She’s not worth it.
He startled awake. Beauvoir’s voice, panicked, filled his head again, and again he smelt smoke. He dropped his feet to the floor, his heart racing. The volunteers were slowly going about their work on their side of the large room, but he was alone on his side. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to join the volunteers, to retire to Three Pines and buy one of the old village homes. To put out his shingle. A. Gamache, Détective privé.
But then he noticed that he wasn’t alone after all. Sitting quietly at a terminal was Agent Nichol. He thought for a moment, wondering whether he was about to do something very foolish. He got up and walked over to her.
‘At the height of the fire, when we were trying to save you…’ He sat down, forcing her to look at him. She was pale and radiated smoke as though it had seeped beneath her skin. Her clothes were ill fitting and slightly dirty, a grease stain on her lapel, dark smudges round her cuffs. Her hair was badly cut and falling into her eyes. He felt like giving her his credit card with instructions to buy nice clothes. He felt like passing his large, tired hand in front of her brow to sweep the dull hair from her angry eyes. He did neither, of course. ‘Something was said. I suspect you heard it. One of us yelled, “She’s not worth it.”’
Now she looked at him straight on, her face full of bitterness.
Gamache stared back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s time for the truth, for both of us.’
He told her what he had in mind, his plan. And she listened. When he’d finished he asked her to keep it to herself. She agreed and thought two things. That he was probably smarter than she’d given him credit for, and that he was going down. After he was gone she brought out her cell phone and made a quick, discreet call.
‘I decided to tell him about Uncle Saul,’ she whispered. ‘I know, I know. It wasn’t part of the plan. Yes sir. But I’m on the ground here and it was a decision I had to make at the last moment,’ she lied. She couldn’t possibly admit it had slipped out in a vulnerable moment. He’d think her weak. ‘Yes, it was a risk, I agree. I was afraid he’d take it the wrong way, but I think it worked. It seemed to appeal to him.’ At least that part was true. Then she told him everything Gamache had said to her.
By the end of the day more than eight inches of puffy snow had fallen. Not the kind that made good snowmen, but it made for great snow angels and Gamache could see kids flinging themselves into the fluffy whiteness, flapping their arms and legs.
The fire inspector had just left.
It would take a while, of course, but his initial finding was that the fire was caused by creosote.
‘So someone set fire to creosote and killed Petrov,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Exactly,’ confirmed the fire inspector. ‘Petrov set fire to the creosote.’
‘What?’
‘When Petrov lit the fire that day he was killing himself, though he didn’t know it. Creosote is a natural substance. It comes from wood that hasn’t dried long enough. I suspect the chimney hadn’t been cleaned in years and the wood was young, and…’ The inspector raised his palms to the ceiling indicating the inevitable and not uncommon.
Saul Petrov had struck the match that had eventually killed him. It was an accident after all.
Gamache looked out the window at the fire inspector sweeping the snow from his pickup truck. The sun had gone down and in the light of the Christmas decorations he could see snow tossed into the air, like tiny storms, as villagers shoveled their walks and driveways. On the village green Ruth Zardo whacked at her bench to get the snow off then plopped down on it.
Must be five o’clock, thought Gamache, checking his watch, then picking up his phone he dialed Agent Lacoste. She was at the Sûreté lab waiting for the results on the necklace and the Li Bien ball.
‘Oui, allô?’
‘It’s Gamache.’
‘I’m in the car, almost there, chief. You won’t believe what they found.’
Half an hour later the team had reassembled in the Incident Room.
‘Look.’ Lacoste handed the report to Gamache who put on his half-moon reading glasses. ‘I decided to drive it down rather than tell you about it. Thought you’d need to see for yourself.’
His brows were drawn together in concentration, as though struggling through a document in a little known language.
‘What?’ snapped Beauvoir, reaching out to take the papers. But Gamache didn’t hand them over. Instead he continued to stare at them, turning from one page to the next then back again. Finally he looked up at them over his glasses, his deep brown eyes puzzled and worried. Almost in a dream he handed the pages to Beauvoir, who snatched them up and started reading.
