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“Special Handling Unit,” said the bored voice.
“This is Chief Inspector Gamache of the Sûreté.”
“Yessir.”
Gamache had the call on speakerphone in the car. He could almost see the fellow sit up straight.
“I need to speak to the head guard.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s five thirty-five in the morning. He doesn’t come on until nine.”
“Get him on the phone.”
“He’s at home.”
“Then transfer me to his home. Now.” He pulled to the side of the road.
“I’m not allowed—”
“Do it!”
“Yessir.” The rattled guard rattled off the number, then transferred the call.
“What is it?” said the sleepy voice on the line a few rings later.
“This’s Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté.”
There was a groan and some rustling. “Fucking hell. It’s”—there was a pause as he checked the time—“five forty. Who gave you my number?”
“I need to know about one of your prisoners.”
“Call me at the office after nine. Au revoir.”
“John Fleming.”
The line sounded dead, but Gamache could hear breathing. Sure enough, a moment later the head guard said, “Why?”
“Is he still in the SHU?”
“Of course he is.”
“You don’t have to look him up?”
“You don’t forget or lose track of a prisoner like John Fleming.”
“I’m on my way. Meet me at the SHU in half an hour.”
“It’s five—”
“I know what time it is,” barked Gamache. “Be there.”
A soft light had appeared in the morning sky.
Jean-Guy poured himself a mug of coffee and left the Old Train Station to sit on the bench on the village green. The air was fresh, bracing, and he needed both after their discovery. Most of all, he needed to get away from the damned painting.
Beauvoir had offered to go with the Chief Inspector to the prison, but Gamache had declined, asking him to try to find out who the ring belonged to.
Jean-Guy dug into his jacket pocket and brought it out again, tilting it this way and that, hoping the early-morning sun just might catch some initials or a number that had almost completely worn away over time.
