by Louise Penny
“Intentionally.”
“Maybe in a fit of rage, but yes, whoever did this wanted to shove her back. Hard.”
“Can you measure those bruises?” Gamache asked.
“To give you the size of the hand? I could, but it wouldn’t be very accurate. There’s weeping of the blood around the edges. Again, any defense will argue, quite rightly, that the hand could’ve been smaller. Besides, a lot of people have hands that big.”
Tracey’s hands, Gamache knew, were not large. But as the hands of a potter, they’d be powerful.
And he could think of one person related to the case whose hands were very big.
Bob Cameron.
Left tackle’s hands. And what did a left tackle do? He pushed and shoved. Violently. Perhaps, at this stage, instinctively. When threatened.
“Any idea how long she’s been dead?” asked Beauvoir.
“Two, maybe three days. The water was cold, so that has to be taken into account. This is Tuesday? I’d say she went into the river on Saturday night, maybe at a stretch early Sunday morning.”
Gamache was nodding. Thinking. And finally asked the question Jean-Guy Beauvoir did not seem willing to ask.
“Is there any evidence, any proof, that she was murdered?”
Sharon Harris paused before answering. “I’m sorry. I looked. Hard. But I can’t find anything. It could’ve been suicide. It could’ve been an accident. I think she was murdered. I think that she was hit so hard in the chest she fell off the bridge. But as for absolute proof?”
She raised her hands. No.
“And the blood work?” Beauvoir asked.
“Very preliminary. None of the more detailed results yet, but I can tell you that she’d been drinking.”
“She was drunk?” asked Beauvoir.
“No, but she’d had a few ounces of alcohol shortly before her death. No sign of drugs. But if there’re just traces, that won’t show up until I get the detailed report. I’ve put a rush on it, and we should have something by later this afternoon.”
“Can you ask them to check for this?” Beauvoir brought out the pill bottle in its sterile baggie.
Dr. Harris examined it while Gamache walked back to Vivienne’s body.
He looked down at her, at the wounds caused by the river. By the fall. By her husband. And by the coroner. Who’d cut into this young woman in an effort to find out who’d caused the other wounds.
He picked up her hand, to tuck it next to her body and draw the sheet over her.
The hand was, as he expected, cold. It would have shocked him to the core had Vivienne’s hand been warm.
He held it for a moment and realized he was, unconsciously, trying to comfort her. He noticed then that there was a gash on her palm.
“Doctor, what’s this? It looks like a defensive wound.”
“Not from a knife,” she said, joining him. “Too jagged.”
“Could it have been caused by reaching out for the railing,” Gamache asked. “And having it break?”
Dr. Harris lifted up Vivienne’s hand to take a closer look.
Then, stepping away from the body, Dr. Harris stood straight and lifted both hands in front of her.
Anyone would have thought she was being threatened by the two Sûreté officers.
Her face was intent. Her body rigid in feigned alarm. Then she leaned away from them and reached behind her. With her right hand.
“What height is the railing?”
“Ninety-eight centimeters,” said Beauvoir.
Dr. Harris adjusted her hand to just over three feet off the floor. Then she nodded and walked over to her desk.
Doing quick calculations of Vivienne Godin’s height. The height of the railing. The angle of the cut on her hand and the likely trajectory of her body. The coroner then returned to the metal slab.
“What’s the thickness of the handrail?”
Beauvoir needed to consult his notes for that and gave the dimension to her.
Harris measured the wound and reexamined it closely.
“Still no splinters, but I’ll do a microscopic examination. There might be something wedged into the flesh. It looks likely that it was caused when she fell and not when she was in the water.”
“How can you tell that?” asked Beauvoir, stepping closer.
“Because the cut starts here”—Harris pointed to just above Vivienne’s wrist, where the palm began—“and tears up to her middle finger. It would be unlikely a cut like this would be made when a person was going headfirst down the river. Her hands would be out in front of her, if possible, and a cut would go from fingers down, not wrist up.”
“You think it was made when she was going backward, not forward,” said Gamache, also moving closer. He put his glasses back on.
“I do.”
“So Vivienne was pushed backward while on the bridge,” said Beauvoir, and when Dr. Harris didn’t contradict him, he went on. “She reached for the railing”—he also mimicked the action—“to stop herself, and it broke.”
There was what felt like an eternal silence while the two Sûreté officers stared at the coroner. And the careful coroner considered.
“Probably.”
“Yes.” Beauvoir clenched both fists in excitement, knowing what that would mean to their investigation.
“Probably,” said Gamache, more cautious. “But not definitive?”
“No. It’s likely that’s what happened. I could testify to it. But the defense could argue that it was caused in the water. That her body was twisting around so it was at times going backward down the river, and that’s when the cut was made. It would be difficult, but just possible. I’d have to testify to that, too.”
“What do you need to be sure?” asked Gamache.
“What we don’t have. A splinter that matches the wood from the railing.” Then she paused. “You say it was rotten?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. Perking up. Noticing the slight shift in her tone. “Very.”
