A Better Man

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

As soon as Reine-Marie walked into the kitchen, she could see she was interrupting.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stopping at the door. “Is something wrong?”

“Non,” said Isabelle. “We were just chatting.”

Though that was clearly not true.

“I was going to make breakfast,” said Reine-Marie, going to the fridge. “Why don’t you continue your chat in the study?”

Isabelle Lacoste smiled and nodded. “Merci. I think we will.”

“Where’s Armand?”

“Out for a walk. He took the dogs. Is Monsieur Godin still asleep?”

“Yes,” said Reine-Marie. “I looked in but didn’t want to disturb him. Is Jean-Guy with Armand?”

“Non,” came the familiar voice.

Jean-Guy had gone to the study to print something and now returned to the kitchen holding the papers. “But I do need to find him. Be back soon. Don’t let Isabelle eat everything. You know what she’s like.”

Reine-Marie smiled and watched him go.

The home settled. The bacon sizzled and popped. The coffee perked. The fire in the woodstove roiled as the women went into the study to continue whatever they were talking about, and Jean-Guy left to find Armand.

A mist was rising from the thinning layer of snow. The air warmer now than the ground. Giving the pretty village an otherworldly feel. Except for the mud.

Beauvoir’s boots made a thucking sound as he walked quickly toward the bridge and the sandbags still in place against a threat no longer there.

The three huge pines, around which all life in the village revolved, stood in front of him now. Partly obscured by the mist. As though they existed in both this world and the other.

Whenever he and Annie visited with Honoré, Jean-Guy would bring him to the green to play. Sometimes, as he sat on the bench and watched his son, Jean-Guy had the oddest feeling that the little boy was playing not among the trees but with them.

He was almost at the bridge on his way to the incident room, where he expected Gamache had gone, when he noticed movement up on the ridge of the hill out of town.

Gamache and Cameron were standing, facing each other. It looked natural enough. But it was the posture of the dogs that alerted Beauvoir that this was not a pleasant discussion. For any of them.

And he knew what they must be talking about.

Picking up his pace, thuck, thuck, thuck, he headed up there. As he approached, he heard Cameron shout, “No. Never.”

He saw Gamache get right up into Cameron’s face.

While he couldn’t hear what the Chief Inspector said, he could hear Cameron’s reply. Another “No” blasted.

Cameron raised his hands.

Henri crouched.

Gracie barked.

And Armand braced.

When the blow landed, he staggered back.

Beauvoir shouted.

But neither heard.

They continued to stare. Cameron at the man accusing him of murder. Gamache at a man who could so easily be provoked into an act which, under different circumstances, would prove fatal.

“Are you going to lay charges?” Beauvoir asked as he and Gamache walked a dozen paces away from Agent Cameron.

Gamache looked behind him.

Cameron wasn’t watching them. Instead, he gazed, dazed, out over the village.

Gamache wondered what he saw. The forests and mountains, the shifting reds and purples of the sunrise, with the mist rising pink-tinged below?

Did he see Vivienne? As she hung between the bridge and the water.

Cameron’s huge hands were grasping the back of the bench. So that the words etched there now read “SURPRISED BY—”

The joy had disappeared.

“For assault? Non,” said Gamache. “We’re after bigger fish.”

“A whale, even?” asked Beauvoir. “Look at this.”

Gamache took the paper, then reached into the breast pocket of his coat and brought out his reading glasses. But they were broken.

Wordlessly, he replaced them and squinted to read the printout.

He made a guttural noise that sounded like “Huh.” Then his eyes focused on the man in front of him. “What do you think it means?”

“I have an idea, but I think we need to ask him.”

Homer Godin looked down at the printout.

He’d stared at it for a while, clearly trying to focus his mind.

They’d left Cloutier and Cameron in the kitchen while the senior officers met with Homer in Gamache’s study.

“Viv’s bank statements,” he finally said, raising his eyes to Lacoste, then over to Beauvoir.

“Yes. They show that every month since last July you transferred two thousand dollars into her account.”

