A Better Man
Page 7
“What has he done with her? Ask him. He knows. Make him tell you. If you don’t, I will.”
“Stay at home, Monsieur Godin. In case she calls.”
Even as he said it, Gamache recognized it as cheap, potentially cruel manipulation. But he had to keep Godin away from Tracey. And there was still a chance his daughter was alive and would call her father.
“I’ll be in touch with you when we’re finished here. D’accord?”
There was a deep, deep breath on the other end of the line. And finally, “D’accord.”
“Can I speak to him?” whispered Cloutier, her hand out for the phone. “Homer, it’s Lysette.… Oui. Oui.… I promise.… Oui.”
She’d dropped her eyes to the table and was listening intently. Homer Godin’s voice was now quieter, so the others couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“Chief Inspector Gamache will call you as soon as possible,” said Cloutier once Vivienne’s father had stopped talking. “Oui. I promise.”
Her voice, gentle, calming, seemed to be having an effect. After saying goodbye, she placed the phone on the table.
“The man’s a shithead,” said Tracey, speaking to the phone as though it were his father-in-law. “You heard him threaten me. He’s the dangerous one.”
“Enough,” said Cameron, hitting the table with such force that the ceramic roosters took flight and spilled salt and pepper over the table.
“Agent Cameron,” said Gamache sharply.
“Sorry,” he muttered, bringing himself under control.
Gamache shifted his attention back to where it belonged. “How long have you and Madame Godin been together?”
“I dunno. Four, five years.”
“How did you meet?”
“It was in a bar. Where did you think? Church? The gym? Look, I have things to do around the farm. Those animals need to be fed, and this one needs to be taken into the woods.”
He gestured toward the old dog, who looked up and gave a single, tired flop of his tail.
“Like you took Vivienne?” asked Cloutier.
“What? Kill her?” He made a dismissive noise. “Why would I? Believe me, she’s alive.”
Try as he might, Gamache couldn’t get Monsieur Godin’s voice out of his head. The deep breaths, the attempt to control the terror that seeped out anyway. The desperation of a father.
How would he feel if …
“You said she had lovers.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral. “Can you give us names?”
“Of course not. She didn’t exactly list them.”
“And women friends?” Gamache asked.
“Women? No. Why would she?”
It was as Cameron had said. Tracey had isolated his wife here, and since there was no one to contradict him, he was free to say anything he wanted about her.
“We’re going to need the make, model, and license-plate number of her car,” said Cameron.
Tracey gave them the information.
“Where were you on Saturday?” Gamache asked.
“I was here, working on my pots. Where else?”
“Anybody see you?”
“Vivienne did. You can ask her when she gets back.”
“Anyone besides your wife.”
“No. Who’d come here?”
Who indeed? thought Gamache.
“So you never left the property on Saturday?”
“No. Wait a minute, I did go into town to buy supplies. Needed to get them before the road turned shitty. Can’t drive on it now.” He eyed them closely. “But that’s probably not news to you.”
“And yet,” said Cloutier, “you say your wife managed to drive out later in the day.”
There was silence, and they could see Tracey’s brain skidding in the muck.
“She could, but you couldn’t?” Cloutier pressed.
“She left at night, when the roads had frozen again.”
He’d hit on an explanation bordering on reasonable. After Tracey had given them the names of the stores he’d visited, Gamache asked, “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
“Saturday night, like I said. We’d been drinking. Vivienne got pissed and started yelling abuse. Told me the kid wasn’t mine. I went into my studio to do some work and get away from her. When I got up next morning, she was gone.”
The phone rang.
“You take it,” said Tracey.
Gamache picked it up and listened. “Bon. Merci.” He hung up. “We have the warrant.”
CHAPTER NINE
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was a shambles. Bed unmade, bedding dirty. A partly drunk bottle of beer was on the floor next to the bed. An ashtray was overflowing with butts.
In the bedside table, there was a small stash of pot. And rolling papers.
“Yours?” Gamache asked Tracey.
“Hers.”
Gamache nodded, taking that in but not necessarily believing it.
The clock radio blinked 12:00.
Gamache stood in the middle of the room and turned full circle. Clothing was left on the floor where it fell. Socks, underwear, sweaters, jeans. Not just one day’s worth but days. And days.
An agent was going through the closet and the dresser drawers, photographing and cataloging what was there.
It was very difficult to tell if anything had been taken.
Gamache asked Tracey about the clothes. Were they all his? Were some Vivienne’s?
“All mine.”
In Vivienne’s closet clothing was hung up. Her drawers were a bit haphazard, with underwear and turtlenecks and jeans shoved in. But at least clean and off the floor.
Looking at the top of the dresser, he noticed jewelry. Inexpensive. Bright. Bulbous. No photographs, though.
She might’ve taken those with her.
Gamache hoped that was true.
“Is there a suitcase missing?” Gamache asked.
“Suitcase? We don’t have any of those. Why would we?”
Gamache nodded. That alone was pretty telling. And slightly chilling.
In the bathroom, Gamache pointed to a toothbrush. “Is this hers?”
