against the cold,

a good word. Lord

knows there isn’t much

to go around. You need it all.

A good word. That reminded him of something else. Crie. Like Elle, she longed for a good word. Begged for it as surely as Elle had begged for food.

The tattoo of filth spoke of Elle’s external life, but was mute about what happened inside, beneath the layers of fetid clothing and dirt and alcohol-shriveled skin. Staring at the picture of the body on the gurney Gamache wondered what this woman had thought and felt. Gamache knew those things had probably died with her. Knew he might find her name, might even find her killer, but he would probably never find her. This woman had been lost years ago.

Like Crie, only further down the road?

And then he saw it. A small discoloration different from the rest. It was dark and circular, too even to be random filth. It was on her chest, on her breastbone.

Lifting his magnifying glass again he spent some time looking at it. He wanted to be certain. And when he looked up Armand Gamache was.

He took out the other pictures again and stared at one in particular. Then he rooted through the evidence box, looking for one small thing. Something that would be easy to overlook. But it wasn’t there.

He carefully replaced everything in the box and put it by the door. Then he returned to his warm chair by the fire and sat a moment watching Reine-Marie reading, her lips moving ever so slightly now and then and her brows rising and lowering in a way only he, who knew her so well, could see.

Then he picked up Be Calm and started reading.

FOURTEEN

Jean Guy Beauvoir reached for his Tim Horton’s Double Double coffee, cradling it in his hands to keep them warm. The huge black wood stove in the center of the room was trying its best, but so far it hadn’t managed to throw much heat.

It was ten o’clock on a snowy morning, almost exactly twenty-four hours after the murder, and the Sûreté team had assembled in their situation room in Three Pines. They shared it with a large red fire truck. The white walls above the dark wood wainscoting were plastered with detailed maps of the area, diagrams of firefighting strategies and a huge poster commemorating past winners of the Governor-General’s Awards for Literature.

This was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, under the baton of Ruth Zardo.

‘Tabernacle. She’s a senile old hag. Won’t let us move that out.’ Beauvoir shoved his thumb toward the truck taking up half the room.

‘Did Madame Zardo give you a reason?’ Gamache asked.

‘Something about needing to make sure the truck doesn’t freeze up in case there’s a fire,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I asked her when the last fire was and she told me it was confidential. Confidential? Since when was there a secret fire?’

‘Let’s get started. Reports, please.’ Gamache sat at the head of the table wearing a shirt and tie and crew neck merino wool sweater beneath his tweed jacket. He held a pen in his hand, but rarely took notes. All around technicians were wiring phones and faxes and computers, setting up desks and blackboards and unloading equipment. But Gamache heard none of that. He concentrated totally on what was being said.

Agent Robert Lemieux had put on his Sunday best and polished his shoes and now was grateful the little voice of instinct had spoken, and even more grateful it had been heard. Beside him a young woman agent sipped her coffee and leaned forward attentively. She’d introduced herself as Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Lemieux wouldn’t describe her as attractive, not the kind you’d notice immediately in a bar. But then she didn’t seem the sort to hang around bars. More the kind you’d find on Mont St-Rémy. Natural and relaxed, without artifice. Her clothes were simple and well cut to fit her comfortable body, a light sweater, scarf and slacks. Her dark eyes were alert and her light brown hair was held off her face by a wide band. Lemieux noticed a string of earrings piercing one ear. She’d come up immediately and welcomed him. Instinctively he’d checked her left hand, and found, to his surprise, a wedding band.

‘Two kids,’ she said, with a smile, her eyes not leaving his face and yet she’d followed his quick glance. ‘A boy, René, and a girl Marie. Toi?’

‘Not married. Not even a girlfriend.’

‘Just as well. At least while the investigation is on. Pay attention.’ She’d leaned in and whispered, ‘And be yourself. The chief only chooses people who don’t pretend.’

‘And who are good at their jobs, presumably,’ he said, thinking he was giving her a compliment.

‘Oh, mais, franchement, you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’