‘What about if he planned to use it for blackmail?’ Nichol asked.

‘But why destroy it? You’d keep that film safe, wouldn’t you?’ said Lacoste and received a disconcertingly friendly smile.

Bitch, thought Nichol. She looked around and noticed Gamache watching her. Does he know? she wondered. He was standing there so smug and comfortable, surrounded by his team. And her on the outside, always on the outside. Well, that would change.

‘Why destroy pictures of CC being murdered?’ Gamache asked himself, sitting down and staring at the photographs. ‘Unless he’s trying to protect the murderer.’

‘Why would he do that? He doesn’t know anyone round here, does he?’ asked Lemieux.

‘Look into Saul Petrov’s background,’ Gamache said to Nichol. ‘Find out everything you can about him.’ He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes.

Walking to his desk he picked up the video and took it to the evidence room. The small box of items from CC’s garbage was on the floor. He took out the inventory sheet before placing The Lion in Winter back into its spot, then replaced the sheet, gazing at the familiar list. Cereal boxes, bits and pieces of food now tossed but inventoried, the video, a broken bracelet, a boot box and Christmas wrapping. It was a mundane list, except for the video. And the bracelet.

Gamache put on gloves and started rummaging through the box, like a mini-dumpster dive. After a minute the cardboard box was empty, save for a dirty little thing curled in the corner, like an unwanted puppy at the shelter. It was brown and filthy and broken. But what it wasn’t was a bracelet. Gamache put on his half-moon glasses and picked up the object, dangling it at arm’s length. He breathed in sharply then brought it closer to his face, peering at the small object hanging from the worn leather strap.

It wasn’t a bracelet, it was a necklace. With a pendant. A small, tarnished, dirty head. The face of a shrieking eagle.

Gamache knew CC, fastidious, obsessive CC, had never worn this filthy thing. But he knew who had.

Slowly Armand Gamache rose, the images and thoughts tumbling one on top of another. He walked the necklace back to his desk then brought out two documents: the drawing by the police artist and an autopsy photograph of Elle.

When he’d first seen the autopsy photographs of Elle he’d seen a smudging on her chest. It was circular and regular and a different color from the rest of the filth on her body. It was a kind of tarnish that came off impure metal when it reacted to sweat. As soon as he’d seen the autopsy photo he’d known Elle had worn a necklace. A cheap necklace but it must have been precious to her.