A Better Man

by Louise Penny

  “At more than three months out? Why would she decide to end the pregnancy now? I think protecting the baby was the reason she left him. Vivienne wanted to start a new life, with the child.”

  “The problem is, we can’t always get clean away,” said Dr. Harris. “Not when we’re running from our demons.”

  She knew. She was surrounded by their work every day.

  Gamache nodded and caught Beauvoir’s eye.

  They’d spent decades tracking the creatures. Into dark alleys. Into homes. Deep into lives. Often in the guise of friends, lovers, caring colleagues. Sometimes complete strangers. Sometimes they were of people’s own making.

  Vivienne’s demon had found her on that bridge.

  Though Gamache had never really doubted it, now, thanks to that long, jagged cut on her hand and the ghostly bruises, he was sure. Vivienne had been murdered.

  And, what was more, he could put a face and a name to this particular demon.

  Now they had to prove it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  @CarlTracey: @NouveauGalerie, We have other more recent work. Would that help?

  @NouveauGalerie: No. @CarlTracey, Moving on. But thank you.

  In the car on the way over to Gerald Bertrand’s place, Isabelle Lacoste read the Instagram exchange between Pauline Vachon, pretending to be the artist, and Agent Cloutier, pretending to be the gallery owner.

  It was true, she thought. Nothing, and no one, on social media was as they seemed.

  Still, it looked as though Cloutier had been masterful in her manipulation. Turning Tracey down. Forcing Vachon to almost beg NouveauGalerie for attention.

  Stringing Vachon along. Until she got exactly what she wanted.

  When they pulled in to Gerald Bertrand’s driveway, Lacoste put away her phone and rang the bell.

  “Gerald Bertrand?”

  “Oui?”

  “My name is Isabelle Lacoste. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec. This is Agent Cloutier. May we come in?”

  The man was young, perhaps early twenties. With the burly arms and torso of a fellow who did manual labor. There was about him a sort of cologne of testosterone.

  His dark beard was bushy but groomed and his hair styled shorter to his head. His brown eyes were clear and bright, and he held, in his sturdy arms, an infant.

  For an instant, Isabelle Lacoste forgot she was married. With two children. She hoped her mouth hadn’t dropped open, but she was pretty sure her eyes had widened.

  Beside her, Lysette Cloutier was smiling. Grinning, really. Having lost both her heart and apparently her mind.

  “The Sûreté? What’s this about?” he asked.

  “We need to speak with you about a homicide.”

  “A murder? Here?”

  He looked out the door and held his baby closer to his body, instinctively protecting her.

  Cloutier swallowed whatever drool had pooled in her mouth.

  “No, not right here,” said Lacoste, who’d recovered most of her wits. “May we come in?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  He stepped back, and after removing their dirty boots, they followed him into the kitchen of the modest home.

  He lived in a subdivision of Cowansville, in a cluster of bungalows exactly the same.

  “Can you tell us about your relationship with Vivienne Godin?” Lacoste asked as she took the chair he’d indicated, the best one in the room, and leaned her cane against the arm.

  Monsieur Bertrand had taken them to the back of the house, past the small front room normally used as a formal living room, but in this home it held workout equipment.

  The kitchen opened to a sitting area with a sofa, two chairs, and a huge television on which cartoons were playing. A card table doubled as a dining table, though Lacoste doubted there’d been many, if any, dinner parties there.

  Dishes were piled in the sink, and a near-empty baby bottle was on the counter.

  The place was messy, but not, Lacoste could see, dirty.

  “Don’t tell my sister,” he said as he muted the sound.

  “I’m afraid I can’t promise that,” said Lacoste. “It’s very serious. We might have to talk with her, too.”

  “Really? Well, I can tell you now that she doesn’t approve.”

  “Few would.”

  “It’s not really that bad, is it?”

  It was about here that Isabelle Lacoste began to suspect they were discussing two different things.

  “What isn’t?” she asked.

  “Television. Vendredi likes Babar, so I put it on when Pam isn’t around.”

  “Vendredi?” asked Cloutier.

  “She was born on a Friday.”

  “Pam’s your sister?” asked Cloutier.

  “Oui.”

  “So this isn’t your child?” asked Agent Cloutier.

  “No.” He smiled. “I look after her whenever I can. I’m off work right now. Construction season’ll start again in a couple of weeks.” He looked at the little girl and grinned at her, and she grinned back. “Gotta spend as much time with Dee as I can.”

  The agents exchanged looks. Both thinking much the same thing.

  That he was adorable. And maybe a murderer.

  But would a mother, a sister, trust her baby to a man, a brother, capable of murder? A sibling would probably know, would have seen some of that darkness, that menace, as they grew up.

  But maybe he hadn’t intended to kill his lover. Maybe it was a terrible accident and he was afraid to come forward. If he was afraid to tell his sister about an animated elephant, how would he feel about admitting to murder?

  Superintendent Lacoste repositioned herself so she was facing him directly.

  “Your relationship, sir. With Vivienne Godin.”

  His brow dropped in concentration as he bobbed his niece, gently, on his knee.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know her. Is she the one who was killed?”

