A Better Man

CHAPTER FIVE

“Bonjour. I’m Chief Inspector Gamache, this is Agent Cloutier.” He slipped his Sûreté ID under the glass partition, and the receptionist took it. “We’d like to see Commander Flaubert, s’il vous plait.”

The man behind the glass, a civilian, glanced at the ID, then at them, and pointed to a hard bench where a drunk was slumped.

“Wait over there.”

“Merci,” Gamache said, and took a seat under a photo of the Premier Ministre du Québec, the man responsible for his demotion.

Crossing his legs, he leaned back on the bench and waited. Apparently just staring into space.

Cloutier paced, checking her phone for messages, gazing at posters, photographs, warnings, commendations on the walls. Photos of the Sûreté hockey team. She checked her phone for messages. Again.

Finally an officer came out and hurried across the entrance hall. Her hand extended. “Chief Superintendent—”

“Inspector,” Gamache corrected, and wondered how many times he’d have to do that. “Chief Inspector.” He was on his feet.

“Brigitte Flaubert,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Yes, I remember,” said Gamache.

As Chief Superintendent, he’d made it a point to visit each detachment in the province. To sit down with the commander, and especially the agents. To get their take on what needed improving.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Commander Flaubert looked at Gamache with an increasingly familiar searching gaze. He suspected he’d have to get used to it.

Different from the curious looks he normally got on the street, as passersby tried to place this familiar face. The looks today were not so much to place him as to judge him.

Flaubert shot a displeased glance at the receptionist, who did not seem to care, then she turned to Agent Cloutier, as Gamache introduced her.

“If you’ll come with me,” said Flaubert.

They followed her into the back of the station and to her office, walking past desks occupied by busy Sûreté officers, who glanced up as they passed, then back down.

Then up again. Realizing that the large man in the parka wasn’t a stranger at all but the former head of the whole damn force.

For his part, Gamache scanned the room, meeting eyes that quickly dropped.

But one officer caught his attention. He was hefty though not fat. Solidly built, he sat at his desk, and when the others dropped their gaze, he did not.

Gamache’s eyes moved on, but not before thinking he knew the man. Recognized him from somewhere.

He’d be about thirty. Short, dark hair. Built like a truck. Six feet tall, maybe six-one, Gamache guessed, though it was hard to tell with him sitting down.

Where had he met this officer? The academy? Had he taught him? Had he presented him with a medal? Service? Bravery? Distinction?

Gamache didn’t think so. He’d remember. And yet he knew this man.

There was also the issue of his eyes. Where the other officers in the room seemed curious, this one seemed wary.

The commander waved them to chairs on the other side of her desk and closed the door.

“How can I help you?” Flaubert asked.

Gamache took off his coat and nodded to Agent Cloutier to start.

“Ummm. Well.” She tried to gather herself. “We’re interested in a local woman. Vivienne Godin. We understand she’s missing.”

She placed a photo of Vivienne on the commander’s desk.

Flaubert saw a young woman. Straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were a clear, almost piercing blue. She didn’t look particularly happy, but neither did she look angry or upset. Vivienne Godin looked almost blank.

While she might have been attractive in real life, this picture drained all the life from her, leaving her pretty features dulled.

Commander Flaubert looked up from it, then from one to the other, eyes resting back on Agent Cloutier.

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with her. She’s local, you say?”

“Yes. Married to Carl Tracey.”

“Ahh. Tracey I know.” Flaubert went to the door and called another officer over. The one who’d caught Gamache’s attention when they’d arrived.

“This’s Agent Cameron.”

Gamache rose and saw immediately that he’d been wrong. This man wasn’t six feet tall or even six-one. He’d be at least six-three. And formidably built.

His face from a distance was unremarkable.

But that changed once up close. What was remarkable about it was the scarring. There was a permanent cut through his lip and another through his left brow. His left cheekbone was slightly flattened, as was his nose.

Gamache also noticed, though it was admittedly hard to miss, the ring on Cameron’s finger.

That’s where he knew him from.

“Patron,” said Cameron.

Gamache pointed to the ring. “A great game. I was there. Alouettes came from behind. You had some very impressive blocks. One at the end of the third quarter, right? Allowed the quarterback to run for a touchdown.”

“Right.” Cameron smiled as his beefy hand released Gamache’s grip. He remained standing, squeezed into the small room. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long. It’s Robert Cameron, n’est-ce pas?”

“Bob. Yes.”

This man had been a tackle with the Montréal Alouettes. Helped them win the Canadian Football League’s Grey Cup a few years back.

And now he was with the Sûreté.

His brown hair was cut short, and his eyes had a sharp focus. An athlete’s eyes. Always aware of his surroundings. Prepared to act and react.

