He could see the blue eyes, cold like marbles. And he could sense the brain, active, rushing from fact to fact, desperate to refute them. At first Arnot had been relaxed, confident in his superiority, sure no one could ever get the better of him. But as the meeting progressed he grew restive, furtive.
Gamache had done his homework. Had worked on the case for almost a year, quietly, in his spare time and on holidays. Until every single escape route Arnot might try was locked and barred and blocked, and locked again.
Gamache knew he had only one shot, and that was this meeting. If Arnot walked free Gamache and many others, Brébeuf included, were doomed.
He’d marshaled his facts but he knew there was one potent weapon Arnot would use. Loyalty. Officers of the force would rather die than be disloyal, to each other and to the Sûreté. Arnot commanded great loyalty.
And Arnot had won.
Faced with the facts he’d admitted the crimes of incitement to murder and actual murder. But he’d prevailed upon the council, in recognition of his position and his years of service, to allow him and the two officers implicated with him to not be arrested. Not yet. They’d put their affairs in order, make things right for their families, say their goodbyes, and then go to Arnot’s hunting camp in the Abitibi region. And kill themselves.
Avoid the shame of a trial. Spare the Sûreté the public humiliation.
Gamache had argued ferociously against such folly. But he’d been defeated by a council afraid of Arnot and afraid of the public.
To Gamache’s astonishment Pierre Arnot had walked free. At least for a while. But a man like that can create a lot of grief in very little time.
‘And that’s when we took the case in Mutton Bay?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘As far from Montreal as we could get, yes,’ admitted Gamache. He’d sent Reine-Marie away and asked his friend Marc Brault with the Montreal police to assign officers to protect his children. Then he himself had taken a ski plane to Quebec City then on to Baie Comeau, then Natashquan, Harrington Harbour and finally the tiny fishing village of Mutton Bay. And there he’d looked for a murderer and found himself. In a dingy diner on the rocky shore of the village. It smelled of fish, both fresh and fried, and a ragged, craggy fisherman, as though made from the rocks themselves, sitting alone in a booth had looked over and given Gamache a smile of such unexpected radiance Gamache had immediately known what he had to do.
‘That’s when you left,’ said Beauvoir. ‘You headed back to Montreal. Next thing I knew Pierre Arnot and the two others were all over the newspapers.’
Ironic really, thought Gamache, and tried not to look at his watch again.
Gamache had driven to the Abitibi and stopped the suicide. All the way back the other two officers, drunk and hysterical with relief, wept. But not Arnot. He sat bolt upright between them and stared into the rearview mirror, at Gamache. Gamache had known as soon as he’d entered the cabin that Arnot had had no intention of committing suicide. The others, yes. But not Arnot. For four hours through a snowstorm, Gamache endured the stare.
The media had hailed him a hero but Armand Gamache knew he was no hero. A hero wouldn’t have hesitated. A hero wouldn’t have run away.
‘What was the reaction when you showed up with Arnot and the others?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘As cordial as you’d expect,’ said Gamache, smiling. ‘The council was in a rage. I’d gone against their wishes. They accused me of being disloyal, and I was.’
‘Depends what you need to be loyal to. Why’d you do it?’
‘Stop the suicides? The mothers deserved more than silence,’ said Gamache after a moment. ‘The Cree woman I met and the others deserved a public apology, an explanation, a pledge it won’t happen again. Someone had to step forward and accept blame for what happened to their children.’
Like most officers in the Sûreté Beauvoir had been sickened and ashamed when he’d heard what Arnot had done. But Armand Gamache had redeemed them, proved not all Sûreté officers were vile. The vast majority of officers of all ranks had aligned themselves firmly and without question behind him. As had most newspapers.
But not all.
Some accused Gamache of collusion, of having a vendetta against Arnot. They even insinuated that he was one of the murderers and was framing the popular Arnot.
And now that accusation was back.
‘How many Arnot supporters are left in the Sûreté?’ Beauvoir asked, his voice businesslike. This wasn’t idle chit-chat. He was gathering tactical information.
