Perversely, when things had been at their worst, everything had appeared just fine. Québec, the Sûreté, functioning as it should.
Now that there was a glimmer of hope, things appeared to be spinning out of control.
Senior politicians and some media outlets had lately noticed what appeared to be a certain sleight of hand on the part of the head of the Sûreté.
Arrests were up. And for a while that had caused outright celebration on the part of politicians and their electorate.
Until the Radio-Canada television show, Enquête, had investigated and discovered that the arrests were mostly for small to medium-size crimes.
“Explain this,” the Premier Ministre du Québec had demanded, having called Chief Superintendent Gamache into his office in Québec City the day after the program aired.
The Premier had slapped a thick file onto his desk. Even from across the room, Gamache could see what it was.
The printout of the latest monthly report on Sûreté activities.
“I’ve checked. Fucking Enquête is right, Armand. Yes, arrests are up, and thank God you’re still managing to arrest murderers, but what about the rest? There hasn’t been a significant arrest in other divisions since you took over. No biker gang member, no organized crime figure. No drug arrests or even seizures. Minor trafficking, but nothing more. What the hell are you doing over there?”
“You of all people should know that statistics,” Gamache nodded toward the file, “don’t tell the whole story.”
“Are you saying all this,” the Premier put his hand on the file, “is a lie?”
“Non, not a lie. But not the complete truth.”
“Are you running for office? What sort of gibberish is that? I’ve never heard you so evasive.”
He glared at Gamache, who stared back. But said nothing more.
“What are you up to, Armand? Dear God, don’t tell me Enquête was right.”
In the TV program they’d intimated, but never crossed the line of actual slander, that Gamache was either incompetent or, like his predecessors, in the employ of organized crime.
“No,” said Gamache. “I can see how they might come to that conclusion, or have that suspicion. But Enquête was not right.”
“Then what is? I’m begging you for an answer. Give me something. Anything. Other than this pile of shit.” He shoved the papers across his desk with such force they cascaded over the edge. “You’re deliberately putting up this mist of arrests that looks good, until someone realizes they’re minor. Until fucking Enquête realized that.”
“We are arresting murderers.”
“Well, congratulations on that,” said the Premier.
They’d known each other a long time. Since Gamache had been a junior agent and the Premier was articling in the legal aid office.
“They’re calling you the worst Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté in a very long time. And that’s some bar to squeeze under.”
“It certainly is,” said Gamache. “But believe me, I am doing something. I really am.”
The Premier had held his gaze, searching for the lie.
Then Gamache bent down and picked the report off the floor. He handed it back to the Premier, who held the pile, which was heavy on statistics, and light on actual action.
“My own party is circling, smelling blood,” said the Premier. “Yours or mine. They don’t really care. But they want action, or a sacrifice. You have to do something, Armand. Give them what they want. What they deserve. A significant arrest.”
“I am doing something.”
“This”—the Premier laid his hand, with surprising gentleness, on top of the retrieved pages—“is not ‘something.’ Not even close. Please. I’m begging you.”
“And I’m begging you. Trust me,” said Armand quietly. “You have to get me across the finish line.”
“What does that mean?” the Premier had asked, also whispering.
“You know.”
And the Premier, who loved Québec but also loved power, blanched. Knowing he might have to give up one to preserve the other.
Armand Gamache looked at the good man in front of him and wondered which of them would survive the next few months. Weeks. Days. When the St.-Jean-Baptiste fireworks went off at the end of June, which of them would be standing there to see the skies lit up?
Which of them would still be standing?
Chief Superintendent Gamache had taken the train back to Montréal, walking from the station through the old city, to his office. A few heads turned as he passed, recognizing him from the unfortunately popular TV show that had aired the night before.
Or maybe they knew him from past appearances in the media.
Even before he was the most senior officer in the Sûreté, Armand Gamache had been the most recognizable