A Trick of the Light

THIRTEEN

Chief Inspector Gamache stood on rue Sherbrooke, in downtown Montréal, and stared at the heavy, red brick church across the street. It wasn’t made with bricks so much as huge, rectangular ox blood stones. He’d passed it hundreds of times while driving and never really looked at it.

But now he did.

It was dark and ugly and uninviting. It didn’t shout salvation. Didn’t even whisper it. What it did shout was penance and atonement. Guilt and punishment.

It looked like a prison for sinners. Few would enter with an easy step and light heart.

But now another memory stirred. Of the church bright, not quite in flames, but glowing. And the street he was on a river, and the people reeds.

This was the church on Lillian Dyson’s easel. Unfinished, but already a work of genius. If he’d had any doubts, seeing the real thing vanquished them. She’d taken a building, a scene, most would find foreboding and made it into something dynamic and alive. And deeply attractive.

As Gamache watched, the cars became a stream of vehicles. And the people entering the church were reeds. Floating in. Drawn in.

As was he.

“Hi, welcome to the meeting.”

Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t even entered the church but he’d already found himself in a gauntlet of greetings. People on either side of him had their hands out, smiling. He tried not to think they were smiling maniacally, but one or two of them definitely were.

“Hi, welcome to the meeting,” a young woman said, and led him through the door and down the stairs into the dingy, ill-lit basement. It smelt stale, of old cigarettes and bad coffee, of sour milk and sweat.

The ceiling was low and everything looked like it had a film of dirt on it. Including most of the people.

“Thank you,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.

“Your first time here?” she asked, examining him closely.

“It is. I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”

“I felt like that too, at first. But give it a chance. Why don’t I introduce you to someone. Bob!” she bellowed.

An older man with an uneven beard and mismatched clothes came over. He was stirring his coffee with his finger.

“I’ll leave you with him,” said his young escort. “Men should stick with men.”

Leaving the Chief Inspector to wonder further just what he might be getting into.

“Hi. My name’s Bob.”

“Armand.”

They shook hands. Bob’s seemed sticky. Bob seemed sticky.

“So, you’re new?” asked Bob.

Gamache bent down and whispered, “Is this Alcoholics Anonymous?”

Bob laughed. His breath smelled of coffee and tobacco. Gamache straightened up.

“It sure is. You’re in the right place.”

“I’m not actually an alcoholic.”

Bob looked at him with amusement. “Of course you aren’t. Why don’t we get a coffee and we can talk. The meeting’ll start in a few minutes.”

Bob got Gamache a coffee. Half full.

“In case,” said Bob.

“Of what?”

“The DTs.” Bob cast a critical eye over Gamache and noticed the slight tremor in the hand holding the mug of coffee. “I had ’em. No fun. When was your last drink?”

“This afternoon. I had a beer.”

“Just one?”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

Again Bob smiled. His teeth, the few he had left, were stained. “That means you’re a few hours sober. Well done.”

Gamache found he was quite pleased with himself and was glad he hadn’t had that glass of wine over dinner.

“Hey, Jim,” Bob shouted across the room to a gray-haired man with very blue eyes. “Got another newcomer.”

Gamache looked over and saw Jim talking earnestly to a young man who seemed resistant.

It was Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache smiled and caught Beauvoir’s eye. Jean Guy stood up but Jim made him sit back down.

“Come over here,” said Bob, leading Gamache to a long table filled with books and pamphlets, and coins. Gamache picked one up.

“A beginner’s chip,” said the Chief, examining it. It was exactly the same as the one found in Clara’s garden.

“I thought you said you weren’t an alcoholic.”

“I’m not,” said Gamache.

“Then that was a pretty good guess on your part,” said Bob with a guffaw.

“Do many people have one of these?” Gamache asked.

“Sure.”

Bob produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and looked down at it, his face softening. “Took this at my first meeting. I keep it with me always. It’s like a medal, Armand.”

Then he reached out to Gamache’s hand and folded it in.

“No, sir,” protested Gamache. “I really can’t.”

“But you must, Armand. I give it to you, and you can give it to someone else one day. Someone who needs it. Please.”

Bob closed Gamache’s fingers over the coin. Before Gamache could say anything else, Bob broke away and turned back to the long table.

“You’ll also need this.” He held up a thick blue book.