“True.”

“Why?”

“She asked for it. Said they needed it to pay their mortgage. I didn’t want her to be homeless.”

“And yet, it just sat there, accumulating,” said Beauvoir. “There’s eighteen thousand dollars in that account.”

Homer shook his head. “Maybe she didn’t need it after all.”

“Then why did she keep taking it?” asked Beauvoir. When Homer didn’t answer, Jean-Guy went on. “I think she was saving up. To leave Tracey. I think that was her plan for a long time.”

“Could be,” said Homer.

“I think with a baby on the way, she decided now was the time to get out and start a new life, with the money you’d given her.”

“I hope so.” Homer seemed confused now. As though what Beauvoir described were still possible.

Beauvoir looked over at Gamache, then to Lacoste, all thinking the same thing.

Homer Godin was not a rich man. He’d labored all his life. Had a modest home he’d paid off. Lived a modest life in a small Québec town.

These sorts of sums would almost certainly clean him out. And then some.

He seemed to follow their thoughts. “She said she’d pay me back. She’d get a job when she could. What would you do?”

And there was that question again. Variations on the theme that had haunted them since this case had begun. How would they feel, if…?

What would they do, if…?

If Honoré came to his parents, in distress, and needed more money than they had?

If Annie went to her parents…?

If money would solve the problem?

They’d pay it. And more. To save their child? They’d give all they had. And more.

As Homer had.

“She called you on Saturday morning, telling you she was finally going to leave Tracey, is that right?” said Lacoste.

“Yes.”

“Think carefully, Monsieur Godin,” said Lacoste. “Did she say she was coming to you or going to someone else?”

“Me. Who else was there?”

“Tell us about your relationship with Lysette Cloutier,” said Lacoste.

Homer was shaking his head. “Vivienne wouldn’t go to Lysette. They barely knew each other.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” said Lacoste. “Your relationship with her.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“She told us.”

“She shouldn’t have. It was private.”

“She didn’t want to,” said Gamache. “She had to be pushed, hard. But she finally told us.”

“What did she say?”

“I think you need to tell us what happened,” said Beauvoir.

Homer raised his head and looked stubborn. Then relented. “Doesn’t much matter. We tried, and it didn’t work.”

“Why didn’t it work?” asked Gamache.

“It just didn’t. I thought of her as a friend. She wanted more, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

“Did you talk to Vivienne about it?” asked Lacoste.

Homer looked surprised. “About Lysette? No, why would I? There was nothing to talk about.”

Beauvoir looked at Gamache, then to Lacoste.

“So who’s telling the truth?” asked Lacoste. “Lysette or Homer?”

The senior officers had walked to the incident room, where they could talk without fear of being overheard.

“Maybe Homer gave Lysette the impression that Vivienne wouldn’t approve,” said Beauvoir. “Without actually saying it.”

“You mean he blamed his daughter?” asked Lacoste. “Is he that much of a coward?”

Beauvoir remained silent, not bothering to tell her how often he’d made up all sorts of far-fetched stories to get out of relationships. Granted, that was when he was younger.

“Could happen” was all he said.

“Or maybe Homer didn’t outright blame his daughter,” said Gamache, “but Cloutier did. Maybe it was easier on her feelings to think Vivienne forced it, rather than that the man she loved rejected her.”

“Easier to blame someone she already didn’t like,” said Lacoste. “And she might’ve even believed it.”

“If she really got it into her head that Vivienne stood between her and Homer,” said Beauvoir, “that sort of thing can eat away at a person. You said it yourself, patron. It’s a simple, clean motive. Most are.”

It was true. When the mist and smoke and fireworks dissipated, what was left in a murder investigation could be rendered down to a few words. Greed. Hate. Jealousy.

But really, it was even simpler than that. Even those words had a common parent.

Fear.

Cameron was afraid of losing his family.

Cloutier was afraid of losing Homer.

Pauline Vachon was afraid of losing her ticket out.

Carl Tracey was afraid of losing his home, his studio, his pottery.

