“I panicked,” said Brian softly, not meeting their eyes. “I ran away. I had to get out. I went over to Madame Proulx’s place next door. She called the police.”
“Did you come back here?”
He shook his head. “Only when the police arrived. They asked me to come back with them, and they put me in here.”
The coffee was ready and Beauvoir poured them each a mug. When they’d taken a sip of the strong coffee, Lacoste resumed the interrogation. She made it sound like a conversation, but only a fool, or a man numb with grief, could mistake it for that.
“Can you tell us what you did last night?”
“I was in Montréal. The monthly meeting of the Geological Survey. We go through our reports.”
“Last night?”
“No, yesterday afternoon but I stayed over. Some of us go out for drinks and dinner after. We always do.”
“Can you give us the details, a phone number of someone who was there?”
“Yes.”
Beauvoir took it down.
“What time did you finish?”
“About eight, eight thirty. Not late.”
“Where did you stay? A hotel?”
“No, we have a pied-à-terre. Just a studio. I stay there when I’m in town for meetings and will have a few drinks.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Lacoste.
“Vouch for me?” he asked, and then it dawned on him, as it did every suspect eventually. That they were suspected. But unlike many, Brian didn’t get angry or defensive. He just looked even more frightened, if that was possible.
“I was alone in the apartment. There’s no doorman. I let myself in and didn’t go out again.”
“Did you call anyone?”
“Just Antoinette.” He pressed his lips together and took a ragged breath.
“What time was that?”
“When I got in, about three in the afternoon. Just to say I’d arrived safely. She told me we’d been invited over to Clara’s for dinner, but she thought she might cancel.”
“Did she tell you why?” Beauvoir asked, speaking for the first time in the interrogation.
“She said she thought a couple of people might drop by later.”
“Who?”
“People from the theater,” he said. “They wanted to talk to her. I think they wanted to fire her, but I didn’t say anything.”
“What did she think it was about?” Lacoste asked.
“She thought they’d changed their minds and were going to do the play after all.” His hand went to the copy of She Sat Down and Wept on the kitchen table. It was covered in scribbled notes. “She couldn’t believe everyone had quit.”
Once again Brian gave them names, and once again Beauvoir took them down.
“Emotions were running high about the play,” said Lacoste.
Brian nodded. “It was a mistake, of course. We shouldn’t have been doing it.” He looked at her then, focusing completely for the first time. “You don’t think it had anything to do with—” He gestured out the kitchen door toward the living room. “But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a play. No one cares that much.”
“They cared enough to quit,” said Lacoste.
But enough to kill?
“Who knew you’d be in Montréal?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Brian, thinking but obviously not grasping the significance of the question. “I think people knew I went in every now and then, but I don’t think I told anyone I was going in yesterday.”
Lacoste caught Beauvoir’s eye. Did Brian really not know he’d just been given a chance to take the heat off himself?
Antoinette was killed by someone who knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. The murderer therefore didn’t know about Brian, or knew Brian was in Montréal, or was Brian.
Had he told them lots of people knew he’d be away, that would open up the list of suspects. But he hadn’t. Which showed he was innocent or stupid, or so sure of himself he chose to play stupid.
They went through the rest of the questions and Brian gave answers, some halting, some incomplete, some thorough. What emerged was the image of a man numb with grief, who’d been a hundred kilometers away when Antoinette was killed. Who had nothing to do with it. Who wished he’d been there. Who couldn’t think of anyone who wanted her dead.
“I know you have to look at all possibilities, but it was a robbery, wasn’t it?” Brian finally asked. “It must’ve been. Look at the place.”