‘What can I do for you?’ Lyon liked the sound of his voice now. Calm and measured and in control. Just don’t fuck up.

‘I need to ask you some questions, but first, how’s your daughter?’

‘Crie?’

Why was it, Gamache wondered, that every time he asked about Crie, Lyon seemed perplexed, almost surprised to discover he had a daughter, or that anyone cared.

‘She’s doing all right, I suppose. Ate something for lunch. I put the heat up so she’s not so cold.’

‘Is she speaking?’

‘No, but then she never did much.’

Gamache felt like shaking this lethargic man who seemed to live in a world of cotton batting, insulated and muffled. Without being invited Gamache walked into the living room and sat down opposite Crie. The girl’s clothes had changed. Now she wore white shorts that strangled her legs, and a pink halter top. Her hair was in pigtails, and her face blank.

‘Crie, it’s Chief Inspector Gamache. How are you?’

No reply.

‘It’s cold in here. Do you mind if I give you my sweater?’ He removed his cardigan and draped it over her bare shoulders, then turned to Lyon.

‘When I leave I suggest you put a blanket round her and light the fireplace.’

‘But it doesn’t throw much heat,’ said Lyon. Don’t sound petulant. Sound strong, sound like the man of the house. Sound decisive. ‘Besides, there’s no wood.’

‘There’s wood in the basement. I’ll help you bring it up, and you’re probably right about the heat, but the fire is cheerful and bright. Those things are important as well. Now, I have some questions for you.’ Gamache walked out of the living room and into the hall. He didn’t want to spend much time there. He wanted to meet Myrna in her bookstore before it closed.

‘What was your wife’s real name?’

‘De Poitiers.’

‘Her real name.’

Lyon looked completely at sea. ‘Not de Poitiers? What’re you saying?’

‘She made that up. You didn’t know?’

Lyon shook his head.

‘What are your finances, Monsieur Lyon?’

He opened his mouth then clamped it shut before the lie could escape. There was no longer any need to lie, to pretend to be something and someone he wasn’t. CC was the one who insisted and had made him go along. Pretend they were born to be in a house like this, the manor house, the one on the hill. Born to greatness. Born to riches.

‘I signed over my pension to buy this house,’ he admitted. ‘We’re in way over our heads.’

He was surprised how easy that was. CC had told him they could never admit the truth. If people knew what life was really like for them, they’d be ruined. But deceit and secrecy had brought them to ruin anyway. And now Richard Lyon told the truth and nothing bad happened.