If Vivienne lived.

“But how would they set up the meeting?” said Beauvoir. “There’s no record of a call between Cloutier and Vivienne.”

“True,” said Lacoste.

They’d checked all the calls into and out of the farmhouse, going back months. It was not as arduous as it sounded. There were hardly any, and those there were, were easily traced.

“One of the things I don’t understand,” said Gamache, “is why Vivienne didn’t leave earlier.”

“She had to get up courage,” said Lacoste, a little surprised by the question. “We’ve talked about this. Lots of abused women never leave—” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry. Allô?”

“A message just came in,” said Agent Cloutier. “I’d asked the forensic accountants to look into the bank accounts of all the people involved.”

“Yes? And?” asked Lacoste.

“I’ve forwarded it to you.”

Lacoste went to her emails. “Got it.” She clicked on it. “What’m I looking at?”

She waved the others over to her laptop.

Gamache and Beauvoir bent and stared at the screen while Lacoste put Cloutier on speaker.

“Scroll down,” said Cloutier. “To the bottom link.”

Lacoste did, and clicked. “But this’s Monsieur Godin’s bank account.”

“I didn’t ask for it to be part of the search,” explained Cloutier. “But his name must’ve been on the list of people involved in the case. So the forensic accountant included him, I guess.”

They looked at the numbers. Twenty thousand dollars had been transferred into Homer Godin’s bank account on Friday. And taken out in cash that afternoon.

“It’s a mortgage loan,” said Cloutier. “You can tell by the code attached to the transfer. He must’ve taken it out against his house.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir.

“I don’t know,” said Cloutier. “But I thought you should see it.”

“Anything in the other accounts?” asked Lacoste.

“Tracey’s massively overdrawn, and Pauline’s credit cards are maxed out.”

“And Vivienne was sitting with eighteen thousand dollars in her account,” said Beauvoir.

“And twenty thousand in cash with Homer,” said Lacoste. “Merci.”

Lacoste hung up, and Beauvoir looked at Gamache, who’d cocked his head to one side. Considering.

“Must’ve been for Vivienne,” said Lacoste. “Don’t you think? She knew she was leaving Carl and asked her father for more money.”

“When? And wasn’t the eighteen thousand enough?” asked Beauvoir. “This would give her almost forty thousand. Why would she need that much? And in cash? And why didn’t he tell us about it?”

“He had other things on his mind,” said Lacoste.

“And he just forgot about the twenty thousand?”

“Maybe he did tell us,” said Gamache. “Well, not us exactly, but Lysette Cloutier. She says they hadn’t kept in touch since he broke it off, but that might not be true. Homer didn’t say they’d lost touch. Maybe he asked her advice on how to raise the money.”

“Yes, she’s a trained accountant, after all,” said Lacoste. “So he asked her, and she told him about the home loan. Maybe that was the final straw for Cloutier.”

Beauvoir was nodding now. Following the logic. “She could see that Vivienne wasn’t just ruining their lives but now was bleeding her dad dry. So she arranges to meet her.”

“To kill her?” asked Lacoste.

“No, probably not. But to have it out with her, finally.”

“Why would Vivienne agree to that?”

“Maybe Cloutier told her she had the money,” suggested Beauvoir. “Vivienne chose a spot close by, where she’d had private meetings before.”

“The bridge,” said Lacoste.

“The bridge,” he said.

Despite her affection for the woman, Lacoste could see it now. Could see how an uncomfortable confrontation could spiral out of control.

“Only Cloutier was lying,” said Beauvoir. “She didn’t really have the cash, of course. When Vivienne realized that, she’d be furious. Might’ve even attacked Cloutier, who pushed her away.”

And through the railing.

“But if it was all triggered by that twenty thousand, why would she tell us about it now?” asked Lacoste.

“She’d have no choice,” said Gamache. “The information was in the email about all the finances. She’d know we’d work it out. What I’m still wondering is why Homer didn’t say anything about that loan.”

