was what Gamache always said to him.
‘I know Pierre Arnot was a superintendent in the Sûreté.’
‘He was the senior superintendent. He’d come up through narcotics and into serious crime.’
‘Something happened to him,’ said Lacoste. ‘He became hardened, cynical. Happens a lot, I know. But with Arnot there was something else.’
‘You want the inside story?’
Lacoste nodded.
‘Arnot was charismatic. People liked him, loved him even. I met the man a few times and felt the same way. He was tall, rugged. Looked like he could take down a bear with his hands. And smart. Whip smart.’
‘What every man wants to see in the mirror.’
‘Exactly. And he made the agents under him feel powerful and special. Very potent.’
‘Were you drawn to him?’
‘I applied to his division but was turned down.’ It was the first time he’d told anyone that, except Gamache. ‘I was working in the Trois-Rivières detachment at the time. Anyway, as you’ve probably heard, Arnot commanded a near mythic loyalty among his people.’
‘But?’
‘He was a bully. Demanded absolute conformity. Eventually the really good agents dropped out of his division. Leaving him with the dregs.’
‘Bullies themselves or agents too scared to stand up to a bully,’ said Lacoste.
‘Thought you said you didn’t know the inside story.’
‘I don’t, but I know school yards. Same everywhere.’
‘This was no school yard. It started quietly at first. Violence on native reserves unchecked. Murders unreported. Arnot had decided if the natives wanted to kill themselves and each other then it should be considered an internal issue and not interfered with.’
‘But it was his jurisdiction,’ said Lacoste.
‘That’s right. He ordered his officers on the reserves to do nothing.’
Isabelle Lacoste knew what that meant. Kids and sniff. Glue and gasoline-soaked rags inhaled until their young brains froze. Numb to the violence, abuse, despair. They didn’t care any more. About anything, or anyone. Boys shot each other and themselves. Girls were raped and beaten to death. Perhaps calling the Sûreté post desperate for help and getting no answer. And the officers, almost always a kid on his or her first assignment, were they staring at the phone with a smile knowing they’d satisfied their boss? One less savage. Or were they scared to death themselves? Knowing that more than a young native was being killed. They too were dying.
‘What happened then?’
TWENTY-NINE
Everything creaks when you’re afraid. Armand Gamache remembered the words of Erasmus and wondered whether the creak he’d just heard was real or just his fear. He swung his flashlight to the stairs behind him. Nothing.
He could see the floor was dirt, hardpacked from years of weight. It smelled of spiders and wood rot and mold. It smelled of all the crypts he’d ever been in, exhuming bodies of people taken before their time.
What lay buried down here? He knew something was. He could feel it. The house seemed to claw at him, to cloy and smother, as though it had a secret, something wicked and malicious and cruel it was dying to say.
There it was again. A creak.
Gamache spun around and the puny circle of light from his flashlight threw itself against the rough stone walls, the beams and posts, the open wooden doors.
His cell phone began vibrating.
Taking it out he recognized the number.
‘Allô.’
‘C’est moi,’ said Reine-Marie, smiling at her colleague and walking into one of the aisles of books at the Bibliothèque Nationale. ‘I’m at work. Where are you?’
‘The old Hadley house.’
‘Alone?’
‘Hope so.’ He laughed. ‘Armand, did you see the newspaper?’
‘I did.’
‘I’m so sorry. But we’ve known it was coming. It’s almost a relief.’
Armand Gamache was never more glad he’d married this woman, who made his battles theirs. She stood steadfast beside him, even when he tried to step in front. Especially then.
‘I’ve tried to get Daniel but there’s been no answer. Left a message though.’
Gamache had never questioned Reine-Marie’s judgment. It made for a very relaxing relationship. But he wasn’t sure why she’d call their son in Paris about some scurrilous article.
‘Annie called just now. She saw it too and said to pass on her love. She also said if there’s anyone you’d like her to kill, she’ll do it.’
‘How sweet.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked.
‘Franchement, I thought I’d ignore it. Not give it any legitimacy.’
There was a pause.
‘I wonder if maybe you should speak to Michel.’
‘Brébeuf? Why?’
‘Well, after the first one, I felt the same way, but I wonder whether it’s gone too far.’
‘The first? What do you mean?’ His flashlight flickered. He jostled it and the light burned bright again.
‘Tonight’s paper. The early edition of Le Journal de Nous. Armand, haven’t you seen it?’
His flashlight flickered off, then after a long moment came back on, but the light was dim and frail. Once again he heard the creak. This time behind him. He spun round and pointed the dull light toward the stairway, but it was empty.
‘Armand?’
‘I’m here. Tell me what the paper says, please.’
As he listened the sorrow of the old Hadley house closed in. It crept toward him and ate the last of his light, until finally he was standing in the bowels of the old Hadley house in complete darkness.
‘Natives killing each other wasn’t enough for Arnot,’ said Beauvoir. He and Lacoste walked side by side through the late afternoon sun as it dappled the dirt road at their feet. ‘Arnot ordered his two top officers into the reserves to stir up trouble. Agents provocateurs.’
‘And then?’ It was almost unbearable, but she had to know. She listened to the terrible words as they walked through the tranquil forest.
‘And then Pierre Arnot ordered his officers to kill.’
Beauvoir found it hard to say. He stopped and looked into the forest, and after a moment or two the roar between his ears settled and he could make out the singing again. A robin? A blue jay? A pine? Was that what made Three Pines remarkable? Did the three giant trees on the village green sometimes sing together? Was Gilles Sandon right?
‘How many died?’
‘Arnot’s men never kept track. There’s a team from the Sûreté still trying to find all the remains. The murderers killed so many they couldn’t remember where they put all the bodies.’
‘How did they get away with it? Didn’t the families complain?’
‘To whom?’
Lacoste dropped her head and looked at the ground between her feet. The betrayal was complete.