“Do you have a sample?”
“We’ve removed that whole section. It’s in the lab.”
“Good. Have them test for spores. For algae. For microscopic traces of organisms. Lots of things make their home in rotting wood. And flesh. I’ll take samples from the cut and test as well. It’s possible not everything was flushed out. We’ll see if what’s found on the wood matches what’s in the cut.”
“And if it does, that would place her on that bridge,” said Gamache. “Going backward through the railing. It would prove the wound wasn’t made after she went into the water.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“But,” said Gamache.
“But,” said Beauvoir, looking at him. Knowing what he was thinking and coming to the same conclusion.
“But what?” asked Dr. Harris.
Gamache nodded to Beauvoir, inviting the lead investigator to explain.
“A clever defense would still argue that she might’ve tripped. She was drinking, after all. She might’ve just lost her balance and fallen backward. Or she might’ve been leaning against the rail and it broke.”
“That I can refute,” said the coroner. “By the angle of the cut, she was at least two feet from it when she reached back and fell—”
“Or was pushed,” said Beauvoir.
“—against it. And yes, she was trying to save herself. So you can rule out suicide at least.”
Gamache exhaled.
It was far from the first time he’d stood over the corpse of a woman who’d been punched and kicked, belittled and shamed and pushed to the end of her rope. And beyond.
Vivienne Godin, it seemed, had reached the end and had made a choice that cold and dark April night. She’d chosen life. For herself and her baby girl.
Le beau risque. The great risk. The beautiful risk. To climb out of the hole and start again.
Like Annie and Jean-Guy, heading to Paris with their young and growing family. Away from the dangers here. To start fresh.
But whi
Once again, Gamache felt the tightening in his stomach.
* * *
Isabelle Lacoste stood in the doorway of the Cowansville detachment, leaning on her cane. And looked around the open room.
“She’s over there,” said the receptionist, waving toward Agent Cloutier, working at her laptop.
“Merci.”
But the receptionist had already left.
Heads turned as she limped through the room. There was about her an air of ease and confidence. This stranger who belonged.
Then, one by one, they realized this was no stranger. Though most had never met Superintendent Lacoste, they knew her by reputation. Knew what she’d done. And what had, as a result, been done to her. The cane being only the most visible sign.
“Superintendent,” said one young agent, getting up to stand at his desk.
“Bonjour,” said Lacoste, not bothering to correct him and explain she was on leave. Though the rank still held.
“Agent Cloutier,” said Lacoste as she approached the desk.
Lysette Cloutier gave a start and looked up into the familiar face. Then she quickly stood up, smiling.
“Patron. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you’d be with the Chief Inspector. Sssss.”
Lacoste laughed. With more than one, the grammar became problematic.
“I’ve struck out on my own,” she said. “Are you free?”
“For sure. Do you need my help?”
“You seem to be working on something.”
“I traced the IP address for Carl Tracey’s website. It’s through a local server, and the billing address is a home here in Cowansville, registered in the tax rolls to the same woman I told you about last night. Pauline Vachon.”
Lacoste was slightly surprised Lysette Cloutier could remember anything from their call the night before.
“So that confirms it,” she said, taking a seat. “And we have an address. Well done.”
The website was on Cloutier’s laptop, and Lacoste scrolled through. It showed a man bending over a wheel, intent on the lump of clay he was forming. Down the sides of the page, there were photographs of different works.
“Huh,” said Lacoste. “Quite nice.”
“Yes. He’s talented.” Cloutier would give him that. “Then I went onto the Instagram account and looked around. Not particularly interesting. Just what they want us to see.”
“Yes,” said Lacoste, cautious now. “We talked about this, too, last night. I told you not to do anything else. We don’t want to alert them that the police are interested in any possible private account.”
“Right, well, we’re in.”
“In where? In what?”
“Their private Instagram account.” Cloutier was beaming.
Lacoste was not.
“What’ve you done?”
“I asked if we could communicate privately, and she gave me access.”
“To a cop?”
“Well, not exactly. Like you said, we didn’t want her erasing anything that could be evidence, so I pretended I was someone else.”
“Who?”
Now Lysette Cloutier clicked again, and another website came up. An art gallery in Old Montréal called NouveauGalerie. Specializing in modern Québécois art.
It was a slick, minimalist site. Very cool.
“Who’re they?” Lacoste asked.
“They’re me. I created it.”
“Wait a minute,” said Lacoste, trying to keep up. “You’re pretending to be this NouveauGalerie?”
“Oui. I showed interest in his work, asked to speak privately. After refusing a few times, this Pauline finally give me access to their private Instagram account.”
“Why would she do that?”
“So we can discuss business,” said Cloutier. Her tone said that must be obvious.
“Why wouldn’t she just pick up the phone?”
“Phone? Young people don’t talk on phones. Everything’s done through texts and social media. And with the private Instagram account, she can show galleries—me—” said Cloutier with a smile, “works in progress. Things they might not want public yet. Besides, she’s trying to pretend she’s Carl Tracey. God knows, you don’t want that asshole talking to galleries.”
