All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,116
Gamache knew as he stood up, no decision to be made.
“Come with me, please.”
More than one set of eyes watched them leave bar Joséphine.
CHAPTER 35
Nothing,” said Reine-Marie, staring at the screen as though accusing it of willfully withholding information.
While waiting for Mrs. McGillicuddy’s reply about Stephen and Pinot, she’d gone back over Agence France-Presse stories on the dates Stephen had jotted down.
She was getting frustrated. This was, after all, her forte. Tracking down information. Finding things hidden in full view but overlooked.
She was, she knew, overlooking something. It was the reflection in the screen she was annoyed at. Not the screen itself.
Then she had an idea. “Suppose the dates are when the thing actually happened?”
“Yes,” said Jean-Guy. “Isn’t that what we’re looking up?”
“No, we’re looking up the dates the Agence France-Presse stories ran.”
“Wouldn’t they be the same thing?”
“Not necessarily,” said Reine-Marie. “Sometimes it takes a while for an event to be discovered, or to be reported on. Especially an event in an isolated region like, say, Patagonia. We need to check stories on either side of the dates.”
A few minutes later she called Jean-Guy over to her terminal.
“Look at this. An Agence France-Presse reporter disappeared in Patagonia four years ago. It happened on the first date Stephen’s written down, but the story didn’t run until three days later. That’s why we didn’t find it the first time.”
Overhearing this, Judith and Allida went to look.
“Anik Guardiola. Twenty-four. Stringer for AFP,” Judith read. “Disappeared in the mountains of Patagonia while on a hiking trip.”
“Alone?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Apparently.”
“Who hikes in those mountains alone? Did they find her?” he asked.
“Just a moment,” said Reine-Marie as she put the young woman’s name in the search engine.
“Agence France-Presse sent representatives to the area,” she said, leaning into her screen and reading. “And pressured the local government.”
“The police, the carabineros, didn’t seem to take it seriously,” said Allida.
“Her body was eventually found in a gorge,” said Judith, from her terminal behind them, where she’d also brought up the story. “If you go a week later you’ll find the report. The police ruled her death an accident. Said that she’d fallen, but AFP wasn’t satisfied. Their head of news says neither her phone nor her computer were found. But then …” There was a pause as Judith scrolled. “It goes quiet. The story dies.”
They looked at each other.
“Dies? The cops and the paper just dropped it?” said Allida. “Does that make sense?”
“Non,” said Jean-Guy, staring at the screen. “Someone was bought off.”
“You think she was murdered?” Reine-Marie asked.
“I think she found out something someone really wanted to hide,” he said, his fingers hitting the keys, chasing information. “But what?”
More tapping. Tapping. Tapp—
“Got it,” said Judith.
The Chief Librarian had let the others follow the Guardiola lead while she took a different tack.
It had struck them as strange that the dates were all in chronological order, except the final entry. The last thing he’d written was, in fact, the earliest date. They’d thought perhaps he’d transposed numbers, but now it seemed not.
It was the last thing he’d discovered. But the first thing that had happened.
“A month before Anik Guardiola disappeared, she wrote a story about the derailment of several train cars in Colombia,” said Judith, as the others crowded around. “It was a minor story, so wasn’t picked up by Agence France-Presse until a week later and sent out as a brief.”
“Colombia? Not Patagonia?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Non. See here? Colombia.”
“Was anyone killed?” asked Allida.
“Non,” said Judith, scanning. “No one died. It was a freight train.”
“Carrying ore from the neodymium mine?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Non. Grain.”
“So why was Anik Guardiola interested?” asked Judith.
“Why was Stephen?” asked Reine-Marie.
Jean-Guy picked up his phone. It was time to call Armand.
“Oui?”
“Patron? We’ve found something.”
Jean-Guy did not identify himself. While he suspected this precaution was meaningless, it made him feel slightly better about breaking their silence.
Gamache and Madame Arbour were in a taxi moving across Paris. The light turned red, and in the pause he watched patrons in a brasserie, spilling out onto the sidewalk, drinking and eating.
Carefree.
Though he knew very few people were ever really carefree. But there were moments of bliss. He thought of his last moment of bliss. Walking along after dinner Friday night. Before …
Like all those locked in a nightmare, he wished he could wind back the clock. Set down the cracked cup.
Then the light changed and the taxi moved on through the night. As he listened to Jean-Guy.
“It looks like Stephen did mean Agence France-Presse when he wrote AFP.”