Still Life

‘All I can think is that as she met more team members she began to unravel. Some people do. They’re great one on one. The individual sports types. Brilliant. But put them on a team and they’re awful. I think that’s Nichol, competitive when she should be collaborative.’



‘I think she’s desperate to prove herself and wants your approval. At the same time she sees any advice as criticism and any criticism as catastrophic.’



‘Well she had a catastrophic night, then.’ Gamache filled him in on his conversation with Nichol.



‘Let her go, sir. You’ve done your best. You coming up?’ Beauvoir began climbing the ladder to the blind. ‘This is great. Like a tree house.’ Gamache had rarely seen Beauvoir so animated. Still, he felt no need to see the animation close up.



‘Already been. Do you see the deer trail?’ The night before he’d told Beauvoir about the blind and advised him to take samples. But he hadn’t expected to see the Inspector so early.



‘Mais oui. From up here it’s easy. Still, something occurred to me last night.’ Beauvoir was staring down at him. Oh God, I have to go up, don’t I, thought Gamache. Reaching for the slimy wooden slats he started climbing. Hauling himself on to the platform, he pressed his back against the rough trunk and gripped the railing.



‘Dope.’



‘I beg your pardon?’ For an instant Gamache thought Beauvoir had guessed his secret and was calling him ...



‘Mary Jane. Marijuana. Not just pumpkins get harvested right now. It’s dope season in the townships. I think it’s possible Jane Neal was killed by growers after she found their crop. She used to walk all over, right? God knows it’s a multi-million dollar industry, and people are sometimes murdered.’



‘True,’ Gamache was intrigued by the suggestion, except for one thing, ‘but most of the growing is done by the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine, the biker gangs.’



‘Right. This is Hells Angels turf. Wouldn’t want to mess with them. They’re killers. Do you think we can transfer Nichol to narcotics?’



‘Focus, Beauvoir. Jane Neal was killed by a forty-year-old arrow. When was the last time you saw a biker with a bow and arrow?’



It was a good point, and one Beauvoir hadn’t thought of. He was glad he’d brought it up to the chief here, hovering above the ground, rather than in the crowded Incident Room. Gamache, clinging to the railing, was just wondering how he was going to get down when he suddenly had to use the toilet. Beauvoir swung his leg over the side, found the ladder and started climbing down. Gamache said a little prayer, inched over to the edge, and put his leg over, feeling nothing but empty air. Then a hand grabbed his ankle and guided his foot to the first rung.



‘Even you need a little help now and then.’ Beauvoir looked up at him then hurriedly descended.



‘Right, let’s have your reports.’ Beauvoir brought the briefing to order a few minutes later. ‘Lacoste, you first.’



‘Matthew Croft. Thirty-eight,’ she said, taking the pen out of her mouth. ‘Head of the roads department for the county of St Rémy. I spoke with the county manager, and he’s glowing in his praise. I actually haven’t heard praise like that since my own evaluation.’



The place erupted. Jean Guy Beauvoir, who conducted their evaluations, was notoriously tough.



‘But, a fired worker lodged a complaint. Said Croft had beaten him.’



‘Who was this worker?’ Gamache asked.



‘André Malenfant.’ There was a rumble of appreciation. ‘Croft won, hands down. Thrown out. But not before Malenfant had gone to the local papers. Nasty piece of work, that man. Next, Suzanne Belanger. Also thirty-eight. Married to Croft for fifteen years. Works part time at Les Reproductions Doug, in St Rémy. Let’s see, what else?’ Lacoste scanned her notes for something worth saying about this woman who had led a quiet, unremarkable life.



‘No arrests?’ Nichol asked.



‘Only the one for murdering an old woman last year.’ Nichol made a sour face.



‘What about Philippe?’



‘He’s fourteen and in grade nine. ‘B plus student until last Christmas. Then something happened. His marks started slipping and his attitude changed. I spoke with the guidance counselor. She says she has no idea what’s wrong. Might be drugs. Might be problems at home. She says at fourteen most boys go a little wacky. She didn’t seem particularly worried.’



‘Any idea whether he was on any school teams?’ Gamache wanted to know.