Page 19

“Just that they were out for a walk and came across her body,” said Chernin.

Gamache turned to Agent Beauvoir. “What do you think?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Your thoughts.”

Beauvoir took a breath, and actually thought. It was, he realized, the first time he’d really stopped to consider something since he’d arrived at the detachment. It was also, he realized, the first time he’d been asked to.

He glanced over at Inspector Chernin, expecting her to be surprised or even annoyed that the Chief had consulted him. But she was just watching him too, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Nobody comes out here for a stroll. I think they were up to something. Poaching probably. Fishing illegally. This lake is known for trout and walleye. Maybe hunting moose or deer without a license. It’s the season. You haven’t found a rifle or rods or other equipment?”

Chernin shook her head. “But…” She looked at the thick forest and the lake.

It was, for the homicide detectives tasked with investigating murders outside of Québec cities, the perpetual problem. In a city, losing a body or a weapon might be a challenge.

Out here? You could lose a tank.

A loon gave another call, and over Beauvoir’s shoulder Gamache saw a formation of Canada geese heading south. Hurry, he thought. Winter’s closing in.

“I’d like a chart of the currents in this lake,” he said. “The local bureau de protection de l’environnement should have it. If not, try the Fish and Game Club.”

“Will do,” said Chernin. She waved toward the man and woman in the car. “If they were poachers, that might explain why they’re here, but it doesn’t make them murderers.”

“Unless they were her dealers,” said Beauvoir, pivoting. “Meeting out here where no one could see.”

“They’re from Montréal,” said Chernin. “Are you saying they came all the way up here to make a five-and-dime sale? Then killed her? Two days ago. Then returned to the body, and reported it?”

“They knew their DNA would be found,” said Beauvoir. The pivot had turned into a scramble. “This way they could explain it.”

They all looked over to the car, where the hikers were now leaning forward, aware they were being discussed.

Gamache shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?” asked Beauvoir, peeved at being doubted.

“For one, she wasn’t killed here.”

“How do you know?”

“You told me yourself. Think about it,” said Gamache, before turning back to Chernin. “Why not just leave her in the forest where she’d never have been found.”

Clotilde Arsenault would have then joined the long, and growing, list of missing women.

She was a known prostitute. A junkie. The local cops wouldn’t try too hard.

Her children would spend the rest of their lives wondering. Looking into the faces of pale women with blond stringy hair. In restaurants, shops, walking toward them on the street.

Even when they themselves were elderly, they would still be looking. Wondering if that young woman sitting over there could be their mother.

Could that possibly be the reason Clotilde had been left where she might be found? To spare her children?

Was a person capable of murder also, in that same moment, capable of kindness?

Gamache took a deep breath, his exhale coming out in a stream of vapor as the temperature dropped still further.

He turned toward his car.