“Is that what this’s about?” Thérèse asked, still holding Gamache’s eyes. “Has Francoeur gotten himself involved with that filth?”
“Not just himself,” said Gamache. “But the Sûreté.”
The industry was huge, powerful, corrupt. And now, with the collusion of the Sûreté, unpoliced. Unstoppable.
Contracts worth billions were at stake. They stopped at nothing to win the contracts, to hold them, and to intimidate anyone who challenged them.
If there was an old sin and a long, dark shadow in Québec, it was the construction industry.
“Merde,” said Superintendent Brunel under her breath. She knew it wasn’t just a piece of shit they’d stepped on, but an empire of it.
“Go back in, please, Jérôme,” said Gamache, quietly. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. They finally had an idea what they were looking for.
“Where to?”
“Construction contracts. Big ones, recently awarded.”
“Right.” Dr. Brunel swung around and began typing. Beside him, at the other terminal, Nichol was also typing away.
“No, wait,” said Gamache, putting a hand on Jérôme’s arm. “Not new construction.” He thought for a moment before speaking. “Look for repair contracts.”
“D’accord,” said Jérôme, and began to search.
* * *
“Hello, I’m sorry to disturb you. Have I woken you up?”
“Who is this?” asked the groggy voice at the other end of the phone.
“My name’s Martin Tessier, I’m with the Sûreté du Québec.”
“Is this about my mother?” The woman’s voice was suddenly alert. “It’s five in the morning here. What’s happened?”
“You think this might be about your mother?” Tessier asked, his voice friendly and reasonable.
“Well, she does work for the Sûreté,” said the woman, fully awake. “When she arrived she said someone might call.”
“So Superintendent Brunel’s there with you, in Vancouver?” asked Tessier.
“Isn’t that why you’re calling? Do you work with Chief Inspector Gamache?”
Tessier didn’t quite know how to answer that, didn’t know what Superintendent Brunel might have told her daughter.
“Yes. He asked me to call. May I speak with her, please?”
“She said she didn’t want to talk to him. Leave us alone. They were exhausted when they arrived. Tell your boss to stop bothering them.”
Monique Brunel hung up, but continued to clutch the phone.
* * *
Martin Tessier looked at the receiver in his hand.
What to make of that? He needed to know if the Brunels had in fact traveled to Vancouver. Their cell phones had.
He’d had their phones monitored and traced. They’d flown to Vancouver and gone to their daughter’s home. In the last couple days they’d driven around Vancouver to shops and restaurants. To the symphony.
But was it the people, or just their phones?
Tessier had been convinced they were in Vancouver, but now he wasn’t so sure.
The Brunels had parted ways with their former friend and colleague, calling Gamache delusional. But someone had picked up the cyber search where Jérôme Brunel had left off. Or maybe he hadn’t left off at all.
When the Brunel daughter had first answered the phone, he could hear the concern in her voice.
“Is this about my mother?” she’d asked.
Not “What’s this about?” Not “Do you need to speak to my mother?”
No. They were the words of someone worried that something had happened to her mother. And you don’t ask that when your parents are asleep a few feet away.
Tessier called his counterpart in Vancouver.
* * *
“Wait,” said Gamache. He was leaning forward, his reading glasses on, looking at the screen. “Go back, please.”
Jérôme did.
“What is it, Armand?” Thérèse Brunel asked.
He looked white. She’d never seen him like that. She’d seen him angry, hurt, surprised. But never, in the years they’d worked together, had she ever seen him so shocked.
“Jesus,” Gamache whispered. “It’s not possible.”
He had Jérôme bring up other files, apparently unrelated. Some very old, some very recent. Some based in the far north, some in downtown Montréal.
