‘It’s Gamache,’ he shouted back down the line, not sure why he was shouting.

‘Chief, I’m glad you called. Did you get the drawing from the Sûreté artist? He said he’d email it to you.’

‘I’m just opening my messages now. What did he say and why are we yelling?’

‘I’m at the bus station. A bus just arrived. The Sûreté artist said it looked as though Elle had been holding something in her hand as she died, and it had cut into it.’

‘And that explains the pattern of cuts in her palm?’

‘Exactly.’ The bus must have left or shut off because the background noise settled down. Lemieux spoke normally. ‘I gave him the autopsy picture and he drew a sketch as you asked. It’s not very precise, as you’ll see.’

As Lemieux spoke Gamache was going through his messages, looking for the one from the eccentric artist in the bowels of Sûreté headquarters. He clicked on it and waited while the excruciatingly slow dial-up connection downloaded the image.

Little by little a picture emerged.

‘I’ve talked to other vagrants here about Elle,’ Lemieux continued. ‘They’re not a very talkative lot but most remember her. There was a scuffle over her spot when she left. Apparently she had the equivalent of a penthouse suite. Right over one of the heating grates. Strange that she’d leave it.’

‘Strange indeed,’ Gamache mumbled as he watched the image haltingly appear on his screen. It was only half there. ‘You’ve done well, Lemieux. Come home.’

‘Yes sir.’

Gamache smiled. He could almost see the grin on Lemieux’s face.

For the next five minutes Gamache stared at the screen, watching the image download. A centimeter at a time. And when it was finished Gamache sat back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, and stared.

He suddenly remembered himself and looked at the clock. Five thirty-five. Time to meet the coroner.

TWENTY-ONE

Dr Sharon Harris had just settled into her easy chair and ordered a Dubonnet when Gamache arrived, full of apologies and smiles. He joined her in a Dubonnet and sat down. They had a window seat, looking through the mullions at the frozen pond and Christmas trees. Over her shoulder he could see the fire crackling and playing in the hearth. Dr Harris was absently toying with a discreet white tag hanging from their table. She glanced at it.

‘Two hundred and seventy dollars.’

‘Not the Dubonnet, I hope.’ Gamache stopped his untouched drink partway to his mouth.

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘The table.’

‘Santé.’ He took a sip and smiled. He’d forgotten. Everything in the bistro was an antique, collected by Olivier. And everything was for sale. He could finish his drink and buy the cut crystal glass. It was, actually, a lovely glass. As he held it up and looked through it the crystal picked up and refracted the amber light from the fireplace, splitting it into parts. Like a very warm rainbow. Or the chakras, he thought.

‘Are you still looking to move here?’ he asked, bringing himself back to the table and catching her wistful gaze out the window.

‘If a place comes up I would, though when they do they get bought fast.’

‘The old Hadley home came up about a year ago.’

‘Except that place, though I have to admit I looked at the listing. Cheap. Almost gave it away.’

‘How much were they asking?’

‘I can’t remember exactly but it was less than a hundred thousand.’

‘C’est incroyable,’ said Gamache, taking a handful of cashews.

Dr Harris looked around the bistro, filling up with patrons. ‘No one seems too bothered by the murder. Not a popular woman, our victim?’

‘No, it seems not. She was the one who bought the Hadley house.’

‘Ahh,’ said Dr Harris.

‘Ahh?’ questioned Gamache.

‘Anyone who’d buy that house must have been insensitive in the extreme. I didn’t even like looking at its picture on the computer listing.’

‘People have different sensibilities.’ Gamache smiled.

‘True,’ she agreed, ‘but would you buy it?’

‘I don’t even like going in it,’ he whispered to her conspiratorially. ‘Gives me the willies. What’ve you got for me?’

Dr Harris leaned down and drew a dossier from her briefcase. Placing it on the table she took a handful of nuts, leaned back and looked out the window again, sipping her drink between salty mouthfuls.