“I already have one.” Gamache opened his satchel and showed him the book in there.

Bob raised his brow. “You can use one of these, I think.” He gave Gamache a pamphlet called Living in Denial.

Gamache brought out the meeting list he found in Lillian’s home and got the look from his new friend he’d so quickly come to expect. Amusement.

“Still claim not to be an alcoholic? Not many sober people carry around the AA book, a beginner’s chip and a meeting list.” Bob examined the meeting list. “I see you’ve marked a bunch of meetings. Including some women’s meetings. Honestly, Armand.”

“This doesn’t belong to me.”

“I see. Does it belong to a friend?” Bob asked with infinite patience.

Gamache almost smiled. “Not really. The young woman who introduced us said that men should stick with men. What did she mean?”

“Clearly, you need to be told.” Bob waved the meeting list in front of Gamache. “This isn’t a pick-up joint. Some guys hit on women. Some women want to find a boyfriend. Think that’ll save ’em. It won’t. In fact, just the opposite. Getting sober’s hard enough without that distraction. So men speak mostly to men. Women to women. That way we can concentrate on what’s important.”

Bob fixed Gamache with a hard stare. A penetrating look. “We’re friendly, Armand, but we’re serious. Our lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Alcohol’ll kill us, if we let it. But I have to tell you, if an old drunk like me can get sober, so can you. If you’d like help, that’s what I’m here for.”

And Armand Gamache believed him. This sticky, disheveled little man would save his life, if he could.

“Merci,” said Gamache, and meant it.

Behind him a gavel hit wood with several sharp raps. Gamache turned and saw a distinguished older man sitting at the front of the room at a long table, an older woman beside him.

“Meeting’s started,” whispered Bob.

Gamache turned back and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving him to an empty seat beside him. Vacated, presumably, by Jim, who was now sitting across the room with someone else. Perhaps he’d given up on Beauvoir as a hopeless case, thought Gamache, smiling and making his way past others to take the empty seat.

Bob had stuck with him and was now sitting on Gamache’s other side.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Gamache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir. “Last night you were the art critic for Le Monde and now you’re a drunk.”

“I’m in good company,” said Beauvoir. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

Beauvoir and Bob smiled and nodded to each other across Gamache.

“I need to speak to you, sir,” whispered Beauvoir.

“After the meeting,” said Gamache.

“We have to stay?” asked Jean Guy, crestfallen.

“You don’t have to,” said Gamache. “But I’m going to.”

“I’ll stay,” said Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache nodded, and handed the beginner’s chip over to Beauvoir, who examined it and raised his brow.

Gamache felt a slight pressure on his right arm and looked over to see Bob squeezing it and smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he whispered. “And you even convinced that young man to stay. And you gave him your chip. That’s the spirit. We’ll get you sober yet.”

“How very kind,” said Gamache.

The president of Alcoholics Anonymous welcomed everyone and asked for a moment of silence, to be followed by the Serenity Prayer.

“God,” they said in unison. “Grant me the serenity—”

“It’s the same prayer,” said Beauvoir under his breath. “The one on the coin.”

“It is,” agreed Gamache.

“What is this? A cult?”

“Praying doesn’t make something a cult,” whispered the Chief.

“Did you get a load of all the smiling and shaking hands? What was that? You can’t tell me these people aren’t into mind-control.”

“Happiness isn’t a cult either,” whispered Gamache, but Beauvoir looked like he didn’t believe it. The Inspector looked around suspiciously.

The room was packed. Filled with men and women of all ages. Some, at the back, shouted out every now and then. Some arguments erupted and were quickly brought under control. The rest smiled as they listened to the president.

They looked, to Beauvoir, demented.

Who could possibly be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night? Unless they were drunk, stoned, or demented.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Beauvoir indicated the president of AA, one of the few who looked sane.

The Chief had just been wondering the same thing. The man was clean-shaven, handsome. He looked to be in his early sixties. His gray hair was trim, his glasses were both classic and stylish, and he wore a light sweater that looked cashmere.

Casual but expensive.

“A doctor, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.

Gamache considered. Maybe a doctor. More likely a therapist. An addictions counselor who was responsible for this gathering of alcoholics. The Chief wanted to have a word with him when the meeting was over.

The president had just introduced his secretary, who was reading endless announcements, most of which were out-of-date, and trying to find papers she seemed to have lost.

