‘That’ll wait, agent, thank you,’ said Gamache. ‘We have a busy day. I’m going to speak to Kaye Thompson, find out what she saw. I want you to find that photographer Richard Lyon talked about,’ he said to Beauvoir, who nodded briskly, eager for the hunt to begin. ‘At the very least he took pictures at the community breakfast and the curling. He might even have photographed the murder. His name is Saul someone.’

‘Saul Petrov.’ The big red fire truck spoke, in a female voice.

From behind it a young woman appeared.

‘I’ve found him.’

As she approached she couldn’t help but notice the looks of shock and even horror on the faces of the men and women round the table. She wasn’t surprised. She was prepared for this.

‘Good morning Agent Nichol,’ said Armand Gamache.

SIXTEEN

Beauvoir handed out the assignments while Gamache spoke to Agent Yvette Nichol in private. There was one enclosed room which used to belong to the ticket taker. Latterly it was taken over by Ruth Zardo. It housed a desk, a chair and about three hundred books. It was, in all certainty, a fire hazard.

Chief Inspector Gamache had risen to his feet as soon as Agent Nichol appeared, as a man about to be executed might rise to face what was coming. He’d nodded to Beauvoir and his second in command knew instinctively what was being said. Without a word Gamache walked across the floor to meet Nichol halfway, and guide her into the small room.

Now Beauvoir watched his team work their computers and the phones, but his mind was on the chief. And Nichol. That rancid, wretched, petty little woman who’d almost ruined their last case, and had proved a deeply divisive element in a team that thrived and depended on harmony.

‘Explain yourself, please.’ Gamache stood in the small room, towering over the petite agent. Her short mousy hair was not only disheveled from taking off her tuque, but seemed to have been cut by a drunken gardener with tree shears. Her clothes were ill fitting and drab and Gamache thought he saw a bit of egg yolk clinging to her prickly wool sweater. Her face was scarred and purple from severe acne as a teen, and where it wasn’t purple it was pasty. The only spark her gray eyes held was fear. And something else, Gamache thought. Cunning. She’s afraid of someone, he thought, but not me.

‘I was assigned to you, sir.’ She watched him closely. ‘Superintendent Francoeur called this morning and told me I was to report to you. It surprised me as well.’ She tried to sound contrite and only succeeded in sounding whiny. ‘I read the field notes you and Inspector Beauvoir had written.’

‘How?’

‘Well, the Superintendent forwarded them to me at home. I noticed your note about the photographer and that you considered that the priority. I agreed—’