‘He’s right,’ said Croft. ‘I killed Jane Neal.’
Gamache closed his eyes.
‘Oh, Matthew, please. No. Don’t.’ Suzanne turned to the others, taking Gamache’s arm in a talon grip. ‘Stop him. He’s lying.’
‘I think she’s right, Mr Croft. I still believe Philippe killed Miss Neal.’
‘You’re wrong. I did it. Everything Philippe says is true.’
‘Including the beatings?’
Matthew looked down at his feet and said nothing.
‘Will you come with us to the station in St Remy?’ asked Gamache. Beauvoir noticed, as did the others, that it was a request, not an order. And certainly not an arrest.
‘Yes.’ Croft seemed relieved.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Suzanne, springing up.
‘What about Philippe?’ Claude Guimette asked.
Suzanne suppressed the urge to scream, ‘What about him?’ Instead she took a couple of breaths.
Gamache stepped forward and spoke with her softly, calmly. ‘He’s only fourteen, and as much as he might not show it, he needs his mother.’
She hesitated then nodded, afraid to speak again.
Gamache knew that while fear came in many forms, so did courage.
Gamache, Beauvoir and Croft sat in a small white interview room at the Sûreté station in St Rémy. On the metal table between them sat a plate of ham sandwiches and several tins of soft drinks. Croft hadn’t eaten anything. Neither had Gamache. Beauvoir couldn’t stand it any longer and slowly, as though his stomach wasn’t making that whiny noise filling the room, picked up a half sandwich and took a leisurely bite.
‘Tell us what happened last Sunday morning,’ said Gamache.
‘I got up early, as I usually do. Sunday’s Suzanne’s day to sleep in. I put the breakfast things on the kitchen table for the kids then went out. Bow hunting.’
‘You told us you didn’t hunt any more,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I lied.’
‘Why go to the woods behind the schoolhouse?’
‘Dunno. I guess because that’s where my father always hunted.’
‘Your father smoked unfiltered cigarettes and ran your home as a dairy farm. You don’t,’ said Gamache. ‘You’ve proven you’re no slave to your father’s way of doing things. There must be another reason.’
‘Well, there isn’t. It was Thanksgiving and I was missing him. I took his old recurve bow and his old arrows and went to his old hunting grounds. To feel closer to him. Point finale.’
‘What happened?’
‘I heard a sound, something coming through the trees, like a deer. Slowly and carefully. Almost on tiptoe. That’s how deer walk. So I drew my bow and as soon as the shape appeared I fired. You have to be fast with deer ’cause any little thing will set them off.’
‘But it wasn’t a deer.’
‘No. It was Miss Neal.’
‘How was she lying?’
Croft stood up, put his arms and legs out, his eyes wide open.
‘What did you do?’
‘I ran to her, but I could see she was dead. So I panicked. I looked for the arrow, picked it up, and ran to the truck. I threw everything in the back and drove home.’
‘What happened then?’ In Beauvoir’s experience interrogation was really just asking, ‘Then what happened?’ and listening closely to the reply. Listening was the trick.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t remember anything after getting in the truck and driving home. But isn’t that enough? I killed Miss Neal. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward?’
‘Well, I didn’t think you’d find out. I mean, the woods are full of hunters, I couldn’t believe you’d come to me. Then when you did, I didn’t want to destroy my father’s old bow. It means a lot to me. It’s like having him in the house still. When I realised it had to be destroyed it was too late.’
‘Do you beat your son?’
Croft winced, as though revolted, but said nothing.
‘I sat in your kitchen this morning and told you we thought Philippe had killed Miss Neal,’ Gamache leaned forward so his head hovered over the sandwiches, but he only had eyes for Croft. ‘Why didn’t you confess then?’
‘I was too stunned.’
‘Come on, Mr Croft. You were waiting for us. You knew what the lab tests would show. And yet now you’re saying you were going to have your son arrested for a crime you yourself committed? I don’t think you’re capable of that.’
