Agent Robert Lemieux had put on his Sunday best and polished his shoes and now was grateful the little voice of instinct had spoken, and even more grateful it had been heard. Beside him a young woman agent sipped her coffee and leaned forward attentively. She’d introduced herself as Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Lemieux wouldn’t describe her as attractive, not the kind you’d notice immediately in a bar. But then she didn’t seem the sort to hang around bars. More the kind you’d find on Mont St-Rémy. Natural and relaxed, without artifice. Her clothes were simple and well cut to fit her comfortable body, a light sweater, scarf and slacks. Her dark eyes were alert and her light brown hair was held off her face by a wide band. Lemieux noticed a string of earrings piercing one ear. She’d come up immediately and welcomed him. Instinctively he’d checked her left hand, and found, to his surprise, a wedding band.

‘Two kids,’ she said, with a smile, her eyes not leaving his face and yet she’d followed his quick glance. ‘A boy, René, and a girl Marie. Toi?’

‘Not married. Not even a girlfriend.’

‘Just as well. At least while the investigation is on. Pay attention.’ She’d leaned in and whispered, ‘And be yourself. The chief only chooses people who don’t pretend.’

‘And who are good at their jobs, presumably,’ he said, thinking he was giving her a compliment.

‘Oh, mais, franchement, you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’

‘Bon.’ Beauvoir leaned forward. ‘The good news is, I know how the electricity got to the curling rink on the lake. Yesterday afternoon I interviewed Billy Williams, the guy who drove the truck with CC to the hospital. He told me he wired up that heat lamp. Here, let me show you. Some of you haven’t been to the site yet.’

Beauvoir picked up a chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand and a magic marker in the other and walked to a large sheet of paper tacked to the wall.

‘This is Lac Brume, and this is the town of Williamsburg. Here’s the Legion. Right?’

Beauvoir was no Picasso, which was a good thing for a homicide inspector. His drawings were always very clear and straightforward. A large circle was Lac Brume. A smaller circle, like a moon, touched its edge. Williamsburg. And an X marked the Legion Hall, close to the shores of the lake.