Also a useful quality in a Sûreté agent, thought Gamache. As long as react didn’t become overreact. In a man this size, it could be brutal. Even fatal.

But when Cameron spoke, it was almost in a whisper. His voice was deep, audible, more gentle than soft. Many large men enjoyed lording over, looming over, lesser beings. Intimidating with their height and girth. But Bob Cameron seemed anxious to put people at ease. To try to fit into a world not made for him.

It was both endearing and perplexing. Because Gamache had seen this man play football.

Had seen what Cameron was capable of. What he was good at. What he clearly enjoyed. And that was not just blocking and tackling. It was doing damage, to flesh and bone.

Gamache was pleased to see that off the field, and in a Sûreté uniform, Bob Cameron was not a natural brute. In fact, he reminded Gamache of his own son, Daniel. Taller than his father. Heftier. But gentle and thoughtful. Though there was that other side to him.

Gamache knew it was folly to assume Agent Cameron had the same qualities as his son, but still, he found himself warming to the man. While keeping an image in his mind of the left tackle in action. Grabbing hold of opponents. Slamming them to the ground.

“Bob, are you aware of a missing woman?” the commander asked. “Vivienne—”

“Godin,” said Cameron. “Oui. Her father called yesterday, and I spoke to an agent from Montréal this morning.” He turned to Cloutier. “You?”

“Oui.”

“Has something else happened? She’s not—”

He knew that Gamache had been returned to homicide. And like everyone else in the station, in the Sûreté, probably in the province, he’d also seen the posts on social media that morning.

But he hadn’t heard that a body had been found, never mind this body.

“No,” said Gamache. “But we thought we’d look around, if it’s all right with you.”

“Fine with me, but like I told her father, we don’t consider her missing.”

“Why not?”

“After his call, agents went to the place. Spoke to Tracey. When told his wife never arrived at her father’s home, he apparently laughed. Said he wasn’t surprised. He said she was probably off with some lover.”

“That’s not—” Cloutier began before Gamache signaled her to be quiet.

“And they believed him?” he asked.

“Not completely, of course. They looked in the house and the outbuildings. There was no sign of her. Her car was gone, and they also didn’t see any sign of violence. They had to leave it at that.”

“You say ‘they,’” said Gamache. “You weren’t with them?”

“No. I had other assignments.”

“I see,” said Gamache. “We hear there were complaints of domestic abuse.”

“Yes. I answered those calls, but Madame Godin would never press charges.”

“You don’t need her to,” Gamache pointed out.

“I know, but she didn’t want us to do anything. Asked us to leave.”

“Madame Godin isn’t at home and isn’t with her father,” said Gamache. “So where do you think she went?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, please.”

“She was obviously being abused. I tried to help. First time she called, I gave her the number for the local shelter.”

“You think she might be there?” Cloutier asked.

“I called and asked. She isn’t. I think she just took off. She’s holed up in some motel, trying to get as far from Tracey as possible.”

“Then why didn’t she go to her father?” asked Cloutier.

“Maybe she just needed time to herself.”

It seemed a strangely unsatisfactory answer.

Gamache thought for a moment. “Does she have a cell phone?”

“No. There’s no reception up there in the mountains.”

“You don’t seem particularly worried, Agent Cameron,” said Gamache. “An abused woman disappears and you just go about your day?”

“I’m worried,” snapped Cameron, then pulled back. “Désolé.”

Not so slow to anger after all, thought Gamache.

“Yes, I’m worried,” said Cameron. “I know what a piece of work Tracey is. But she’d been gone only a few hours at the time. I was going to give it until noon today, then alert missing persons.”

They looked at the clock. It was ten thirty in the morning.

“Do you mind my asking why you’re here?” he asked. “How did you even hear about this?”

“Her father emailed me this morning,” said Cloutier. “We’re old friends.”

“So this’s unofficial?” asked Cameron.

“Oh, no,” said Gamache. “This’s official. You might be right and she’s safe in a motel. But let’s be certain.” He turned to the commander. “Can you send out an alert, please? And make sure the information gets to all the shelters in the province.”

“Oui, absolument.”

“What did her friends tell you?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Cameron.

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t an active investigation,” said Cameron. “Look, if Vivienne needs time away, I for one can’t blame her. I’m not going to track her down for her husband.”

“But it’s not for him,” said Cloutier. “It’s for her father. He was expecting her Saturday night. It’s now Monday. You don’t think she’d have called him by now, if she was safe?”

“Maybe she’s afraid of him, too,” said Cameron. “Maybe they didn’t get along.”

“Then why would she say she was going to him? She must’ve been in trouble. Where else would she turn? Where else would she feel safe?”

