‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘I mean, I thought you were right. Well, of course you were.’ Now she was getting flustered. ‘Here.’ She thrust out her hand with a piece of paper. He took it and read.

Saul Petrov, 17 rue Tryhorn.

‘I looked it up on the map. See, here.’ She pulled a map from her jacket pocket and handed it to him. He didn’t take it. He simply stared at her.

‘I called about fifteen rental agencies in the area. No one knew him but finally I found a restaurant in St-Rémy, Le Sans Souci. People advertise chalets for rent there. I asked the owner and he remembered getting a similar call from a guy in Montreal a few days ago. Guy rented the place right away. So I called and sure enough, it’s this photographer. Saul Petrov.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘Yes sir. Had to. To confirm his identity.’

‘And suppose he’s the murderer? Suppose at this moment he’s burning his pictures or loading up his car? How long ago did you call?’

‘About two hours.’ Yvette Nichol’s voice had faded to a whisper.

Gamache took a deep breath and stared at her for a moment, then strode out the door.

‘Inspector Beauvoir? Please take an agent and find out if this is the photographer we’re looking for. Agent Lemieux, stay here. I need to speak to you.’ He turned back to Nichol. ‘Sit down and wait for me.’

She plunked down on the chair as though her legs had been cut out from underneath her.

Beauvoir took the piece of paper, consulted the map on the wall and was out the door in a matter of minutes, but not before he’d gotten a look at Agent Nichol sitting in the tiny, cramped room, looking about as miserable as a person still alive could look. He surprised within himself a certain sympathy for her. Chief Inspector Gamache’s bad side was legend. Not because it was so bad, but because it was so well hidden. Hardly anyone had ever found it. But those that did never ever forgot.

‘I have an assignment for you,’ Gamache said to Lemieux. ‘I want you to go into Montreal and ask some questions for me. It’s about a woman named Elle. That’s not her real name. She was indigent and was murdered just before Christmas.’

‘Is this about the de Poitiers case?’

‘No.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ Lemieux looked crestfallen.

‘Not at all. I need some questions asked about that case and it’ll be good training for you. You haven’t worked in Montreal?’

‘Barely visited,’ Lemieux admitted.

‘Now’s your chance.’ He could see the anxiety in Agent Lemieux’s face. ‘You’ll be fine. I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think two things. First, that you can do it and second, that you need to do it.’