“Where is he?”
“Investigating the murder of the Quint. He’s spending most of his time in some small village in the Townships, and when he’s not there he’s distracted by Beauvoir. It’s too late. He can’t stop it now. Besides, he doesn’t even know what’s happening.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur got up. Slowly. Deliberately. And walked around his desk. Tessier twisted out of his chair and stood, then stepped back, back, until he felt his body against the bookcase.
Francoeur stopped within inches of his second in command, his eyes never leaving Tessier.
“You know what’s at stake?”
The younger man nodded.
“You know what happens if we succeed?”
Again Tessier nodded.
“And you know what happens if we don’t?”
It had never occurred to Tessier that they could possibly fail, but now he thought about it, and understood what that would mean.
“Do you want me to take care of Gamache, sir?”
“Not yet. It would raise too many questions. You need to make sure Dr. Brunel and Gamache don’t come within a thousand kilometers of each other. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
“If it looks like Gamache is coming close, you need to distract him. That shouldn’t be difficult.”
As Tessier walked to his car he knew Francoeur was right. It wouldn’t be difficult. Just a tiny little shove and Jean-Guy Beauvoir would fall. And land on Chief Inspector Gamache.
TWENTY-THREE
Jérôme and Thérèse walked Henri around the village green. Their second circuit. Deep in conversation. It was biting cold, but they needed the fresh air.
“So Armand investigated what the Cree elder told him,” said Jérôme. “And he found she was telling the truth. What did he do?”
“He made absolutely certain his case was seamless, then he took the proof to the council.”
This was the council of superintendents, Jérôme knew. The leadership of the Sûreté. Thérèse sat on it now, but at the time she was a lowly agent, a new recruit. Oblivious to the earthquake that was about to shake everything the Sûreté felt was stable.
Service, Integrity, Justice. The Sûreté motto.
“He knew it would be almost impossible to convince the superintendents, and even if convinced, they’d want to protect Arnot and the reputation of the force. Armand approached a couple of members of the council he thought would be sympathetic. One was, one wasn’t. And his hand was forced. He asked for a meeting with the council. By now Arnot and a few others suspected what it was about. They refused, at first.”
“What changed their minds?” asked Jérôme.
“Armand threatened to go public.”
“You’re kidding.”
But even as he said that, Jérôme knew it made sense. Of course Gamache would. He’d discovered something so horrific, so damning, he felt he no longer owed loyalty to the Sûreté leadership. His loyalty was to Québec, not a bunch of old men around a polished table looking at their own reflections as they made decisions.
“What happened at the meeting?” Jérôme asked.
“Arnot and his immediate deputies, the ones Armand had the most proof against, agreed to resign. They’d retire, the Sûreté would leave the Cree territory, and everyone would get on with their lives.”
“Armand won,” said Jérôme.
“No. He demanded more.”
Their feet crunched over the snow as they made their slow circuit in the light of the three great trees.
“More?”
“He said it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Armand demanded that Arnot and the others be arrested and charged with murder. He argued that the young Cree who died deserved that. That their parents and loved ones and their community deserved answers and an apology. And a pledge that it would never happen again. The council reluctantly agreed after a bitter debate. They had no choice. Armand had all the proof. They knew it would ruin the Sûreté when it all became public, when the very head of the force was tried for murder.”
That was the Arnot case.
Jérôme, like the rest of Québec, had followed it. It was, in many ways, his introduction to Gamache. Seeing him on the news walk into court, alone, each day. Swarmed by the media. Answering impolite questions politely.
Testifying against his own brothers-in-arms. Clearly. Thoroughly. Hammering home, in his reasonable, thoughtful voice, the facts.