Gamache suspected that was true. But he also knew, from experience, people escaping abusive situations often made a fatal, though understandable, error.

They went to where they felt safe. Their families, their best friends.

Obvious places for support. But also obvious places to be found.

Where would the abuser look first, except family and friends?

If Vivienne Godin was leaving her abusive husband, Gamache hoped she’d changed her mind and instead of going to her father, she’d gone to some motel. Or shelter.

“Is that the woman you met?” He pointed to the photo on the desk.

“That’s her,” Cameron said in his gentle voice.

But Gamache wasn’t fooled. He’d seen the man play. Had watched, cheered, as the Alouettes won the Grey Cup on that snowy day. Had seen how ferociously, certainly gleefully, this man had plowed into oncoming defensive tackles. Protecting his quarterback with all his might. And he was certainly mighty, even now.

Though something perplexed Gamache. That scarring. Football players wore helmets with grilles to protect their faces. While they could get concussions and twisted arms and legs, it would be almost impossible to get injuries like that to his face.

Those came, Gamache knew, from other types of blows.

“When was the first time she called for help?”

“Last summer sometime. I answered the call.”

“You obviously remember it,” said Gamache. He saw Cameron flush and tucked that away.

“And she called you more than once?” said Cloutier.

“Not me, 911. But yes, mostly when welfare checks came out.”

“They’re unemployed?” asked Gamache.

“Yeah, but Tracey does pottery.”

“Pottery?” said Gamache, far from sure he’d heard right. “Like clay?”

“Yes. He makes things that people can’t use. Useless. Like the man.”

Carl Tracey was an artist, thought Gamache. But then, why not? Having known many artists in his life, especially through Clara, he’d grown to realize they were often not the most stable, or house-trained, individuals.

“When was the last time you were called to the home?” Gamache asked.

“Two weeks ago. Again she refused help.”

“Why would she call, then refuse help?” asked Cloutier. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“She just wanted the beating to stop,” said Cameron. “But she didn’t want him arrested. I think she knew he’d be out in hours and then things would get really bad.”

Gamache nodded. It was the terrible flaw in the system. It appeared to help the abused while actually just piling on more abuse. Worse abuse.

“There was nothing more we could do, really,” said Cameron.

“Really?”

“Sir?” asked Cameron.

“You said there was nothing you could do … really.” Gamache let that sit for a moment. “But was there something you did do?”

Cameron hesitated before finally answering. “I took Carl aside when I saw him in town last week. I warned him.”

“What did you say?” asked Gamache.

“I told him I knew what he was doing to his wife and if there was one more complaint, I’d beat the shit out of him.”

“You did what?” asked Gamache while beside him Cloutier muttered, “Good.”

Gamache stood up and faced the mammoth man.

The small room grew even smaller. Suffocating.

“That was the wrong thing to do,” said Commander Flaubert, recognizing that something needed to be said, though her tone was without real reproach.

“Why was it wrong?” asked Cameron, addressing Gamache. “He needed to know.”

“Know what?” asked Gamache. “That cops with an ID card and a gun will be judge and jury and carry out the sentence? Did you want him to know that punishing one beating with another is the way we do things in the Sûreté? Did you want to cede all moral high ground?”

Gamache spoke clearly. And slowly. Choosing his words carefully and swallowing the ones that were screaming to get out. Though his outrage was evident. In his extreme stillness. And in each tightly. Controlled. Word.

“Threats of violence will not be tolerated. You’re an officer in the Sûreté du Québec, not a thug. You set the tone, the atmosphere. You act as a role model, either consciously or unconsciously.”

“My concern was for a vulnerable woman, a pregnant woman and her unborn child. Not for the entire population of Québec.”

“The two are the same. No citizen is safe in a state where police feel free to beat those they don’t like. Who take the law into their own hands.”

“And you didn’t?” asked Cameron.

“Agent Cameron!” snapped Commander Flaubert.

It was too late. The words were out, the line had been crossed.

Cloutier’s mouth dropped open, but she said nothing. Just stared at the two men, staring at each other.

“I did,” said Gamache. “And paid the price. Knew I would. Knew I should. You seem to think you’re perfectly within your rights to threaten assault. To maybe even do it. Without censure.”

Cameron couldn’t deny that.

“At what stage did you think a threat of violence was appropriate?”

“At the stage, sir, when I realized the law could not protect Vivienne Godin.”

“So you would? By piling violence on violence?”

“If you’d seen her—”

“I’ve seen worse.”

The truth of that, the horror of that, pressed up against them in the tiny room.

“I’m not saying what was happening to Vivienne Godin was all right,” Gamache went on. More gently. “Of course it wasn’t. Of course it’s tempting to do something, anything, to stop it. It’s horrific when, as people sworn to protect, we cannot. When someone we know to be guilty is beyond our reach. When they can keep doing it and we can’t stop it. But it’s even worse if the cops become criminals, too. Do you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Do you really?” asked Gamache.