“God,” whispered Beauvoir. “No wonder people drink. This’s about as much fun as drowning.”

“Shhh,” said Bob, and gave Gamache a warning look.

The president introduced the speaker for that evening, mentioning something about “sponsor.” Beside him Beauvoir groaned and looked at his watch. He seemed fidgety.

A young man slouched to the front of the room. His head was shaved and there were tattoos around his skull. One was a hand with the finger up. “Fuck You” was tattooed across his forehead.

His entire face was pierced. Nose, brows, lips, tongue, ears. The Chief didn’t know if it was fashion or self-mutilation.

He glanced at Bob, who was sitting placidly beside him as though his grandfather had just walked to the front of the room.

Absolutely no alarm.

Perhaps, thought Gamache, he had wet-brain. Gone soft in the head by too much drinking and had lost all judgment. All ability to recognize danger. Because if anyone screamed warning, this young man at the front did.

The Chief looked at the president, sitting at the head table, keenly watching the young man. He at least seemed alert. Taking everything in.

And he would, thought Gamache, if he was sponsoring this boy who looked capable of doing anything.

“My name’s Brian and I’m an alcoholic and addict.”

“Hi, Brian,” they all said. Except Gamache and Beauvoir.

Brian spoke for thirty minutes. He told them about growing up in Griffintown, below the tracks in Montréal. Born to a crack-addicted mother and a meth-addicted grandmother. No father. The gang became his father, his brothers, his teachers.

His talk was littered with swear words.

He told them about robbing pharmacies, about robbing homes, about even breaking into his own home one night. And robbing it.

The room erupted into laughter. Indeed, people laughed all the way through. When Brian told them about being in the psych ward and having his doctor ask how much he drank, and he told him a beer a day, the place went hysterical with laughter.

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged looks. Even the president was amused.

Brian had been given shock treatment, had slept on park benches, had woken up one day and found himself in Denver. He still couldn’t explain that one.

More hilarity.

Brian had run a child down with a stolen car.

And fled the scene.

Brian had been fourteen. The child had died. As did the laughter.

“And even then I didn’t stop drinking and using,” admitted Brian. “It was the kid’s fault. The mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault.”

There was silence in the room.

“But finally there weren’t enough fucking drugs in the world to make me forget what I’d done,” he said.

There was complete silence now.

Brian looked at the president, who held the young man’s stare, then nodded slightly.

“Do you know what finally brought me to my knees?” Brian asked the gathering.

No one answered.

“I wish I could say it was guilt, or a conscience, but it wasn’t. It was loneliness.”

Beside Gamache, Bob nodded. People in front nodded, slowly. As though bowing their heads under a great weight. And lifting them again.

“I was so fucking lonely. All of my life.”

He lowered his head, showing a huge black swastika tattooed there.

Then he lifted it again and looked at all of them. Looked straight at Gamache, before his gaze moved on.

They were sad eyes. But there was something else there. A gleam. Of madness? Gamache wondered.

“But no more,” said Brian. “All my life I looked for a family. Who’d have thought it’d be you fuckers?”

The place burst into uproarious laughter. With the exception of Gamache and Beauvoir. Then Brian stopped laughing, and he looked out at the crowd.

“This is where I belong.” He spoke quietly. “In a shit-hole church basement. With you.”

He bowed slightly, awkwardly, and for a moment he looked like the boy he really was, or could have been. Young, barely twenty. Shy, handsome. Even with the scarring of tattoos and piercing and loneliness.

There was applause. Finally the president stood and picked up a coin from his desk. Holding it up, he spoke.

“This is a beginner’s chip. It has a camel on one side because if a camel can go twenty-four hours without a drink, so can you. We can show you how to stop drinking, one day at a time. Are there any newcomers here who’d like to take one?”

He held it up, as though it was a host, a magic wafer.

And he looked directly at Armand Gamache.

In that instant Gamache knew exactly who the man running the meeting was, and why he looked so familiar. This man wasn’t a therapist or a doctor. He was Chief Justice Thierry Pineault, of the Québec Supreme Court.

And Mr. Justice Pineault had obviously recognized him.

Eventually Mr. Justice Pineault put the coin down and the meeting was over.

