Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1)

When she appeared, Matthew at her side, Gamache got up and took her hand. She sat at the chair offered, as thougt she’d become a guest in her own home. In her own kitchen.

‘We have the results of the lab tests’. Gamache launched right into it. It would be curel to mince words. ‘Jane Neal’s blood was on the bow we found in your basement. It was also on some pieces of clothing belonging to Philippe. The arrow tip matches the wound. The feathers found in the wound wer of the same type and vintage as the feathers in the old quiver. We believe your son accidentally killed Jane Neal’.

There it was.

‘What will happen to him ?’ Matthew asked, all fight had fled. ‘I’d like to talk to him,’ said M. Guimette. My job is to represent him. I came here with the police but I don’t work for them. The Quebec Guardians Office is independent of the police. In fact, I work for Philippe’.

‘I see,’ said Matthew. Would he have to go to jail ?’

‘We spoke in the car on our way out here. Chief Inspector Gamache has no intention of charging Philippe with manslaughter.’

‘So what might happen to him ?’ Matthew asked again.

‘He’ll be taken to the police station in St Rémy and charged with “mischief”.’ Matthew’s brows went up. Had he known you could be charged with mischief’ his own youth might have been far different. He’d been a mischief-maker like his son. It now seemed literally true.

‘But he’s just a boy,’ said Suzanne, who felt she should be saying something in her son”s defense.

‘He’s fourteen. Old enough to know that when he does something wrong,’ however unintentionally, there s a consequence. Was Philippe one of the boys who threw manure at Messieurs Dubeau and Brulé?’

The change of subject seemed to revive Matthew.

‘Yes. He came home and bragged about it.’ Matthew could remember staring at his little boy in the kitchen, wondering who this stranger was.

‘But are you sure? I know Miss Neal called out three names, Philippe’s being one of them, but she may have gotten at least one of them wrong.’

‘Really?’ Suzanne said, hope reviving for a moment before she remembered it didn’t matter. A few days ago she’d been mortified by the thought her son had done such a thing, and been caught. Now it was nothing compared to the next thing he’d done.

‘May I see him?’ M. Guimette asked. ‘Just me and Chief Inspector Gamache.’

Matthew hesitated.

‘Remember, Mr Croft, I don’t work for the police.’ Croft really had no choice anyway and he knew it. He took them upstairs and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He put his hand on the knob then took it off and knocked yet again, this time calling his son’s name. Gamache watched all this with interest. Finally he reached out, turned the door knob and let himself into Philippe’s room.

Philippe had his back to the door and was nodding his head. Even from a distance Gamache could hear the tinny, thin line of music coming from the headphones. Philippe was wearing the uniform of the day, baggy sweatshirt and baggy pants. The walls were plastered with posters of rock and rap groups, all made up of petulant, pouting young men. Barely visible between the posters was the wallpaper. Little hockey players in red Canadiens jerseys.

Guimette touched Philippe on the shoulder. Philippe’s eyes flew open and he gave them a look of such loathing both men felt momentarily assaulted. Then the look disappeared. Philippe had hit the wrong target, not for the first time.

‘Yeah, what do you want?’

‘Philippe, I’m Claude Guimette from the Guardians Office, and this is Chief Inspector Gamache of the Sûreté.’

Gamache had expected to meet a frightened boy, and he knew fear came in many forms. Aggression was common. People who were angry were almost always fearful. Cockiness, tears, apparent calm but nervous hands and eyes. Something almost always betrayed the fear. But Philippe Croft didn’t seem afraid. He seemed ... what? Triumphant.

‘So?’

‘We’re here about the death of Jane Neal.’

‘Yeah. I heard about that. What’s it to do with me?’

‘We think you did it, Philippe.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Her blood was on the bow found in your basement, along with your prints. Her blood was also on some of your clothing.’

‘That’s it?’

‘There was blood on your bike, too. Miss Neal’s blood.’

Philippe was looking pleased with himself.