Gabri decided the most strategic position would be the front desk. After about thirty seconds of intense vigilance he decided maybe he should play free cell on the computer while he waited for either Gamache to arrive or the witch to kill him. No need to be bored. As he moved the mouse a picture popped up on the screen.
Ephedra, it said. Gabri read, considered placing an order, then decided to call Olivier instead.
‘I wonder if he’s seen it,’ Clara said, lowering her toast. She was finally full, if not fed up.
‘He looked perfectly relaxed when we ran into him this morning,’ said Myrna.
‘He’d hardly show it, would he?’ said Peter, taking Clara’s toast.
‘What is it with that Arnot case? That was years ago,’ said Myrna.
‘Five at least,’ agreed Peter. He sat up and put his hands on the table in a studied, relaxed manner. He’d once been snapped at by Ruth for being pompous and pedantic. Both unfair, he knew, but still it had stung. Since then he’d been careful not to appear too formal or superior when telling people things they might not know. Like how to cut a tomato properly or hold a newspaper, or giving them information, like the Arnot case.
Peter had read about it at the time. It was all over the news, the cause célèbre for months.
‘I remember now.’ Myrna turned to Peter. ‘You became obsessed with it.’
‘I did not become obsessed. It was an important case.’
‘It was interesting,’ agreed Clara. ‘Of course, we didn’t know Gamache yet, but everyone had heard of him.’
‘He was one of the stars of the Sûreté,’ said Myrna.
‘Until the Arnot case,’ said Peter. ‘The defense made Gamache out to be a self-serving hypocrite. Happy to take the honors that went with power but fundamentally weak. Driven by jealousy and pride.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Myrna, remembering more as she cast her mind back. ‘Didn’t the defense imply he’d set Arnot up?’
Peter nodded. ‘Arnot was a superintendent in the serious crimes squad. At the trial it came out that Arnot had ignored some violent crimes, even murder. Just let it happen.’
‘Especially when it involved natives,’ said Myrna, nodding.
‘I was just about to say that. Eventually, Pierre Arnot had ordered his most trusted officers to actually kill.’
‘Why?’ Clara asked, trying to remember back that far.
Peter shrugged. ‘The notion put forward by papers like this,’ he held up his copy of La Journée, ‘was that Arnot was just allowing the criminals to kill each other instead of innocent people. A community service.’
There was silence in Myrna’s loft as the three remembered the shocking revelations. All the more shocking since the Québécois, French and English, had respect, even affection for the Sûreté. Until this. The trial had ended all that.
Peter remembered watching the news. Watching the senior Sûreté officers arriving grim-faced every day. The microphones and cameras thrust into their faces. At first they’d arrived together, a show of unity. But in the end two were cut out of the herd.
Gamache and his immediate superior. A Superintendent someone. The Superintendent had been the only one to publicly stand beside Gamache. It was almost touching to watch the two men growing wearier and more drawn as the revelations and accusations and bitterness increased.
But still Gamache had smiled when asked the same stupid, leading, insulting questions by reporters. He’d been calm, old-fashioned in his courtesy. Even when he’d been accused of disloyalty. Even when, finally, he’d been accused of being an accomplice. Of knowing about the murders and giving his tacit approval. After all, Arnot had implied, how could the head of homicide not have known?
‘It was awful,’ said Clara. ‘Like watching the Hindenburg crash over and over in slow motion. Something noble had been wrecked.’
Peter wondered whether Clara was thinking of Gamache or the Sûreté itself.
‘The papers were sure torn,’ he said. ‘Most supported Gamache, but some called for his resignation.’
‘That paper,’ Myrna jutted her head toward La Journée, folded next to Peter, ‘ran editorials saying Gamache should be in the same cell as Arnot. Let the two kill each other.’
‘What happened to Arnot and the others?’ Clara asked.
‘In some penitentiary somewhere. It’s a wonder they haven’t been killed by the inmates yet.’
‘I bet that asshole Arnot is running the place,’ said Myrna. She balled up her napkin and threw it with as much force as a paper napkin could achieve onto the table. The other two stared at her, surprised by her sudden anger.
