Page 172
“Probably used someone else’s computer. Easy enough to do in a place that large, with that many terminals.”
“We’ve sent the seeds to the Université Laval’s plant biology department. They might be able to tell us if it can be used as a bioweapon.”
“Good thinking.”
“And I spoke to the lab technicians about the cassette. They’re worried if they keep at it, they’ll destroy it completely.”
“Tell them to keep trying. It’s not useful to us now, they might as well—hold on.”
Gaston Comeau was waving at him.
“What is it?”
“Réunion. A lot of what they find are old sixteen-millimeter films that need to be restored. As well as photographs. Cassette recordings. They have a lab designed just for that.”
“Did you hear that?”
“I did,” said Jean-Guy. “But we can’t exactly ask Charles Fillmore for help.”
“I can get you in,” said Comeau. “I still work there. It wouldn’t be trespassing.”
“Well, not technically,” said Isabelle in the background.
“Go in tonight,” Gamache said.
On their way back to Three Pines, they stopped at Jeanette’s mother’s home.
Family and friends were gathering. There was a cordon of comfort around Janice Bouchard, though very little comfort penetrated.
As soon as Gamache saw Madame Bouchard, he knew she was unwell, with an illness that went beyond grief. While he watched, Gaston and Madame Bouchard embraced. There seemed to be genuine affection there.
They stayed for a cup of tea.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he asked as he balanced a cookie on a fine bone china cup and saucer.
He hated what he had to do next, but it was necessary.
“Here.” The tiny woman, neatly dressed in a skirt and sweater that fit a bit too loosely, showed them into what looked like a craft room.
“Do you know why Jeanette was in England?” Armand’s voice was gentle as he held her eyes.
“No. I knew she was on assignment, but she never talks about her work.”
Madame Bouchard was on the sofa, Gaston beside her. Armand watched this, not trusting that Comeau didn’t have a hidden agenda for this poor woman.
He pushed the desk chair over so that he was directly facing her and put the untouched cup and saucer down.
“But this investigation was different,” he said, softly. “Wasn’t it.”
Madame Bouchard looked about to protest.
“We need your help,” he added. “Please. Nothing can hurt your daughter now.”
Her shoulders sagged even as she raised her chin. “She’d taken on what she called a side gig working for some family named LaPlante.”
LaPlante. The plant. Was that how Jeanette had framed it?
“So, this wasn’t a Réunion assignment?” He needed to be sure.