“No. That’s mine. This’s hers.” Tracey pointed to the other one in the holder. The bristles were worn almost flat.
Maybe she’d left this one and bought a new one, Gamache thought.
He hoped that was true.
The forensics officer bagged both brushes. For DNA testing.
Gamache opened the medicine cabinet. Nothing extraordinary there. No prescriptions, just cold meds and ointments. There were no gaps on the narrow shelves. Nothing obviously missing.
Then he left and walked from room to room, with Tracey following him. A shadow.
Other officers arrived and were searching the outbuildings.
“There’s no sign of her, patron,” reported Agent Cloutier. She found him in the living room, kneeling by the sofa. “But they have found something, just off the kitchen.”
“I’ll be right along, merci.” He brought out a pen and moved a potato-chip wrapper aside. Then, standing up, he called to the forensics officer in the room. “Can you check this, please?”
He stepped away and turned to Tracey. “I think it’s blood. Is it?”
“Could be. Might be hers. Might be mine. Who knows?”
“We will, soon. What happened here?”
“I told you. We got into a fight.”
“You hit her?”
“And she hit me. Gave as good as she got. Look, I know you think I’ve done something, but I didn’t. I left her here.” He pointed to the sofa. “Alive.”
“Check the rest of the room carefully,” Gamache advised the officer.
Brushing past Tracey without a word, Gamache followed Agent Cloutier into the kitchen and through a door he’d assumed was a pantry. But instead it led into what had once maybe been an outhouse. Or a pigsty or chicken coop. It had been knocked through to connect to the main house.
He stood at the door and prepared him
But it did strike him as a place where unpleasant things might have happened. To animals. Or people.
He went in.
What struck him first was the extraordinary heat.
The agents working in there were perspiring and trying not to drip sweat and contaminate the room. On seeing him they stood up and started to salute. But with a gesture he stopped them and indicated they should continue working.
Then he looked around.
Not a slaughterhouse at all. Not an old outhouse. It was much larger than that. An old garage. Converted into a workshop.
No, not a workshop. A studio.
He saw a potter’s wheel. He saw plastic bags filled with clay, their tags still on. The walls were lined with shelves holding unglazed pieces. He saw what Cameron had meant. No one could possibly use Tracey’s works for anything practical. They wouldn’t hold food or drink or flowers.
But they did hold the attention. Not unlike the man himself.
Carl Tracey seemed an unfinished, partially formed man. Soft. Useless. And yet there was also something about the man. Not attractive. In fact, Gamache felt repulsed by him. But he also felt his eyes returning to him. Carl Tracey was a presence. There was no denying that. A statement piece. Like his works.
But while his pottery looked, to Gamache’s eye, good, Tracey did not.
Gamache turned and saw, in the corner, the source of the extraordinary heat.
A kiln.
It had obviously been fired up in the last day or so.
Kneeling down, he looked into the opening in the bottom of the kiln. It was filled with ash.
“Make sure you collect this,” he said, straightening up. “Have you found anything?”
“Not yet,” said the agent in charge. “If there’s any blood here, it’d be impossible to hide or clean. The bricks and clay are porous. If it’s here, we’ll find it.”
“Bon. Merci.”
He turned and saw Carl Tracey looking in.
“The kiln’s been used recently,” said Gamache.
“Yes. I was firing some works.”
“When?”
“Saturday night.”
“It’s still hot.”
“Takes a long time to cool down. Needs to be really hot to bake the clay.” He examined Gamache, then laughed. “You don’t think…” He looked astonished. “You actually think I stuck Vivienne in there? Piece by piece? Are you crazy? Do you know how much work that would be? And imagine the mess.”
Gamache knew Tracey was trying to get under his skin. Denying the murder and cremation of a woman and her unborn child not because it was abhorrent but because it was too much work.
“Look,” Tracey said as he followed Gamache into the kitchen, “it wasn’t much of a marriage, but she did her thing, I did mine. Why would I kill her?”
“Why would you kill him?” Gamache pointed to the old dog, still lying by the warm stove.
“Because he’s no use anymore. He can’t hunt and isn’t gonna guard the place. He just eats and shits. Gonna get a new dog. A better dog.”
“Maybe that’s why you’d kill your wife,” said Gamache. “So that you could get a new one.”
“Why kill her? I’d just chuck her out.”
“Because she’d take you to court and get half the property,” said Gamache.
“Yes,” said Tracey, nodding. “That would be a good reason.”
It was as close to a confession, without actually being one, that the head of homicide had heard.
Tracey looked down at the dog. “He’s not mine. He’s hers. Came with her, and he can leave with her. The sooner the better.”
He made a shooting gesture with his hand. The dog struggled up, took a step closer to Tracey, and licked the trigger finger.
* * *
They found nothing. After conferring with the local agents, it was decided they’d done all they could. It was time to leave.
“What do we do now?” asked Agent Cameron as they put on their coats and boots.
They stepped onto the porch and looked around, at the acres and acres. Miles and miles. Of forest. At the donkeys in the field. Patiently watching them.