“Would you like to go for coffee?” Bob asked. “A few of us go to Tim Hortons after the meeting. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I might see you there,” said Gamache. “Thank you. I just need to speak with him.” Gamache indicated the president and they shook hands good-bye.

The president looked up from his papers as they arrived at the long desk.

“Armand.” He stood and met Gamache’s eyes. “Welcome.”

“Merci, Monsieur le Justice.”

The Chief Justice smiled and leaned forward. “This is anonymous, Armand. You might have heard.”

“Including you? But you run the meeting for the alcoholics. They must know who you are.”

Now Mr. Justice Pineault laughed and came around from behind the desk. “My name is Thierry, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Gamache raised his brow. “I thought—”

“That I was in charge? The sober guy leading the drunks?”

“Well, the one responsible for the meeting,” said Gamache.

“We’re all responsible,” said Thierry.

The Chief Inspector glanced over to a man arguing with his chair.

“To varying degrees,” admitted Thierry. “We take turns running the meetings. A few people here know what I do for a living, but most know me as plain old Thierry P.”

But Gamache knew the jurist and knew there was nothing “plain old” about him.

Thierry turned his attention to Beauvoir. “I’ve seen you in the courthouse too.”

“Jean Guy Beauvoir,” said Beauvoir. “I’m an inspector in homicide.”

“Of course. I should have recognized you sooner. I just didn’t expect to see you here. But then, obviously you didn’t expect to see me either. What brings you here?”

He looked from Beauvoir to Gamache.

“A case,” said Gamache. “Can we speak in private?”

“Absolutely. Come with me.”

Thierry led them through a rear door then down a series of corridors, each dingier than the last. Finally they found themselves in a back stairwell. Mr. Chief Justice Pineault indicated a step as though inviting them into an opera stall, then he took one himself.

“Here?” asked Beauvoir.

“It’s about as private as this place gets I’m afraid. Now, what’s this about?”

“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in a village in the Eastern Townships,” said Gamache, sitting on the filthy step beside the Chief Justice. “A place called Three Pines.”

“I know it,” said Thierry. “Wonderful bistro and bookstore.”

“That’s right.” Gamache was a little taken aback. “How do you know Three Pines?”

“We have a country place close by. In Knowlton.”

“Well, the woman who was killed lived in Montréal but was visiting the village. We found this near her body,” Gamache handed Thierry the beginner’s chip, “and this was in her apartment, along with a number of pamphlets.” He gave Thierry the meeting list. “This meeting was circled.”

“Who was she?” asked Thierry, looking at the meeting list and coin.

“Lillian Dyson.”

Thierry looked up, into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. “Are you serious?”

“You knew her.”

Thierry P. nodded. “I wondered why she wasn’t here tonight. She normally is.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Oh, I’d have to think. A few months anyway. Not more than a year.” Thierry trained sharp eyes on Gamache. “She was murdered, I take it.”

Gamache nodded. “Her neck was broken.”

“Not a fall? An accident?”

“Definitely not,” said Gamache. He could see that “plain old” Thierry P. had disappeared and the man sitting beside him on the dirty steps was the Chief Justice of Québec.

“Any suspects?”

“About two hundred. There was a party to celebrate an art show.”

Thierry nodded. “You know, of course, that Lillian was an artist.”

“I do. How do you know?”

Gamache found himself on guard. This man, while being the Chief Justice, also knew both the victim and the tiny village where she died.

“She talked about it.”

“But I thought this was anonymous,” said Beauvoir.

Thierry smiled. “Well, some people have bigger mouths than others. Lillian and her sponsor are both artists. I’d hear them talking over coffee. After a while you get to know each other personally. Not just in shares.”

“Shares?” Beauvoir asked. “Share of what?”

“Sorry. That’s AA speak. A share is what you heard from Brian tonight. It’s a speech, but we don’t like to call it that. Makes it sound too much like a performance. So we call it sharing.”

Chief Justice Pineault’s clever eyes picked up Beauvoir’s expression. “You find that funny?”

“No sir,” said Beauvoir quickly. But they all knew it was a lie. He found it both funny and pathetic.

“I did too,” Thierry admitted. “Before I joined AA. Thought words like ‘sharing’ were laughable. A crutch for stupid people. But I was wrong. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. In our AA shares we need to be completely and brutally honest. It’s very painful. Like what Brian did tonight.”

