‘The bird looks terrified, but that might be just my imagination.’

‘We have a bird feeder on our balcony,’ said Gamache, straightening up. ‘We have our morning coffee out there in good weather. Every bird who comes to it looks terrified.’

‘Well, you and Madame Gamache are very frightening people,’ said Lacoste.

‘I know she is.’ He smiled. ‘Petrifies me.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think we can read too much into the facial expression of the dead bird,’ said Gamache.

‘Good thing we still have tea leaves and entrails,’ said Lacoste.

‘That’s what Madame Gamache always says.’

His smile faded as he looked down at the bird curled at his feet, a dark stain on the white salt, its eye staring black, blank. He wondered what it had last seen.

Hazel Smyth closed the yearbook and smoothed its faux leather cover, hugging it to her chest, as though that might staunch the wound, stop whatever it was that was flowing out of her. Hazel could feel it. Could feel herself weakening. The solid, angular book bit into her soft breasts as she pressed harder and harder, no longer hugging but gripping it now, thrusting the yearbook with all their young dreams deeper and deeper into her chest. Relieved by the physical pain, she wished the edges sharper so they’d actually cut instead of simply bruise. This was pain she could understand. The other was terrifying. It was black and empty and hollow and stretched on forever.

How long could she live without Madeleine?

The full horror of her loss was just coming into view.

With Mad she’d found a life full of kindness and thoughtfulness. She was a different person with Mad. Carefree, relaxed, lighthearted. She actually voiced her opinions. Actually had opinions. And Madeleine had listened. Hadn’t always agreed, but had always listened. From the outside theirs must have been an unremarkable, even dull life. But from the inside it was a kaleidoscope.

And slowly Hazel had fallen in love with Madeleine. Not in a physical way. She had no desire to sleep with Mad, or even kiss her. Though sometimes when Mad sat on the sofa at night with her book and Hazel was in her wing chair with her knitting, Hazel could see herself getting up, walking to the sofa and putting Madeleine’s head on her breast. Just where the yearbook was now. Hazel stroked the book and imagined the lovely head lying there instead.

‘Madame Smyth.’ Inspector Beauvoir interrupted Hazel’s daydream. The head on her chest became cold and hard. Became a book. And home became cold and empty. Once again Hazel lost Madeleine. ‘May I see the book?’

Beauvoir held out his hand tentatively.

Agent Nichol had found the yearbook sitting open in the living room and had brought it into the kitchen with her, not expecting Hazel’s reaction. It was a reaction no one could have expected.

‘That’s mine. Give it to me,’ Hazel had growled, approaching Nichol with such venom the young agent handed it over without hesitation. Hazel took it and sitting down she hugged it to her. For the first time since they’d arrived the room was silent.

‘May I?’ Beauvoir reached for it. Hazel seemed not to understand. She looked as though he wanted her to detach her arm. Finally she let go of the book.

‘It’s from our graduating year.’ Hazel leaned across him and flipped the pages to the graduation pictures. ‘Here’s Madeleine.’

She pointed to a smiling, happy girl. Below her picture was typed, Madeleine Gagnon. Most likely to end up in Tanguay.

‘It was a joke,’ said Hazel. Tanguay was the women’s prison in Quebec. ‘Everyone knew Mad would be a success. They were poking fun at her.’

Jean Guy Beauvoir was willing to accept that Hazel believed it, but he knew most jokes had some basis in truth. Did some of Madeleine’s high school friends see something else in her?

‘Do you mind if we take this with us? You’ll get it back.’

Hazel very obviously minded, but shook her head.

The book reminded Beauvoir of something else. Something Gamache had asked him to ask Hazel.

‘What do you know about Sarah Binks?’

He could see by Hazel’s face the question sounded like nonsense. Blahdity-blah, blah-binks.

‘The Chief Inspector found a book called Sarah Binks in Madeleine’s bedside drawer.’

‘Really? That’s odd. No, I’ve never heard of it before. Was it a—’

‘A dirty book? I don’t think so. The Chief Inspector’s been reading it and laughing.’

‘Sorry, I can’t help.’ It was said politely but Beauvoir could see something else at work. Hazel was disconcerted. By the book or the fact her best friend had kept something secret?