  They watched him closely, but neither agent could see any distress, beyond a normal human reaction when hearing that a stranger was dead.

  “Please just answer the question,” said Lacoste.

  Despite the fact Agent Cloutier was clearly the elder of the two and should have been the more senior, Gerald Bertrand understood innately that the young woman with the old eyes and cane was in charge.

  “I have. I don’t know her. Why do you think I do?”

  “Think a little harder,” said Lacoste.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bertrand, looking from one to the other.

  Then another thought occurred to Lacoste. Maybe it wasn’t Vivienne who called.

  “How about Carl Tracey?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No. Never heard of him either. What’s this about? Why do you think I know these people?”

  “Because either Vivienne or Carl called you on Saturday. Repeatedly.”

  “Oh, merde. That was her? Some woman kept calling. The first time I tried to tell her she had the wrong number, but she seemed really upset. I’m not sure she was listening. She called back, and I tried again, but after that I just ignored the calls. She left a couple of messages—”

  “Can we listen to them?” asked Cloutier.

  “I erased them.”

  Of course you did, thought Cloutier. What else would a guilty person do?

  But then she rethought that.

  What else would an innocent person do? She did the same thing with messages from wrong numbers.

  She was beginning to see how quickly something completely normal could suddenly seem sinister, if you chose to see it that way.

  “May we have a look around?” Lacoste asked.

  Gerald Bertrand looked surprised but nodded.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked as they surveyed the small home. It was very messy and very masculine. A man-child lived here, alone. It was furnished with pieces that looked like they’d come from friends or family or a

dumpster. Some hockey trophies. A pile of skis and skates and hunting gear was in the basement.

  There were a few photos, of Gerald with mates, with teams, with his family. But none of him with Vivienne.

  “Who’s this?” Lacoste looked at a photo among many on the fridge.

  “Old girlfriend. We broke up a couple of months ago.”

  “You keep her picture up?”

  He shrugged. “I forgot it was there.”

  It showed the two young people in bathing suits at the lake, faces smashed together for a selfie. Beaming.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “A hunting rifle, yes. I have a license.”

  He showed them the weapon, safely locked up, with ammunition locked in a separate room. He produced from his wallet the license.

  Lacoste inspected the rifle. Clean. Well maintained.

  “Where do you hunt?”

  “Wherever my buddies want to go, but mostly up north. The Abitibi. But haven’t been for a while. Not since Vendredi was born.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lost my taste for killing things, I guess.”

  “Where were you on Saturday afternoon and evening?” asked Lacoste.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  But it was clear by her expression that she was not.

  Bertrand thought for a moment. “I was looking after Dee until about six, when my sister finished work and came over to get her, and then some buddies dropped by and we watched the game.”

  “Which game?”

  “The hockey game.” He seemed shocked she needed to ask. “Canadiens and Leafs. Terrible game.”

  He was right. Lacoste had watched it with her husband and kids. The Leafs won.

  “May I have their names, please. Your friends,” said Cloutier, bringing out her notebook.

  “You’re going to talk to them?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But they’ll think I had something to do with this.”

  “Names, please.”

  Gerald Bertrand hesitated and, in doing so, moved up the suspect list. Carl Tracey still held the top spot and would be hard to tumble, but this anxious man was closing in.

  He gave them some names and phone numbers.

  “Please don’t get in touch with them, Monsieur Bertrand,” said Cloutier. “We can easily check up on your calls.”

  By now Bertrand was sheet-white. He hugged the baby to him as though she were the one threatened.

  Superintendent Lacoste considered the child.

  No bruising. No sign at all of anything other than comfort and happiness.

  This man might have been a threat to Vivienne Godin, but Lacoste was assured he was no threat to the baby.

  “Merci, monsieur,” said Lacoste, giving him her card as they walked to the door. “We’re probably going to ask you for fingerprints and a blood sample—”

  “Come on,” he said, clearly upset now. “Why? I had nothing to do with whatever happened. I don’t even know these people.”

  “Then your prints and DNA will clear you,” said Lacoste.

  Cloutier opened the door, and they stepped out.

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” asked Lacoste.

  “I didn’t know her,” he said, his voice plaintive. Then he paused, and his muscular shoulders sagged a bit. “She was pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And someone killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “The baby…?”

  “Died, too.”

  He covered Vendredi’s ears and said, “Goddamned fucking shit of a fucking horrible world.”

  Then he uncovered his niece’s ears and kissed her. Gently.

  “That’s either a really great guy,” said Cloutier, putting the car in gear, “or a monster.”

  Lysette Cloutier never dreamed, while working in accounting, that it could be so difficult to tell the two apart. But it was.

  * * *

  As Beauvoir and Gamache slid into the booth at the café in Cowansville, Gamache’s phone rang. It was from the RCMP.

  “Excuse me.” He slid back out and went outside to take the call.

  “Armand?” came the familiar voice, shouting over a familiar noise. “Sorry, meant to get to you sooner, but I wanted to see it for myself.”

  “Are you in a helicopter?”

  “Oui. Over the La Grande-3 dam.”

