A Fatal Grace
How could she tell him she’d been fired, again? This was her last chance. Too many people were counting on her. Not just her father, but also the Superintendent.
‘I’m going to give you another chance, agent. I want you to look into the backgrounds of Richard Lyon and his daughter Crie. School, finances, friends, family. I’d like the information by tomorrow morning.’
Nichol rose as though in a dream. In front of her Chief Inspector Gamache had a small smile on his face and warmth in his eyes for the first time since she’d shown up.
‘You said you’ve changed?’
Nichol nodded. ‘I know I was horrible last time. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better this time. Really.’
He looked at her closely and nodded. Then extended his hand. ‘Good. Then maybe we can begin again. A fresh start.’
She slipped her small hand into his.
The asshole believed her.
Outside in the Incident Room Beauvoir saw the handshake and fervently hoped they were saying goodbye, but he had his doubts. Nichol left the room and he hurried over.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what, Jean Guy?’
‘You know perfectly well. You didn’t put her back on the team?’
‘I had no choice. Superintendent Francoeur assigned her to me.’
‘You could have refused.’
Gamache smiled. ‘Choose your battles, Jean Guy. This isn’t one I need to fight. Besides, she might have changed.’
‘Oh, God. How many times are you going to try to kick that football?’
‘You think I’m making the same mistake?’
‘Don’t you?’
Gamache looked out the window to Nichol already on a computer.
‘Well, at least I’ll know when to cringe.’
‘You’re cringing a little now, sir. You don’t really believe her, do you?’
Gamache walked out of the tiny room and made for Agent Isabelle Lacoste’s station.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘I’ve been at it all morning and I can’t find anything on Cecilia de Poitiers or her parents. Nothing. I scanned her book, weird stuff by the way, to see if I could find any clues there. You’d mentioned France, so I’d already put in a request to the Sûreté there. Half an hour ago I got this reply.’
Gamache leaned into the computer and read the email from Paris.
Do not bother us with hoaxes.
‘Well, zut alors,’ said Gamache. ‘What did you do?’
‘I wrote this.’ She showed him another email.
Dear stupid, ridiculous fuckers, You running dog assholes in the almighty Sûreté in Paris have your heads so far up your asses you wouldn’t know a legitimate inquiry if one bit you on your scrawny little testicles. We’re busy solving crimes here while you’re dreaming of the day you have half the intelligence we have, you pig-shit farts.
Sincerely, Agent Isabelle Lacoste, Sûreté du Qúebec.
‘That’s certainly one way to handle it.’ Gamache smiled.
Beauvoir was impressed and looking forward to another fantasy.
‘I didn’t send it.’ Lacoste looked wistfully at the message. ‘Instead I placed a call to the homicide squad in Paris,’ she said. ‘If I don’t hear from them in a few minutes I’ll call again. I don’t understand their answer. Have you had dealings with them, sir?’
‘A few. I’ve never had a reply like that.’ He looked again at the terse message from Paris. It was yet another thing about this case that seemed to make no sense.
Why would they think this was a hoax?
Gamache sat at his desk and began to go through the stack of papers and messages waiting for him. He came across Lemieux’s list of the contents of CC de Poitiers’s garbage. It was a routine check and rarely helpful since murderers were almost never stupid enough to just throw evidence in their own trash. But Richard Lyon had struck Gamache as, if not stupid, at least close kin to it.
He got himself a coffee, sat down and began reading.
Assorted foods
Milk and pizza cartons
Old, broken bracelet
Two wine bottles, cheap variety
Newspapers
Empty cereal box, fruit loops
A video cassette – The Lion in Winter
Plastic juice containers
Candy wrappers – Mars bars
Gift wrapping
Box from Inuit shop in Montreal
These people certainly didn’t believe in recycling, thought Gamache. He presumed the video was broken and that the box from the Inuit shop had contained the boots. There was no material for wiring up a heat lamp. There was no empty container of windshield washer fluid.