And they heard, again, the growl of the Bella Bella, from deep in the woods.
It seemed louder. Closer.
“First step is to declare Vivienne Godin missing,” said Gamache. “And then to visit her father.”
A large drop landed with a plop at the foot of the steps. Then another.
He looked up. It was early afternoon, but the clouds were so thick, and the sun so obscured, that it felt like dusk. Or an eclipse.
Gamache put his hand in his pocket but remembered that there was no cell-phone coverage.
“Can you give us a lift back to our cars?” Gamache asked one of the agents.
“Absolutely, sir. I saw them when we arrived. Just down the hill.”
“Right. How’d you manage to get up the hill?”
“We didn’t. We came around and down from the other side.”
She glanced again at the Chief Inspector’s clothing. He and the others looked like they’d crawled up the muddy slope on their hands and knees to this terrible place.
Which they practically had.
“Do you have a radio in your car?” asked Gamache.
“Yessir. We’re all equipped with them, in case our phones don’t work.”
“Good.” Gamache turned to Carl Tracey, who’d just stepped onto the porch. The old dog at his side. “We’ll be in touch with more questions, I’m sure.”
“He’s done it, hasn’t he?” said Agent Cloutier as they walked to the Sûreté vehicle. “Killed her.”
Gamache said nothing but looked grim.
Once at the car, he leaned in and, taking the handset off its hook, identified himself and asked to be put through to Chief Inspector Beauvoir of homicide.
As he waited, more rain fell. Tracey disappeared off the porch and reappeared with a .22 rifle.
“How does he have that?” asked Gamache. “Does he have a permit?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Cameron. “He’s never been convicted of an offense, so there was no way to take it from him. We didn’t find any others.”
Gamache shook his head. As strict as the laws were governing firearms in Canada, they could be tighter. Here was a man known to abuse his wife, and he’s allowed to have a gun?
“Did you test it? Has it been fired recently?”
“We tested, and no, it hasn’t been fired in a while.”
Gamache looked into the dog’s eyes and knew that was about to change.
“There you are, finally,” Beauvoir’s voice came out the tinny speaker. “Did you get my messages?”
“No, we’re out of cell-phone coverage. About what?”
“A state of emergency’s been declared. Leaves have been canceled. There’s flooding across the province. Looks bad.”
“The dams?”
“Hydro’s sending engineers up there now to assess the situation.”
If they burst …
But Gamache didn’t say it. They all knew what would happen if the massive hydroelectric dams in James Bay were breached.
But that wasn’t the only potential disaster.
“Where’s the worst flooding?”
Beauvoir detailed it. As he spoke, Gamache visualized the map of Québec and saw the danger points. Where rivers met larger rivers. Inevitably that was also where towns and cities had been built. At the junction of the great waterways.
“The St. Lawrence?” he asked. And held his breath. Though in his heart he knew the answer already. He’d seen the ice buildup just a few hours earlier and had called it in.
Beauvoir quickly and succinctly described the affected areas. Ending with the worst-hit.
“Montréal.”
“Montréal,” repeated Gamache.
��I’ve been trying to reach you. There’s a meeting here they want you at. Starting in half an hour. How soon can you get back?”
Gamache looked at his watch. “I can be there in forty minutes.”
“Hurry.”
“Jean-Guy?”
“Oui?”
“The Bella Bella?”
“Still rising.”
Gamache looked south. Toward his village. He could be there in minutes. Then he looked north. To Montréal.
“Merci,” said Gamache. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
He gave the handset back to the agent and started to walk around to the passenger side. But paused.
“Sir?” asked the agent. The car was running. Waiting.
“Un moment,” said Gamache.
As the others watched, the Chief Inspector walked back to the porch, took out his wallet, placed bills at Tracey’s feet. Then walked back to the car. The old dog in his arms.
As he got in, he said, “His name’s Fred.”
CHAPTER TEN
The patrol car slid down the road, but the agent managed to guide it to where they’d left their vehicles. She dropped them off and continued down the hill. Opening the windows to air out her once-pristine vehicle. That now smelled of old wet dog, and mud, and donkeys.
“What do we do now, patron?” asked Cameron as they stood in the rain outside their cars.
“You return to your station. You’ll be needed for flood control or evacuations. We’re heading back to Montréal.”
Once in the car, Agent Cloutier asked, “What about Vivienne? What do I tell Homer?”
“I’ll call him once we’re out of the mountains and have communications.”
Rain was hitting the windshield. The clouds were low, mingling with the mist clinging to the forest.
“Can I stay on it, though? Keep looking for her?”
“You’ll do as you’re ordered, Agent Cloutier,” said Gamache. “As will I.”
He turned toward the woods, where the Bella Bella, invisible, was rushing toward the valley. And the village.
* * *
Ruth stood at the top of the fieldstone bridge and watched the activity around her.
The whole village was out, filling sandbags. It was something they did most springs, but until now it had been a precaution, that had morphed into a tradition, that had become a party. A celebration. To mark the end of a long winter.
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