“Got it,” said Lacoste. “So private Instagram it is.”
Where anyone could take on a false identity. And often did.
Lacoste didn’t know whether to be pleased with the brilliance of this or angry that Cloutier had disobeyed orders.
Before she made up her mind, Cloutier said, “Look at this.” She clicked again. “Voilà.”
Up came photographs and posts. Private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon. Just the two. No one else, it seemed, had access to the private account.
Except, now, NouveauGalerie.
And one thing was immediately obvious.
“They’re lovers,” said Lacoste.
“Oui.”
“Can you zoom in on this picture, please,” said Lacoste, leaning closer.
It was a selfie Pauline Vachon had taken. She was lying on a sofa in a very suggestive pose.
“There. And there,” said Lacoste, reaching out and moving the image until it showed a close-up of the woman’s bare arm.
Bruises.
“Goddamn,” said Cloutier, with disgust and, Lacoste thought, a touch of triumph.
“What’re they saying to each other?” Lacoste asked.
“I’ve just gotten in. Haven’t gotten to their messages yet.”
Just then Lacoste’s phone vibrated, and she read the email.
It was from an agent back at headquarters, reporting on the phone messages into and out of the Tracey home for the past few weeks. There weren’t many. They’d all be checked, but what Lacoste scanned down to were the ones for that Saturday.
None had come in, and just two numbers were called from the house that day. One of them repeatedly.
“Is either of these Pauline Vachon’s number?”
“Non. But it is a Cowansville exchange,” said Cloutier. “I can look it up. That other one is to her father. That’s Homer’s number.”
Lacoste nodded. And realized Cloutier must know it well.
While Cloutier looked up the second number, Lacoste called Beauvoir.
“Oui, allô.”
“The phone records from the Tracey place have come in,” she said, without preamble. “It shows the call to Vivienne’s father, like he said, on Saturday morning. But someone in that house called another number, repeatedly, early Saturday evening. Most of the calls lasted only seconds.”
“Where to?”
“A local number. Agent Cloutier’s checking now.”
Beauvoir stayed on the line and could hear the clicking of computer keys. Then silence. Before he heard Agent Cloutier’s voice.
“The number belongs to a Gerald Bertrand.”
Jean-Guy put his hand over the phone and relayed the information to Gamache.
“The lover?” Beauvoir said.
“Could be,” said Gamache.
“We’ll find out,” said Lacoste, rising with the help of her cane.
* * *
After hanging up, Beauvoir returned to the coroner.
“Have you done a DNA test on the fetus?”
“I have. The results will be in with the rest of the tests, later today.”
“About the medication that was found in her duffel bag—”
“Mifegymiso. Yes.”
“It’s an abortion pill, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean she was trying to end her pregnancy?”
“It’s unclear. It’s only legal in Canada up to ten weeks, and she was further along than that. I’ll test for both in her blood, but I can tell you there were no signs of an imminent miscarriage.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I doubt she took the pill. And you know that this bottle”—she held it up—“wasn’t from a prescription, right? It’s almost certainly black market.”
“Yes.”
“I have a question for you,” said Gamache.
“Oui,” said Dr. Harris.
“Is Mifegymiso free?”
“If prescribed by a doctor, yes.”
“So if it’s both legal and free, why would anyone pay for it on the black market?”
“Well, I guess if she was twenty weeks along, no doctor would prescribe it,” said the coroner.
“Possible,” said Gamache.
“But you don’t think so,” said Beauvoir.
“I’m wondering if Vivienne got those pills,” said Gamache. “Or if Tracey did.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Dr. Harris.
“He would,” said Beauvoir, “if he knew the baby wasn’t his and wanted her to abort. Probably without her knowing.”
“Which would mean he knew all that long before Saturday,” said Gamache. “But if he knew what the drug was for and he packed her duffel bag, why put them in?”
“Maybe to confuse us,” said Beauvoir.
“Well,” said Gamache, and raised his brows. It was working …
“Or maybe—”
Dr. Harris watched as the two investigators discussed possibilities and probabilities.
She’d worked with them for years. Seen their relationship blossom and wither. Seen it through all its spasms, incarnations, hoops, and dips. The ruptures and the mendings.
Things are strongest where they’re broken.
Gamache had said that, quietly, once. Years ago. In the cathedral in Québec City, at the funerals for four of his agents, killed in a raid. He’d whispered it to himself as he knelt, head bowed, during one of the silent prayers. Not realizing, perhaps, that anyone other than God was listening.
And God knew, as did Sharon Harris, that the relationship between Gamache and Beauvoir had been shattered, more than once. But it had survived to this day, stronger than ever.
She listened, and marveled, and envied this bond.
She also noticed that in each scenario they knew exactly who the murderer was. Which was a good start.
“Or,” said Gamache, “Vivienne did pack the bag, intending to leave her husband. She put the pills in because she was still undecided about the baby.”
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