  One of the oldest, Gamache knew. If any dam was going to—

  “We’ve opened the spillways,” the RCMP officer shouted above the rotors.

  “And?” Gamache shouted back.

  Inside the café, Beauvoir could hear Gamache’s voice through the window and saw him hunkered over, a hand covering his other ear, straining to hear whoever was on the other end.

  “It seems to be working. Will let you know about the others.” Gamache heard him give muffled instructions to the pilot. “Call you back.”

  “And the diversions farther south? Are they being dug?” Gamache shouted into the phone, but the connection had been broken.

  Gamache hung up and exhaled. Closing his eyes for a moment. It just might work.

  “What was that about?” Jean-Guy asked when he returned, but there was no chance for an answer.

  Someone was walking toward them.

  “Thank you for coming, Simone,” said Gamache, as the elegant woman in her early forties approached their booth. “I’m not sure you’ve met Chief Inspector Beauvoir. He’s the head of homicide for the Sûreté. Jean-Guy, this’s Simone Fleury. She’s on the board of the Réseau de Violence Conjugale du Québec and runs the local women’s shelters. We’ve sat on several committees together.”

  “Committees.” Madame Fleury made a dismissive, almost rude noise.

  She looked at Beauvoir’s outstretched hand, ignored it, and sat down.

  “Nothing’s changed. Women are beaten, women are killed. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Oui,” said Beauvoir, dropping his hand and sitting down next to Gamache.

  “I see you’re back at work, Armand.” Her voice was abrupt. There was a tone of displeasure and impatience. “Not everyone seems pleased.”

  “I’m sure the vast majority are thrilled I’m back,” he said with a smile.

  “They’re just too busy to mention it on Twitter, I suppose,” she said. “Though you do have one defender. A dumb-ass.”

  Beauvoir looked at her with surprise. But Gamache just gave a small grunt of laughter. What Madame Fleury said next confirmed Beauvoir’s suspicions about her.

  “Let’s get on with it.” She looked at her watch. “I have a hair appointment, then a luncheon.”

  Rich. Bored. The kids gone, husband busy making more money. A do-gooder.

  Simone Fleury regarded Beauvoir.

  A bundle of coiled energy she found repulsive. Here was a young guy promoted beyond his competence. Just beginning to develop a paunch. Probably going to seed, she thought.

  He was good-looking, clean, well groomed, but Madame Fleury had trained herself to look beyond what could be seen.

  Probably went home and whaled on his wife when the Habs lost. Or after he’d had a few. Or just because.

  Simone Fleury did not like cops. She tolerated Gamache. Barely.

  “What can you tell us about Vivienne Godin?” Beauvoir asked, placing the photo of her on the table so that the blank-faced young woman was looking up at them.

  “Tea, please,” said Madame Fleury to the waitress.

  Beauvoir ordered one as well, while Gamache took a coffee.

  The waitress had looked Madame Fleury in the eye as she ordered. Brief enough, meaningless enough. Except she hadn’t made eye contact with either Beauvoir or Gamache.

  “I’ve seen that,” said Madame Fleury, pushing the photograph back across the table to Beauvoir. “You sent it to me, Armand. I asked around. She didn’t show up at any of the shelters, and if she called, she didn’t use her own name. Most don’t.”

  “So she could��ve called but didn’t give her name.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? We get twenty-six thousand calls a year.” She let that sink in and was gratified to see the look of surprise on Beauvoir’s handsome face. “Most never give their name. Most never show up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Most women, when they call for help, don’t want to leave the relationship. They just want the beating, that beating, to end.”

  It was, Gamache knew, exactly what Cameron described with Vivienne.

  “But they must know there’ll be another,” said Beauvoir. “Why—”

  “Don’t,” Madame Fleury snapped. “Don’t you dare ask why they don’t leave. Don’t you dare judge these women for staying.”

  “But it’s a legitimate question, isn’t it?” He looked from Madame Fleury to Gamache.

  “There’s an implied criticism,” said Madame Fleury. “That these women are weak or stupid.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but you think that. Why don’t they leave? Because they’ve been conditioned to believe it’s their fault. Because they’ve been isolated. They have no money and no support. Because they have a shred of hope or delusion. Because they actually love the guy. Because they’re stuck. Because they’re terrified. And for good reason. Because it’s all they know and all they think they deserve. Because they believe there’s nothing better out there. You can see it in her face. That dazed look. As telling as bruises.”

  She jutted her slender hand toward the photo on the table. The picture had been taken before Vivienne was married, but Gamache didn’t bother to correct her.

  “That’s why the law was changed,” he said instead. “With Madame Fleury’s help. So that when police show up, they can use their discretion and arrest the abuser. The woman doesn’t have to be the one to lay charges.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Madame Fleury. “But how often does that actually happen? Goddamned cops. You need ‘sufficient information.’ I think that’s the phrase, right?”

  “You know it is,” said Gamache.

  “Did she call the cops?” asked Madame Fleury, looking from one to the other.

  “She did,” said Beauvoir. “Charges were never laid.”

  “Insufficient information,” said Madame Fleury. “How long before she was killed was that?”

  “First time? Thirteen months. There were other calls after that, but no arrest.”

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