A Better Man
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #15
- Год: 2019
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781466873711
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Better Man». Краткое содержание книги:
It's Gamache's first day back as head of the homicide department, a job he temporarily shares with his previous second-in-command, Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Floodwaters are rising across the province. In the middle of the turmoil, a father approaches Gamache, pleading for help in finding his daughter.
As crisis piles upon crisis, Gamache tries to hold off the encroaching chaos, and realizes the search for Vivienne Godin should be abandoned. But with a daughter of his own, he finds himself developing a profound, and perhaps unwise, empathy for her distraught father.
Increasingly hounded by the question, how would you feel..., he resumes the search.
As the rivers rise, and the social media onslaught against Gamache becomes crueler, a body is discovered. And in the tumult, mistakes are made.
In the next novel in this constantly surprising series that deepens and darkens as it evolves (The New York Times Book Review), Gamache must face a horrific possibility, and a burning question.
What would you do if your child's killer walked free?
“Could it have been caused by reaching out for the railing,” Gamache asked. “And having it break?”
Dr. Harris lifted up Vivienne’s hand to take a closer look.
Then, stepping away from the body, Dr. Harris stood straight and lifted both hands in front of her.
Anyone would have thought she was being threatened by the two Sûreté officers.
Her face was intent. Her body rigid in feigned alarm. Then she leaned away from them and reached behind her. With her right hand.
“What height is the railing?”
“Ninety-eight centimeters,” said Beauvoir.
Dr. Harris adjusted her hand to just over three feet off the floor. Then she nodded and walked over to her desk.
Doing quick calculations of Vivienne Godin’s height. The height of the railing. The angle of the cut on her hand and the likely trajectory of her body. The coroner then returned to the metal slab.
“What’s the thickness of the handrail?”
Beauvoir needed to consult his notes for that and gave the dimension to her.
Harris measured the wound and reexamined it closely.
“Still no splinters, but I’ll do a microscopic examination. There might be something wedged into the flesh. It looks likely that it was caused when she fell and not when she was in the water.”
“How can you tell that?” asked Beauvoir, stepping closer.
“Because the cut starts here”—Harris pointed to just above Vivienne’s wrist, where the palm began—“and tears up to her middle finger. It would be unlikely a cut like this would be made when a person was going headfirst down the river. Her hands would be out in front of her, if possible, and a cut would go from fingers down, not wrist up.”
“You think it was made when she was going backward, not forward,” said Gamache, also moving closer. He put his glasses back on.
“I do.”
“So Vivienne was pushed backward while on the bridge,” said Beauvoir, and when Dr. Harris didn’t contradict him, he went on. “She reached for the railing”—he also mimicked the action—“to stop herself, and it broke.”
There was what felt like an eternal silence while the two Sûreté officers stared at the coroner. And the careful coroner considered.
“Probably.”
“Yes.” Beauvoir clenched both fists in excitement, knowing what that would mean to their investigation.
“Probably,” said Gamache, more cautious. “But not definitive?”
“No. It’s likely that’s what happened. I could testify to it. But the defense could argue that it was caused in the water. That her body was twisting around so it was at times going backward down the river, and that’s when the cut was made. It would be difficult, but just possible. I’d have to testify to that, too.”
“What do you need to be sure?” asked Gamache.
“What we don’t have. A splinter that matches the wood from the railing.” Then she paused. “You say it was rotten?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. Perking up. Noticing the slight shift in her tone. “Very.”
“Do you have a sample?”
“We’ve removed that whole section. It’s in the lab.”
“Good. Have them test for spores. For algae. For microscopic traces of organisms. Lots of things make their home in rotting wood. And flesh. I’ll take samples from the cut and test as well. It’s possible not everything was flushed out. We’ll see if what’s found on the wood matches what’s in the cut.”
“And if it does, that would place her on that bridge,” said Gamache. “Going backward through the railing. It would prove the wound wasn’t made after she went into the water.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“But,” said Gamache.
“But,” said Beauvoir, looking at him. Knowing what he was thinking and coming to the same conclusion.
“But what?” asked Dr. Harris.
Gamache nodded to Beauvoir, inviting the lead investigator to explain.
“A clever defense would still argue that she might’ve tripped. She was drinking, after all. She might’ve just lost her balance and fallen backward. Or she might’ve been leaning against the rail and it broke.”
“That I can refute,” said the coroner. “By the angle of the cut, she was at least two feet from it when she reached back and fell—”
“Or was pushed,” said Beauvoir.
“—against it. And yes, she was trying to save herself. So you can rule out suicide at least.”
Gamache exhaled.
It was far from the first time he’d stood over the corpse of a woman who’d been punched and kicked, belittled and shamed and pushed to the end of her rope. And beyond.
Vivienne Godin, it seemed, had reached the end and had made a choice that cold and dark April night. She’d chosen life. For herself and her baby girl.
Le beau risque. The great risk. The beautiful risk. To climb out of the hole and start again.
Like Annie and Jean-Guy, heading to Paris with their young and growing family. Away from the dangers here. To start fresh.
But while they could escape, Vivienne could not.
Once again, Gamache felt the tightening in his stomach.
Isabelle Lacoste stood in the doorway of the Cowansville detachment, leaning on her cane. And looked around the open room.
“She’s over there,” said the receptionist, waving toward Agent Cloutier, working at her laptop.
“Merci.”
But the receptionist had already left.
Heads turned as she limped through the room. There was about her an air of ease and confidence. This stranger who belonged.
Then, one by one, they realized this was no stranger. Though most had never met Superintendent Lacoste, they knew her by reputation. Knew what she’d done. And what had, as a result, been done to her. The cane being only the most visible sign.
“Superintendent,” said one young agent, getting up to stand at his desk.
“Bonjour,” said Lacoste, not bothering to correct him and explain she was on leave. Though the rank still held.
“Agent Cloutier,” said Lacoste as she approached the desk.
Lysette Cloutier gave a start and looked up into the familiar face. Then she quickly stood up, smiling.
“Patron. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you’d be with the Chief Inspector. Sssss.”
Lacoste laughed. With more than one, the grammar became problematic.
“I’ve struck out on my own,” she said. “Are you free?”
“For sure. Do you need my help?”
“You seem to be working on something.”
“I traced the IP address for Carl Tracey’s website. It’s through a local server, and the billing address is a home here in Cowansville, registered in the tax rolls to the same woman I told you about last night. Pauline Vachon.”
Lacoste was slightly surprised Lysette Cloutier could remember anything from their call the night before.
“So that confirms it,” she said, taking a seat. “And we have an address. Well done.”
The website was on Cloutier’s laptop, and Lacoste scrolled through. It showed a man bending over a wheel, intent on the lump of clay he was forming. Down the sides of the page, there were photographs of different works.
“Huh,” said Lacoste. “Quite nice.”
“Yes. He’s talented.” Cloutier would give him that. “Then I went onto the Instagram account and looked around. Not particularly interesting. Just what they want us to see.”
“Yes,” said Lacoste, cautious now. “We talked about this, too, last night. I told you not to do anything else. We don’t want to alert them that the police are interested in any possible private account.”
“Right, well, we’re in.”
“In where? In what?”