There was a pause as Agent Cameron considered, then finally nodded.

“There’s one other thing,” said Gamache, his voice now back to normal. “Did you consider what a threat like that would do to a man like Carl Tracey? Did you really think it would stop him from abusing his wife? Or would it, could it, enrage him even more? And who would he take it out on? You—or her?”

There was silence as Cameron considered a question he hadn’t thought of before.

“Consequences,” said Gamache. “We must always consider the consequences of our actions. Or inaction. It won’t necessarily change what we do, but we need to be aware of the effect. That’s the contract we have with the people of Québec. That those who have an ID card and a gun also have self-control.”

“Yessir.”

“Bon.”

He at least now understood why Cameron hadn’t gone to the farmhouse himself yesterday.

Gamache sat down again. “Go on, Agent Cloutier.”

The room, still tingling, settled back to near normal.

“Do you know if Vivienne has any friends we can contact?” Cloutier asked. “Anyone she might be with?”

Cameron shook his head. “Tracey didn’t provide any names, and no one’s come forward or shown concern.”

They were getting a picture of Vivienne Godin’s life, and what they saw was not good.

A woman isolated in a remote farmhouse. It was, they knew, one of the warning signs of extreme abuse. Control.

“Any gossip?” Cloutier asked.

“You mean an affair?” asked Cameron. “Again, if there was, I never heard it.”

“And Tracey, does he have any friends?”

“Drinking buddies,” said Cameron. “But even they seem to have disappeared. Last time I saw him in town, he was drinking alone at the joint on the edge of town.”

“Name?” asked Cloutier. She was getting the hang of this.

“Le Lapin Grossier.”

“The Dirty Rabbit?” she asked as he wrote.

“More like filthy,” said Cameron.

“The Obscene Rabbit,” said Flaubert. “It’s a strip joint.”

The interview was winding down.

“Thank you for your help,” said Gamache as he stood and took his coat off the back of the chair.

“What’re you going to do now, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Cameron.

“We’re going to visit Monsieur Tracey,” said Gamache.

“Would you like me there?”

Gamache paused. He’d been about to decline, given Cameron’s last encounter with Carl Tracey, but now wondered if it mightn’t work in their favor. While Cameron’s threat to beat Tracey was wrong, it was done. Gamache, the realist, knew that showing up with this agent might just shake some truth loose.

“If you don’t mind,” he asked the commander, who nodded, “that would be helpful. You can show us the way.”

“I’ll get my coat,” said Cameron.

After he left, the commander said, “I’m sorry he threatened Tracey. I didn’t know about that.”

“Are you? Sorry?”

Commander Flaubert reddened. “I understand why he did it.”

Gamache thought for a moment, looking at the closed door through which the large man had disappeared.

“The scars on his face?” he said. “Not from football.”

“Non. Those are thanks to his father.”

Gamache took a deep breath and shook his head. Had Bob Cameron turned that hurt, that pain, that betrayal, into something useful? Into sport? And now into protecting others?

Or had he learned something else from his father?

That day in the bitterly cold stands in Montréal again came to mind. Wrapped in blankets with Reine-Marie and their son, Daniel, watching the Grey Cup final. Hearing the crashes and grunts and shouts from the field.

The brutality. As the massive left tackle found his quarry. And decked him. Standing over the body and opening his arms in a primal display of domination.

To wild applause. To approval.

Was he still doing it, only now in a Sûreté uniform?

Once in the car, following Agent Cameron’s vehicle, Gamache asked Agent Cloutier, “What do you think of him?”

“Cameron? I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

She thought. “He called her Madame Godin, but when he got angry, he called her Vivienne.”

“Oui. When you spoke with him this morning, did you mention she was pregnant?”

Cloutier went back over the conversation. “No.”

“I see.”

And yet, thought Gamache, Agent Cameron knew that Vivienne was going to have a baby.

Now, how was that?

As they got closer to the farmhouse, the wipers pushing the wet flakes off the windshield, Agent Cloutier did what she always did in times of extreme stress.

Two times four is eight.

Three times five is fifteen.

Her times tables. Laid out neatly, in rows and columns.

Five times four is …

Her meditation. Her happy place. No chaos could survive in the tightly packed numbers. Everything in its place. In its home. Safe. Predictable. Known. Every question had an answer.

Twenty.

Terrible things did not happen to the pregnant daughter of an old friend, in the times table.

Six times six is …

Only, Cloutier knew, something had happened. And it was up to them to find the answer.

… thirty-six.

Thirty-six hours Vivienne was now missing.