The Inspector smiled. She’d been this young agent once, a lifetime ago. Linda Chernin almost envied him his ignorance. He had no idea what he was in for.
“Inspector?” one of the agents called. He was walking along the shore in waders and holding an evidence bag.
In it was a sodden purse.
“Well done,” said Chernin.
Opening the purse, she brought out a wallet. It was wet and worn but had been pretty once. A rose, needlepointed onto it, was now scuffed and dirty, and threads had been pulled loose.
There was no money in it, but there was ID.
Gamache returned from seeing the coroner off and joined them, motioning Beauvoir to step into the scrum.
“It’s her. The missing woman.” Chernin handed the plasticized driver’s license to Gamache.
Clotilde Arsenault stared out at them. Her hair was blond. Straggly and stringy. It looked unwashed and uncombed. Unkempt.
Her cheeks were sunken. Her blue eyes were glassy. She stared at the lens as though trying to figure out what it was.
Her face was thin, almost emaciated, and her complexion sallow. The photograph more resembled one of the thousands of mug shots Gamache and Chernin had seen in their careers than a driver’s license photo.
Gamache looked at the woman on the rocky shore. Then back to the picture.
In life Clotilde Arsenault had looked eerily as she did in death. She lived, it seemed, at the place where the river Styx narrowed. It had not been a long journey for the ferryman.
The woman in the picture was only thirty-six, but life had not been easy, or kind. And neither had death.
There was one other photograph in her wallet, in the sleeve where the money would have been. It too was plasticized. A studio portrait of a girl and boy. Sister and brother, he assumed. Clotilde’s children. The boy, striking in his good looks, was smiling. The girl wore a school uniform and her hair was in pigtails. Looking closer, Gamache realized she was young, but not the little girl she appeared to be in the picture.
His brows drew together and he took a deep breath. “Have it checked for prints,” he said. “When you’re done, return it to me, please.”
“Yessir,” said the agent.
Gamache looked over at one of the Sûreté vehicles. When they’d arrived, he’d noticed a man and woman sitting in the back seat. Watching them.
“Those the two who found her?” he asked.
“Oui,” said Chernin. “Hikers. Not from around here. They’re up from Montréal.”
“Hikers?” said Gamache. “Out here? Today?”
He already had that information. It was in the short report the captain had given him. But seeing this lake, these surroundings, raised all sorts of questions. Ones he would ask in time. But first—
Kneeling once more beside the body, Armand did something the coroner had not thought to do. He pushed up Clotilde Arsenault’s sleeve to reveal the tracks. Then he looked down the length of her body. Her shoes were missing, having probably come off in the water, but her jeans were still on. The movement of the waves hadn’t tugged them off. And her killers hadn’t ripped them off. But that didn’t mean there’d been no sexual assault.
He’d advised the coroner to take copious DNA samples and do a toxicology report, full spectrum. And to look for semen. To check for hairs. Tissue under nails. Foreign biological material everywhere, including her mouth.
There was bruising on her face. It was either immediately premortem, or very soon after her death.
And there were more bruises on her arms. Older ones. Previous assaults.
He pondered, staring down at her.
What had happened here? Why was Clotilde Arsenault dead? In a life clearly filled with violence, with pain, what had happened to take that next, that last, irrevocable step?
Why had someone found it necessary to kill her? Was it an accident? Had someone, addled by drugs, picked up the nearest object, a brick, and swung? Not intending to kill, but killing?
Or was it intentional? For the money? Her drugs? None were found on her, so perhaps they too were stolen.
But the big question, beyond who did this, was why had the killer brought her here? To this lake? Why not just leave her where she fell? Or, if he wanted to get rid of her body, why not leave her in the forest for the wolves and bears to find?
His eyes moved back to Madame Arsenault’s face. Inspector Chernin had tried to close her eyes, but they’d been open too long. The lids would not move.
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
“Tell me your secret,” he whispered again. This time there was no snort of laughter from young Agent Beauvoir. Only silence and the lapping of the waves. “Who did this to you?”
He waited, but nothing happened. He’d have been shocked if it had. Her eyes remained fixed on his, as though she were trying.
One thing seemed clear to the Chief Inspector. Clotilde Arsenault’s last feeling wasn’t fear or shock. It was worry. And that worried the head of homicide. It was an unusual expression for a murder victim. Surprise was what he normally saw. Sometimes anger, often terror.
But not this. Though he also suspected that Madame Arsenault had spent most of her life worried. Getting back to his feet, he turned to Chernin, who was going through the purse.
“A chocolate bar. Some wet Kleenex. What looks like house keys. No car keys. No phone.”
“The report says it was left behind in her home. Her children found it, but don’t know her password.”
“A pair of dark glasses. Cheap. From a drugstore. Aaaaand … ahhhh.” She called to a Scene of Crime officer. “I need this photographed.”
He clicked a few shots of the inside of the cheap imitation-leather handbag while the others craned to see. When he finished, Inspector Chernin pulled the lining away.
Shoved down behind the lining was a small packet of white powder.
Chernin held it up. Gamache raised his head, looking up into the clouds. Thinking.
That answered a question that didn’t actually need answering. She was an addict. But was she also a trafficker? He doubted it. She might have been once, but she appeared much too far gone now.
She was just a user. Whoever did this must’ve known she’d probably have drugs on her. And yet, they’d taken the money and left the not-very-well-hidden heroin. He sighed.
Very little of this made sense.
Why bring her here?
Why take the money but not the smack?
One thing Gamache did know was that people stole what they needed. What they wanted. What would be useful. In this case, the money.
But they hadn’t bothered about the drugs. Because. Because.
Because drugs were not what they wanted or needed. Which meant she probably wasn’t killed by her supplier. Or another addict.
So who…?
Gamache looked over at the hikers. “What do they say?”
“Just that they were out for a walk and came across her body,” said Chernin.
Gamache turned to Agent Beauvoir. “What do you think?”
“Me?”
“Yes. Your thoughts.”
Beauvoir took a breath, and actually thought. It was, he realized, the first time he’d really stopped to consider something since he’d arrived at the detachment. It was also, he realized, the first time he’d been asked to.
He glanced over at Inspector Chernin, expecting her to be surprised or even annoyed that the Chief had consulted him. But she was just watching him too, waiting to hear what he had to say.
“Nobody comes out here for a stroll. I think they were up to something. Poaching probably. Fishing illegally. This lake is known for trout and walleye. Maybe hunting moose or deer without a license. It’s the season. You haven’t found a rifle or rods or other equipment?”