The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

Agent Lacoste was the hunter. Determined, methodical.

And the Chief Inspector? Armand Gamache was their explorer. The one who went where others refused to go, or couldn’t go. Or were too afraid to go. Into the wilderness. Gamache found the chasms, the caves, and the beasts that hid in them.

Beauvoir had long thought Gamache did it because he was afraid of nothing. But he’d come to realize the Chief Inspector had many fears. That was his strength. He recognized it in others. Fear more than anything was the thrust behind the knife, the fist. The blow to the head.

And young Agent Morin? What did he bring to the team? Beauvoir had to admit he’d quite warmed to the young man. But that hadn’t blinded him to his inexperience. So far Beauvoir the bloodhound could smell fear quite clearly in this case.

But it came from Morin.

Beauvoir left the Chief in the living room speaking to his daughter and walked upstairs. As he climbed he hummed an old Weavers tune and hoped Gamache didn’t notice the stuffed animal clutched in his hand.

When Monsieur Béliveau arrived to open his general store the next morning he had a customer already waiting. Agent Paul Morin stood up from the bench on the veranda and introduced himself to the elderly grocer.

“How can I help you?” Monsieur Béliveau asked as he unlocked the door. It wasn’t often people in Three Pines were so pressed for his produce they were actually waiting for him. But then, this young man wasn’t a villager.

“Do you have any paraffin?”

Monsieur Béliveau’s stern face broke into a smile. “I have everything.”

Paul Morin had never been in the store before and now he looked around. The dark wooden shelves were neatly stacked with tins. Sacks of dog food and birdseed leaned against the counter. Above the shelves were old boxes with backgammon games. Checkers, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly. Paint by numbers and jigsaw puzzles were stacked in neat, orderly rows. Dried goods were displayed along one wall, paint, boots, birdfeeders were down another.

“Over there, by the Mason jars. Are you planning on doing some pickling?” he chuckled.

“Do you sell much?” Morin asked.

“At this time of year? It’s all I can do to keep it in stock.”

“And how about this?” He held up a tin. “Sell many of these?”

“A few. But most people go into the Canadian Tire in Cowansville for that sort of thing, or the building supply shops. I just keep some around in case.”

“When was the last time you sold some?” the young agent asked as he paid for his goods. He didn’t expect an answer really, but he felt he had to ask.

“July.”

“Really?” Morin suspected he’d have to work on his “interrogation” face. “How’d you remember that?”

“It’s what I do. You get to know the habits of people. And when they buy something unusual, like this,” he held up the tin just before placing it in the paper bag, “I notice. Actually, two people bought some. Regular run on the market.”

Agent Paul Morin left Monsieur Béliveau’s shop with his goods, and a whole lot of unexpected information.

Agent Isabelle Lacoste started her day with the more straightforward of the interviews. She pressed the button and the elevator swished shut and took her to the top of the Banque Laurentienne tower in Montreal. As she waited she looked out at the harbor in one direction and Mont Royal with its huge cross in the other. Splendid glass buildings clustered all around downtown, reflecting the sun, reflecting the aspirations and achievements of this remarkable French city.

Isabelle Lacoste was always surprised by the amount of pride she felt when looking at downtown Montreal. The architects had managed to make it both impressive and charming. Montrealers never turned their back on the past. The Québécois were like that, for better or worse.

“Je vous en prie,” the receptionist smiled and indicated a now-opened door.

“Merci.” Agent Lacoste walked into a quite grand office where a slender, athletic-looking middle-aged man was standing at his desk. He came round, extending his hand, and introduced himself as Yves Charpentier.

“I have some of the information you asked for,” he said in cultured French. It delighted Lacoste when she could speak her own language to top executives. Her generation could. But she’d heard her parents and grandparents talk, and knew enough recent history to know had it been thirty years earlier she’d probably be speaking to a unilingual Englishman. Her English was perfect, but that wasn’t the point.

She accepted the offer of coffee.