said Caroline.
But her voice spoke more about herself than of any affection for her mother. About a need to be included and, perhaps more crucial, a fear of being left out. Left behind.
“What time did you leave?” asked Beauvoir.
“It was an early dinner. I was home by eight,” said Hugo.
“Did he mention wanting to go to your mother’s house?”
“No, though we talked about whether it should be saved or not. You think that’s why he went there?”
“Could be,” said Beauvoir.
He handed them one of his cards with the standard request that they call should they think of anything.
Then he asked for their keys to the house.
They looked surprised. Then not surprised. And handed them over.
After the Baumgartners left, Beauvoir and Gamache joined Agent Cloutier in the living room.
“She hung up,” said Cloutier. “But said I could call back when you were ready.”
She made the call and handed the phone to Beauvoir.
“Bonjour? Madame Ogilvy? This is Chief Inspector Beauvoir. I’m the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec. Yes, it is about Anthony Baumgartner.”
He explained briefly what she would soon see in the news anyway. Then asked the question.
“He had papers at home?” asked Madame Ogilvy. “Statements? Hard copies?”
“Yes. Can you think why?”
She paused before answering, “No.”
“I think you can, madame. I’ll let you consider the question a little longer. Can we meet tomorrow? I’ll bring the statements and letters with me.”
Before he hung up, Gamache touched his arm and whispered something.
“One more question,” said Beauvoir. “Do you have any clients named Kinderoth?”
“We have thousands of clients, Chief Inspector.”
“Can you look it up?”
“Our clients’ names are confidential.”
“We can get a court order.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to.”
Beauvoir rolled his eyes but could tell there was no arguing. If and when it became known that she’d given out confidential information, Madame Ogilvy would have to prove it was forced from her.
Everyone covers their asses, Beauvoir knew.
* * *
“Seems there’s a lot of that going around,” said Beauvoir once they were back in the car.
“What’s that?” asked his father-in-law.
“Suspending people who’ve done nothing wrong. Shifting blame.”
There was a slight grunt of amusement beside him.
This was Jean-Guy’s form of apology. For being abrupt with Gamache. For allowing the man from the Ministère de la Justice, Francis Cournoyer, to get into his head.
He now suspected that had been the whole purpose of the meeting. Everyone else, everything else, were all just props. Extras.
The quiet man in the corner was the lead. And Beauvoir was the audience.
He felt ashamed of himself for letting it happen. For even once believing that when Cournoyer had said, “Ask Gamache,” it was anything other than, as Isabelle had put it, a mindfuck in a public toilet.
Gamache turned to him and smiled. “You do know that all the things I’m accused of doing, I did. I admitted it. Freely. But, unlike Monsieur Baumgartner, I’m not likely to keep my job.”
Now it was Beauvoir’s breath that hung in the air. Hung in the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“When this suspension is lifted, I won’t be returning as Chief Superintendent.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do. There can’t possibly be a head of the Sûreté who’s broken the law.”
Beauvoir stared straight ahead and let that sink in. The heater, on full blast, had melted the frost off the windshield, and although he put the car in gear, his foot remained on the brake.
“The fact Anthony Baumgartner kept his job,” said Gamache, “doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. It’s possible that young assistant took the fall for him. Not the other way around. Who are the partners more likely to protect? A young man barely starting out or a vice president of the company?”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“Is there more happening than you’re telling me?” Beauvoir asked.
Ask Gamache. Despite himself, Beauvoir had just done as Cournoyer suggested.
“Where did that come from?” Gamache asked. “Is that what’s been bothering you? Has someone said something?”
“Is there?”
“If there is, I’m as much in the dark as you. This is political. We both know that. But how high up it goes and what the purpose is, I don’t know. What I do know is that it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. All that matters is getting the drugs back. That’s it. My punishment for releasing them goes far beyond anything a disciplinary committee can possibly do.”
Jean-Guy could see that was true, and already happening. He could see the punishing weight of responsibility. Of guilt. Of fear.
He could sense the anxiety growing to near panic as the Chief