‘What do you want me to do?’

Gamache told him, and the two of them went to Gamache’s car where the chief took a cardboard evidence box from his trunk and handed it to Lemieux with instructions.

Gamache’s eyes followed Lemieux as his car drove slowly over the old stone bridge, onto the Commons and round the village green before mounting rue du Moulin and heading out of Three Pines. The chief stood in the steadily falling snow and his stare fell on the figures on the village green. Some carried bags of shopping from Sarah’s Boulangerie or Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Some families were skating. Some walked dogs. One dog, a young shepherd, was rolling and digging and tossing something into the air.

He missed Sonny.

Through the snow everyone looked much the same. All bundled up in fluffy parkas and tuques, making them anonymous. He supposed if he knew the children and the dogs, he’d be able to figure out who the adults were.

And that was one of the problems they were facing. Everyone looked alike in the Quebec winter. Like colorful marshmallows. It was hard to even distinguish men from women. Faces, hair, hands, feet, bodies, all covered against the cold. Even if someone had seen the murderer, could they identify him?

He watched the dogs frolic and recognized with a smile what they were playing with. Sonny’s favorite winter treat.

Frozen poop. Poopsicles.

He even missed that.

‘You’re not welcome on my team, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache looked into the scarred, scared face a few minutes later. He was done with her manipulation, her arrogance, her anger. He’d had enough of that during the last case.

‘I understand, sir. It wasn’t my idea either. I know what a mess I made of the last assignment with you. I’m so sorry. What can I do to prove I’ve changed?’

‘You can leave.’

‘I wish I could.’ She looked miserable. ‘I really do. I knew you’d feel like this and honestly I don’t blame you. I don’t know what I was thinking last time. Stupid. Arrogant. But I think I’ve changed. A year in narcotics.’ She looked into his face to see whether this was making any impact.

It wasn’t.

‘Goodbye, Agent Nichol.’

He walked out of the room, put his coat back on and got into his car without looking back.

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but Kaye Thompson isn’t here right now. She spent the night at her friend’s home. Émilie Longpré.’

The matron of the seniors’ home in Williamsburg looked kindly and efficient. The home itself was in a converted mansion, the rooms large and gracious, though perhaps a little tired and definitely smelling of talcum. Like the residents themselves.