'You didn't check?'
'Saw no need.' Then he'd hesitated again. Lacoste was a good enough investigator to wait. And wait. Eventually he spoke again. 'It happens a lot in cases like this. A friend, or more often a family member, gives the person a fatal dose. Mercy. Happens more often than we know or want to know. There's a kind of unwritten agreement that in terminal cases, at the end of life, we don't look too closely.'
Lacoste could certainly sympathise and privately thought this was probably a good thing, but this was business, and in this case they weren't talking about mercy.
'Is there any way to check now?'
'She was cremated. Her own wishes.' He closed his computer.
And now, two hours later, she was closing hers. It was 6.30 and pitch black outside. She needed to speak with Gamache about what she'd found in Bernard's room before heading home. It was a cold night and Lacoste buttoned her field coat before setting out across the bridge that spanned the Riviere Bella Bella and headed into the heart of Three Pines.
'Give it to me.'
'Gimme.' Bernard Malenfant was leaning against her.
'Do you want to tell me about it?'
'Fuck off. Give it here.' He brought his fist to her face, but didn't strike.
Isabelle Lacoste had faced down serial killers, snipers, and abusive, drunken husbands, and she was under no illusion. A furious, out-of-control 14-year-old was as dangerous as any of them.
'Drop that fist. I'm not going to give it to you, so it's no use threatening.'
Bernard grabbed her satchel, trying to yank it away but she'd expected this. She'd found that most boys, and even some not very bright men, underestimated women. She was strong and determined and smart. She kept her cool and twisted the satchel out of his grip.
'Bitch. It's not even mine. Do you really think I'd have shit like that?' The last word was screamed into her face so she could feel his spittle on her chin and the stench of his warm breath.
'Then whose is it?' she said evenly, trying to control her gag response.
Bernard gave her a malevolent leer. 'Are you kidding? I'm not going to tell.'
'Hey, are you all right?' A woman and her dog were walking quickly toward them from the direction of the bridge.
Bernard swung around and saw them. He yanked up his bike and rode away, swerving so that he headed toward the dog, but just missed it.
'Are you all right?' the woman repeated, and reached out and touched Isabelle's arm. Lacoste recognised the woman as Hanna Parra. 'Was that young Malenfant?'
'Yes. We had a few words. I'm fine, but thanks for checking.' And she meant it. This wouldn't have happened in Montreal.
'Anytime.' They walked over the Bella Bella into Three Pines, separating at the Bistro and waving goodbye.
The first thing Lacoste did upon reaching the cheerful lights and warmth of the Bistro was head to the washroom, to scrub her face with the fragrant soap and fresh water. Once clean she ordered a Martini and Rossi and caught the chief's eye. He nodded toward a small, secluded table. The Martini and Rossi, a bowl of nuts and her chief in front of her, Lacoste relaxed. She then told him about her search of Bernard's room, handing him the item she'd taken as she spoke.
'Phew,' said Gamache, examining the item. 'Get this fingerprinted. Bernard denies it's his? Did he say whose it was?'
Lacoste shook her head.
'Did you believe it's not his?'
'I don't know. I think I don't want to believe him, but some instinct tells me he's telling the truth.'
Only with Gamache could she talk about feelings, intuition and instinct without feeling defensive. He nodded and offered her dinner before she headed back to Montreal, but she declined. She wanted to see her family before they went to bed Gamache awoke to a pounding on his door. His bedside clock said 2.47. Putting on his dressing gown he opened the door. Yvette Nichol stood there in an impossibly fluffy pink and white number.
She'd been lying awake, tossing and turning, and finally just curling on her side, staring at the wall. How had it come to this? She was in trouble. Something had gone wrong. Something always went wrong, it seemed. But how? She'd tried so hard.
Now, in the tiny new day the familiar old voice spoke to her, It's because you're Uncle Saul, after all. Stupid Uncle Saul. They were counting on you, your family, and you've fucked up again. Shame on you.
Nichol felt the lump in her chest harden and she turned over. Looking out the window she saw a light go on across the village green. She leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, and ran up the stairs to Gamache's room.
'There's a light on,' she said without preamble.
'Where?'
'Across the way, at Jane Neal's home. It went on a few minutes ago.'
'Get Inspector Beauvoir. Have him meet me downstairs.'
