Gamache looked around the room, and sniffed. There was a smell of burning, and not of the wood in the fireplace. This was more pungent, less natural. He felt his nerves sharpen and everything seemed to slow down. Was there a fire? An electrical fire perhaps? These old chalets were often slapped together by some backwoods pioneer who knew a great deal about the cycles of nature and almost nothing about wiring. Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the walls, the outlets, the lamps for wisps of smoke, as his ears searched out a telltale crackling as the electricity leaped and arced and his nose struggled to identify the strange acrid smell.

Beside him Lemieux was suddenly aware of the chief’s heightened attention. He stared at Gamache, trying to figure out what the problem was.

‘What’s that smell, Monsieur Petrov?’ Gamache asked.

‘I don’t smell anything,’ he said.

‘I do,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Smells like plastic or something like that.’

Now Lemieux could smell it too.

‘Oh, that,’ said Petrov with a laugh. ‘I tossed some old film into the fire. Outdated stuff. I guess I should have just put it in the garbage. Wasn’t thinking.’ He smiled disarmingly. Gamache walked over to the fireplace and sure enough there was a sizzling blob of black and yellow. An old roll of film. Or maybe not so old. Either way, it was destroyed.

‘You’re right,’ said Gamache. Petrov was used to people, especially CC, looking right through him, but this was a new experience. He had the impression Gamache was looking into him. ‘You weren’t thinking. That may not have been a wise thing to do.’

Petrov’s new life was barely half an hour old and already he was feeling regret. Still, this quiet man looked as though he might understand. Petrov showed them to chairs then sat down himself. He was feeling almost giddy with anticipation. He could hardly wait to confess and get on with life. Start again. He almost felt tearful and was deeply grateful to this homicide inspector for hearing his confession. Saul Petrov had been raised a staunch Catholic and like most of his generation had rejected the church, the priests and all the trappings of religion. But, now, in this modest even silly room where in place of stained glass there were plastic placemats stapled to the wall, he felt like falling to his knees.

Oh, for a fresh start.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Gamache didn’t say a word. Petrov looked into his kindly, thoughtful eyes and suddenly no one else existed.

‘CC and I were having an affair. Had been for about a year. I’m not sure, but I think her husband knows about it. We weren’t very discreet, I’m afraid.’

‘When were you last together?’ Beauvoir asked.