“Why do it if it’s so painful?” asked Beauvoir.

“Because it’s also freeing. No one can hurt us, if we’re willing to admit our flaws, our secrets. Very powerful.”

“You tell people your secrets?” asked Gamache.

Thierry nodded. “Not everyone. We don’t take an ad out in the Gazette. But we tell people in AA.”

“And that gets you sober?” asked Beauvoir.

“It helps.”

“But some stuff’s pretty bad,” said Beauvoir. “The Brian fellow killed a kid. We could arrest him.”

“You could, but he’s already been arrested. Turned himself in actually. Served five years. Came out about three years ago. He’s faced his demons. Doesn’t mean they don’t pop up again.” Thierry Pineault turned to the Chief Inspector. “As you know.” Gamache held his eyes and said nothing. “But they have far less power, if they’re in the light. That’s what this is about, Inspector. Bringing all the terrible stuff up from where it’s hiding.”

“Just because you can see it,” Beauvoir persisted, “doesn’t make it go away.”

“True, but until you see it you haven’t a hope.”

“Had Lillian shared recently?” Gamache asked.

“Never, as far as I know.”

“So no one knew her secrets?” asked the Chief.

“Only her sponsor.”

“Like you and Brian?” asked Gamache, and Thierry nodded.

“We choose one person in AA, and that person becomes a sort of mentor, a guide. We call it a sponsor. I have one, and Lillian has one. We all have one.”

“And you tell that sponsor everything?” Gamache asked.

“Everything.”

“Who was Lillian’s sponsor?”

“A woman named Suzanne.”

The two investigators waited for more. Like a last name. But Thierry simply looked at them, waiting for the next question.

“I wonder if you can be more specific?” asked Gamache. “Suzanne in Montréal isn’t very helpful.”

Thierry smiled. “I suppose not. I can’t tell you her last name, but I can do better. I’ll introduce you to her.”

“Parfait,” said Gamache, getting up. He tried not to notice that his slacks clung slightly to the stair as he rose.

“But we need to hurry,” said Thierry, walking ahead, his strides long and rapid, almost breaking into a jog. “She might’ve left by now.”

The men walked quickly back through the corridors. Then they broke into the large room where the meeting was held. But it was empty. Not just of people, but of chairs and tables and books and coffee. Everything was gone.

“Damn,” said Thierry. “We’ve missed her.”

A man was putting mugs away in a cupboard and Thierry spoke with him then returned. “He says Suzanne’s at Tim Hortons.”

“Would you mind?” Gamache indicated the door and Thierry again took the lead, walking with them over to the coffee shop. As they waited for a break in traffic to dart across rue Sherbrooke Gamache asked, “What did you think of Lillian?”

Thierry turned to examine Gamache. It was a look Gamache knew from seeing him on the bench. Judging others. And he was a good judge.

Then Thierry turned back to watch the traffic, but as he did so he spoke.

“She was very enthusiastic, always happy to help. She often volunteered to make coffee or set up the chairs and tables. It’s a big job getting a meeting ready, then cleaning up after. Not everyone wants to help, but Lillian always did.”

The three men, seeing the hole between cars at the same time, ran across the four-lane street together, making it safely to the other side.

Thierry paused, turning to look at Gamache.

“It’s so sad, you know. She was getting her life back together. Everyone liked her. I liked her.”

“This woman?” asked Beauvoir, taking the photo from his pocket, his amazement obvious. “Lillian Dyson?”

Thierry looked at it and nodded. “That’s Lillian. Tragic.”

“And you say everyone liked her?” Beauvoir pressed.

“Yes,” said Thierry. “Why?”

“Well,” said Gamache. “Your description doesn’t match what others are saying.”

“Really? What’re they saying?”

“That she was cruel, manipulative, abusive even.”

Thierry didn’t say anything, instead he turned and began walking down a dark side street. The next block over they could see the familiar Tim Hortons sign.

“There she is,” said Thierry as they entered the coffee shop. “Suzanne,” he called and waved.

A woman with close-cropped black hair looked up. She was in her sixties, Gamache guessed. Wore lots of flashy jewelry, a tight shirt with a light shawl, a skirt about three inches too short on her barrel body. There were six other women, of varying ages, at the table.

