“I’ll tell them you weren’t here.”
“No, don’t do that. They already know. If they ask, tell them everything. What I asked, and what you answered.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The two men walked to the door.
“I can tell you that your wife died trying to stop something horrible from happening. I want you and your girls to know that.” He paused. “Stay home today. You and the girls. Don’t go into downtown Montréal.”
“Why? What’s going to happen?” Now the blood drained from Villeneuve’s face.
“Just stay here,” said Gamache firmly.
Villeneuve searched Gamache’s face. “My God, you don’t think you can stop it, do you?”
“I really have to go, Monsieur Villeneuve.”
Gamache put on his coat, but remembered something Villeneuve had said, about Audrey.
“You say your wife was happy on that last morning. Do you know why?”
“I’d assumed it was because she was going to the office Christmas party. She’d made a new dress specially for it.”
“Were you going?”
“No. We had an agreement. She didn’t come to my office Christmas parties and I didn’t go to hers. But she seemed to be looking forward to it.”
Villeneuve looked uneasy.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
“Nothing. It’s personal. Nothing to do with what happened.”
“Tell me.”
Villeneuve studied Gamache and seemed to realize there was nothing left to lose. “I just wondered if she was having an affair. It’s not true, she’d never have done it, but with the new dress and all. She hadn’t made herself a dress in a long time. And she seemed so happy. Happier than she’d been with me for a while.”
“Tell me about this party. Was it only for the office staff?”
“Mostly. The Minister of Transport always showed up, but not for long. And this year there were rumors of a special guest.”
“Who?”
“The Premier. Didn’t seem such a big deal to me, but Audrey was excited.”
“Georges Renard?”
“Oui. Maybe that’s why she made the dress. She wanted to impress him.”
Villeneuve looked at his daughters, building a snowman on the small front yard. Armand shook Gaétan Villeneuve’s hand, waved to the girls, and got in his car.
He sat there for a moment, putting it together. The target, he suspected, was the Ville-Marie Tunnel.
Audrey Villeneuve had almost certainly realized something was wrong, as she’d entered the reports. After years and years of working on repair files, she knew the difference between work genuinely done, or badly done. Or not done at all.
It was possible she’d even turned a blind eye, like so many of her colleagues. Until finally she couldn’t anymore. Then what would Audrey Villeneuve have done? She was organized, disciplined. She’d have gathered proof before saying anything.
And in doing that, she’d have found things she shouldn’t have. Worse things than willful neglect, than corruption, than desperately needed repairs not done.
She’d have found suggestions of a plan to hurry the collapse.
And then what? Gamache’s mind raced as he put it together. What would any midlevel worker do upon finding massive corruption and conspiracy? She’d have gone to her boss. And when he didn’t believe her, her boss’s boss.
But still, no one acted.
That would explain her stress. Her short temper.
And her happiness, finally?
Audrey Villeneuve, the organizer, had a Plan B. She’d make herself a new dress for the Christmas party, something an aging politician might notice. She’d wander up to him, casually. Perhaps flirt a little, perhaps try to get him on his own.
And then she would tell him what she’d found.
Premier Renard would believe her. She was sure of it.
Yes, thought Gamache as he started his car and headed toward downtown Montréal, Renard would have known she was telling the truth.
After a few blocks he stopped to use a public phone.
“Lacoste residence,” came the little voice. “Mélanie speaking.”
“Is your mother home, please?”
Please, Gamache begged. Please.
“One moment, s’il vous plaît.” He heard a scream, “Mama. Mama. Téléphone.”
A few seconds later he heard Inspector Lacoste’s voice. “Oui?”
“Isabelle, I can’t talk long. The target’s the Ville-Marie Tunnel.”
