Page 29

“Merci,” he said.

Agent Moel introduced herself and took a seat beside Fiona, who moved a few inches away, while Sam remained stuck to Agent Beauvoir’s side.

“Do you mind answering some questions now?” the Chief Inspector asked, looking from Sam to Fiona.

Sam shrugged and Fiona nodded.

He started off with some simple questions. How long had they lived there? What school did they go to? What grades were they in? Questions with clear, definite answers. Ones without, he hoped, an emotional resonance.

Then he moved to the next level.

“Is your father part of your lives?”

The brief report on Clotilde did not list a husband or partner, or father to the children.

“No,” said Fiona. “Mom never talked about him.”

“And we never asked,” said Sam. “We don’t want to go live with him, if that’s what you’re getting at. You can’t pawn us off on him.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

In fact, the thought that had come to Armand in the kitchen was what the children’s father would have done if he found out what Clotilde had done to the children.

Would he have lost his mind? Lost his head? Would he have found his hand closing around a brick? Had he lashed out, killing her?

But if that was the case, the father would have to be someone visiting from elsewhere, not a local man. Someone for whom this situation would be news. Someone the children might not have even met.

Gamache’s mind went to the hikers. A man and woman. About the right ages.

“Did your mother have any visitors just before she disappeared?”

“No,” said Fiona. “No one visited.”

Gamache leaned forward. “That isn’t true, is it? You can tell me. You need to tell me. We’ll find out eventually.”

“Just the usual,” mumbled Fiona.

“Do you know their names?” He kept his voice neutral, matter-of-fact.

Fiona shook her head. “Just nicknames. Mr. Smells Like Shit. Mr. Fat-ass. Mr. Garbage Breath.”

Gamache suspected there were other, less juvenile, names they called these men. He certainly had some himself.

Beauvoir listened to this, perplexed. It seemed the Chief Inspector knew something he did not. He looked over at Sam, whose expressive face had gone blank. Jean-Guy had never seen a face so devoid of thought or human emotion. It was like the boy had turned into a waxwork.

“Did your mother have a special friend?” Gamache asked.

“Is that supposed to be code?” Fiona demanded.

“Just a question. But an important one.”

“No. No one special,” said Sam, his voice as flat as his expression. “You’ll never find out who did this, will you.”

“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.

“I just know. We know cops. They don’t care.”

“I do. Agent Beauvoir here does. Agent Moel does.”