“Thierry.” Suzanne jumped up and threw her arms around Thierry, as though she hadn’t just seen him. Then she turned bright, inquisitive eyes on Gamache and Beauvoir. “New blood?”

Beauvoir bristled. He didn’t like this bawdy, brassy woman. Loud. And now she seemed to think he was one of them.

“I saw you at the meeting tonight. It’s OK, honey,” she laughed as she saw Beauvoir’s expression. “You don’t need to like us. You just need to get sober.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.” Even to his ears it sounded like the word was a dead bug or a piece of dirt he couldn’t wait to get out of his mouth. But she didn’t take offense.

Gamache, though, did. He gave Beauvoir a warning look and put out his hand to Suzanne.

“My name is Armand Gamache.”

“His father?” Suzanne gestured to Beauvoir.

Gamache smiled. “Mercifully, no. We’re not here about AA.”

His somber manner seemed to impress itself on her and Suzanne’s smile dimmed. Her eyes, however, remained alert.

Watchful, Beauvoir realized. What he’d first taken to be the shine of an idiot was in fact something far different. This woman paid attention. Behind the laughter and bright shine, a brain was at work. Furiously.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I wonder if we could talk privately?”

Thierry left them and joined Bob and Jim and four other men across the coffee shop.

“Would you like a coffee?” Suzanne asked as they found a quiet table near the toilets.

“Non, merci,” said Gamache. “Bob very kindly got me one, though it was only half full.”

Suzanne laughed. She seemed, to Beauvoir, to laugh a lot. He wondered what that hid. No one, in his experience, was ever that amused.

“The DTs?” she asked and when Gamache nodded she looked over at Bob with great affection. “He lives at the Salvation Army, you know. Goes to seven meetings a week. He assumes everyone he meets is an alcoholic.”

“There’re worse assumptions,” said Gamache.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m with the Sûreté du Québec,” said Gamache. “Homicide.”

“You’re Chief Inspector Gamache?” she asked.

“I am.”

“What can I do for you?”

Beauvoir was happy to see she was a lot less buoyant and more guarded.

“It’s about Lillian Dyson.”

Suzanne’s eyes opened wide and she whispered, “Lillian?”

Gamache nodded. “I’m afraid she was murdered last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Suzanne brought a hand to her mouth. “Was it a robbery? Did someone break into her apartment?”

“No. It didn’t seem to be random. It was at a party. She was found dead in the garden. Her neck was broken.”

Suzanne exhaled deeply and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just shocked. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

“What about?”

“Oh, it was just a check in. She calls me every few days. Nothing important.”

“Did she mention the party?”

“No, she said nothing about it.”

“You must know her well, though,” said Gamache.

“I do.” Suzanne looked out the window, at the men and women walking by. Lost in their own thoughts, in their own world. But Suzanne’s world had just changed. It was a world where murder existed. And Lillian Dyson did not.

“Have you ever had a mentor, Chief Inspector?”

“I have. Still do.”

“Then you know how intimate that relationship can be.” She looked at Beauvoir for a moment, her eyes softening, and she smiled a little.

“I do,” said the Chief.

“And I can see you’re married.” Suzanne indicated her own barren ring finger.

“True,” said Gamache. He was watching her with thoughtful eyes.

“Imagine now those relationships combined and deepened. There’s nothing on earth like what happens between a sponsor and sponsee.”

Both men stared at her.

“How so?” Gamache finally asked.

“It’s intimate without being sexual, it’s trusting without being a friendship. I want nothing from my sponsees. Nothing. Except honesty. All I want for them is that they get sober. I’m not their husband or wife, not their best friend or boss. They don’t answer to me for anything. I just guide them, and listen.”

“And what do you get out of it?” asked Beauvoir.

“My own sobriety. One drunk helping another. We can bullshit a lot of people, Inspector, and often do. But not each other. We know each other. We’re quite insane, you know,” Suzanne said with a small laugh.

This wasn’t news to Beauvoir.

“Was Lillian insane when you first met her?” Gamache asked.

“Oh, yes. But only in the sense that her perception of the world was all screwy. She’d made so many bad choices she no longer knew how to make good ones.”

“I understand that as part of this relationship Lillian told you her secrets,” said the Chief.

“She did.”

“And what were Lillian Dyson’s secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

Gamache stared at this fireplug. “Don’t know, madame? Or won’t say?”