“I think I saw someone in the woods. A man. I’d felt someone looking at me when I worked there, but I thought I was imagining things. It’s easy with that place. Sometimes I’d look around fast, to see if someone really was there, but there never was anyone. Except once.”

“What happened?”

“He disappeared. I called out and even ran into the woods a little way after him, but he’d gone.” Parra paused. “Maybe he was never there at all.”

“But you don’t believe that, do you? You believe there really was someone there.”

Parra looked at her and nodded.

“Would you recognize him?” Lacoste asked.

“I might.”

“I have a photograph of the dead man, taken this morning. It might be upsetting,” she warned. Parra nodded and she turned the photograph face up. All three looked at it, staring intently, then shook their heads. She left it on the table, beside the cookies.

“Everything was normal last night? Nothing unusual?” she asked Havoc.

What followed was the same description as the other waiters had provided. Busy, lots of tips, no time to think.

Strangers?

Havoc thought about it and shook his head. No. Some summer people, and weekenders, but he knew everyone.

“And what did you do after Olivier and Old Mundin left?”

“Put away the dishes, did a quick look round, turned off the lights and locked up.”

“Are you sure you locked up? The door was found unlocked this morning.”

“I’m sure. I always lock up.”

A note of fear had crept into the handsome young man’s voice. But Lacoste knew that was normal. Most people, even innocent ones, grew fearful when examined by homicide detectives. But she’d noticed something else.

His father had looked at him, then quickly looked away. And Lacoste wondered who Roar Parra really was. He worked in the woods now. He cut grass and planted gardens. But what had he done before that? Many men were drawn to the tranquility of a garden only after they’d known the brutality of life.

Had Roar Parra known horrors? Had he created some?

SIX

“Chief Inspector? It’s Sharon Harris.”

“Oui, Dr. Harris,” said Gamache into the receiver.

“I haven’t done the complete autopsy but I have a couple of pieces of information from my preliminary work.”

“Go on.” Gamache leaned on the desk and brought his notebook closer.

“There were no identifying marks on the body, no tattoos, no operation scars. I’ve sent his dental work out.”

“What shape were his teeth in?”

“Now that’s an interesting point. They weren’t as bad as I expected. I bet he didn’t go to the dentist very often, and he’d lost a couple of molars to some gum disease, but overall, not bad.”

“Did he brush?”

There was a small laugh. “Unbelievably, he did. He also flossed. There’s some receding, some plaque and disease, but he took care of his teeth. There’s even evidence he once had quite a bit of work done. Cavities filled, root canal.”

“Expensive stuff.”

“Exactly. This man had money at one time.”

He wasn’t born a tramp, thought Gamache. But then no one was.

“Can you tell how long ago the work was done?”

“I’d say twenty years at least, judging by the wear and the materials used, but I’ve sent a sample along to the forensic dentist. Should hear by tomorrow.”

“Twenty years ago,” mused Gamache, doing the math, jotting figures in his notebook. “The man was in his seventies. That would mean he had the work done sometime in his fifties. Then something happened. He lost his job, drank, had a breakdown; something happened that pushed him over the edge.”

“Something happened,” agreed Dr. Harris, “but not in his fifties. Something happened in his late thirties or early forties.”

“That long ago?” Gamache looked down at his notes. He’d written 20 ans and circled it. He was confused.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Chief,” the coroner continued. “There’s something wrong about this body.”

Gamache sat up straighter and took his half-moon reading glasses off. Across the room Beauvoir saw this and walked over to the Chief’s desk.

“Go on,” said Gamache, nodding to Beauvoir to sit. Then he punched a button on the phone. “I’ve put you on the speaker. Inspector Beauvoir’s here.”

“Good. Well, it struck me as strange that this man who seemed a derelict should brush his teeth and even floss. But homeless people can do odd things. They’re often mentally unwell, as you know, and can be obsessive about certain things.”