“He might’ve worried that it made Vivienne look bad,” said Beauvoir. “And it does. Taking so much money from her father, then running away with a married lover.”

“No. It makes her look like a woman who’s been beaten for years and was now desperate to save herself and her unborn child,” snapped Lacoste. “Was it a series of decisions a healthy person would make? Probably not. But who can say what any of us would do to survive? You want to know what I think actually happened?”

She looked at her two colleagues.

“Please,” said Gamache.

“I think we were right all along, and this’s just complicating things. I think Carl Tracey killed his wife. Maybe he knew about that secret account, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he wanted to get rid of her. With Pauline Vachon’s help, they came up with the plan to throw her into the river. And you know what?”

“What?” said Beauvoir.

“He might be a moron, but it looks like it worked. We can’t get him. He’s going to walk free.”

“Oh, shit,” said Jean-Guy, hanging his head.

Isabelle was right.

“I think we need to speak to Homer,” said Gamache. “Find out about the money. At least this’s new, and admissible.”

“Yeah,” said Beauvoir, getting up. “Untainted by that goddamned poisonous tree. But before we do, I want to go back over the evidence one more time.”

“Again?” asked Lacoste. “I have it memorized.”

“Again,” said Beauvoir. “I’m not giving up on Tracey yet. There’s something in there we’ve missed.”

They spent the next hour sifting through evidence. Testimony. Events. They knew it by heart. They knew it was futile. That the search would prove fruitless.

And it did.

Finally Beauvoir stood up and yanked his coat from the back of his chair.

“Nothing. Let’s go speak to Homer about this money. Maybe something will come up.”

They had nowhere else to turn. Just this one slender thread to follow.

Reine-Marie greeted them at the door, and when Armand asked about Homer, she pointed upstairs.

“He went to his room right after you left.”

Jean-Guy climbed the stairs, and from the living room they heard him knock. Then knock again.

“Monsieur Godin, it’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I’m afraid we have some more questions.”

There was silence.

Armand and Isabelle looked at each other, then started up the stairs. But only got halfway before Jean-Guy appeared on the landing.

“It’s empty. He’s not there.”

“Bathroom?” asked Gamache, taking the stairs two at a time.

They searched the upstairs, but there was no Homer.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Armand asked Reine-Marie.

“Right after you left. He went straight to his room.”

Gamache looked at his watch. “Over an hour ago.”

“Cloutier! Cameron!” Beauvoir shouted as he walked quickly toward the kitchen. The two agents came out. “Where’s Monsieur Godin?”

“In his bedroom,” said Cloutier.

“He’s not.”

“Could he have slipped out?” said Gamache. “Taken Fred for a walk? There’s a heavy fog, so we might not have seen him.”

But on hearing his name, the dog appeared at the kitchen door. His tail slowly swishing back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie. “I thought he was in his bedroom.”

“It’s not your fault at all,” said Armand. “Your—”

Anticipating the question, she put her hand in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out her car keys. “I made sure I had them on me.”

“Well done,” he said with a smile. “That’s a relief. That means he’s on foot.”

Beauvoir was in the study, using the landline to warn the agents guarding Carl Tracey’s home.

“How long will it take him to get there?” asked Cloutier.

“At least half an hour, walking along the road, in good conditions,” said Gamache, going to the kitchen as he spoke.

The others followed him.

“He’s not there, patron,” said Cameron.

But Gamache didn’t answer him, choosing to answer Cloutier instead.

“He probably took the woods at first, so we wouldn’t see him, then cut back onto the road. Once he sees the Sûreté car at Tracey’s place, he’ll head into the forest, to avoid being seen.”

As he spoke, he opened and closed drawers.

“I’ve been through those woods—it’s not easy going. I’d think it’ll take him a good hour or more.” Once again he looked at his watch.

Homer would be arriving right about now.

“Damn.” Armand turned to Reine-Marie. “The carving knife’s gone.”

She paled, visualizing the large, sharp knife.

“I just called Tracey’s home,” Lacoste reported. “No answer.”

“We’ve gotta go,” said Beauvoir.