‘Matthew Croft didn’t kill Jane Neal. There’s absolutely no evidence he did it. There’s the accusation of a probably unbalanced son and his own confession.’

‘What more do you need?’

‘When you were investigating that serial killer in Brossard, did you arrest everyone who confessed?’

‘This is different and you know it.’

‘I don’t know it, Superintendent. Those people who confessed were confused individuals who were fulfilling some obscure need of their own, right?’

‘Right,’ but Michel Brébeuf sounded guarded. He hated arguing with Armand Gamache, and not only because they were friends. Gamache was a thoughtful man and Brébeuf knew he was a man of his convictions. But he isn’t always right, Brébeuf told himself.

‘Croft’s confession is meaningless. I think it’s his form of self-punishment. He’s confused and hurt.’

‘Poor baby.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not saying it’s noble or attractive. But it’s human. And just because he’s begging for punishment doesn’t mean we should comply.’

‘You’re such a sanctimonious bastard. Lecturing me on the moral role of a police force. I know damn well what our job is. You’re the one who wants to be police, judge and jury. If Croft didn’t do it he’ll be released. Trust the system, Armand.’

‘He won’t even come to trial if he continues in this ludicrous confession. And even if he’s eventually released, you and I know what happens to people arrested for a crime. Especially a violent crime. They’re stigmatised for the rest of their lives. Whether they did it or not. We’d be inflicting on Matthew Croft a wound that will stay with him for ever.’

‘You’re wrong. He’s inflicting it on himself.’

‘No, he’s challenging us to do it. Goading us into it. But we don’t have to react. That’s what I’m saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we’re provoked doesn’t mean we have to act.’

‘So, what are you telling me, Chief Inspector? From now on you’ll only arrest people if you’re guaranteed a conviction ? You’ve arrested people before who turned out not to have committed the crime. Just last year, remember the Gagné case? You arrested the uncle, but it turned out the nephew had done it?’

‘True, I was wrong. But I believed the uncle had done it.

That was a mistake. This is different. This would be deliberately arresting someone I believe did not commit the crime. I can’t do it.’

Brébeuf sighed. He’d known from the first minute of this conversation that Gamache wouldn’t change his mind. But he had to try. Really, a most annoying man.

‘You know what I’m going to have to do?’

‘I do. And I’m prepared for it.’

‘So as punishment for insubordination you’ll walk through Sûreté Headquarters wearing Sergeant LaCroix’s uniform?’ Mai LaCroix was the immense desk Sergeant who presided over the entry to HQ like Buddha gone bad. To add to the dimension of the horror, she wore a Sûreté-issue skirt some sizes too small.

Gamache laughed at the image. ‘I’ll make you a deal, Michel. If you can get that uniform off her. I’ll wear it.’

‘Never mind. I guess I’ll just have to suspend you.’ Michel Brébeuf had come close to doing this once before, after the Arnot case. His own superiors had ordered him to suspend Gamache, again for insubordination. That case had almost ended both their careers, and the stink still stuck to Gamache. He’d been wrong then, too, in Brébeuf’s opinion. All he had to do was say nothing, it wasn’t as though their superiors were proposing letting the criminals go. Just the opposite, really. But Gamache had defied the authorities. He wondered if Gamache really believed the Arnot case was over.

Brébeuf never thought he’d be doing this, ‘You’re suspended from this moment for the period of one week, without pay. A disciplinary hearing will be held at that time. Don’t wear a skirt.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘D’accord. Give me Beauvoir.’

It took a lot to stun Jean Guy Beauvoir, but his conversation with the Superintendent did just that. Gamache knew that he cared deeply for Beauvoir, like a son, but the younger man had never shown him any feelings, except that of junior to respected superior. That had been enough. But now Gamache saw the depth of Beauvoir’s pain at having to do this thing, and he received a great gift. The gift of knowing he was cared for in return.