Gamache looked out the window at the fire inspector sweeping the snow from his pickup truck. The sun had gone down and in the light of the Christmas decorations he could see snow tossed into the air, like tiny storms, as villagers shoveled their walks and driveways. On the village green Ruth Zardo whacked at her bench to get the snow off then plopped down on it.

Must be five o’clock, thought Gamache, checking his watch, then picking up his phone he dialed Agent Lacoste. She was at the Sûreté lab waiting for the results on the necklace and the Li Bien ball.

‘Oui, allô?’

‘It’s Gamache.’

‘I’m in the car, almost there, chief. You won’t believe what they found.’

Half an hour later the team had reassembled in the Incident Room.

‘Look.’ Lacoste handed the report to Gamache who put on his half-moon reading glasses. ‘I decided to drive it down rather than tell you about it. Thought you’d need to see for yourself.’

His brows were drawn together in concentration, as though struggling through a document in a little known language.

‘What?’ snapped Beauvoir, reaching out to take the papers. But Gamache didn’t hand them over. Instead he continued to stare at them, turning from one page to the next then back again. Finally he looked up at them over his glasses, his deep brown eyes puzzled and worried. Almost in a dream he handed the pages to Beauvoir, who snatched them up and started reading.

‘But this is bullshit,’ he said after a minute skimming the information. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Who was the technician?’ He checked the signature at the bottom and grunted. ‘Still, must have been an off day.’

‘I thought so too,’ said Lacoste, enjoying the looks on their faces. After all, she’d had the hour and a half drive down from Montreal to think about the results. ‘I had him do them twice. That’s why I’m late.’

The papers made their way round the room, arriving at Agent Nichol last.

Gamache took them back and placed them neatly in front of him. The room was silent while they all thought. The fire crackled in the woodstove and the coffee bubbled and perked, sending little puffs of aroma into the room. Lacoste got up and poured herself a cup.

‘What do you think it means?’ Gamache asked her.

‘It means Crie is no longer in danger.’

‘Go on.’ Gamache leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

‘It means we’ve found out who killed L, and that person’s no threat to Crie,’ said Lacoste, watching their faces as she spoke. Gamache, she could tell, was with her, though one step behind. Beauvoir was listening, struggling to keep up, and the other two were simply baffled.