‘What can I do for you?’ Francoeur’s voice was deep and smooth and intelligent. No hint of the cunning, the devious, the cruel man who lived in that head.

‘I want to know why you sent her.’

‘It seemed to me you were too hasty in your judgment, Chief Inspector. Agent Nichol’s worked here in narcotics for a year and we’re very pleased with her.’

‘Then why send her to me?’

‘Are you questioning my judgment?’

‘No, sir. You know I have no need to wonder why you do anything.’

Gamache knew he’d made a direct hit. Venom poured down the line and filled the great, bare silence.

‘Why have you called, Gamache?’ snarled the voice, all pretense dropped.

‘I wanted to thank you, sir, for sending Agent Nichol. Joyeux Noël.’

He hung up then, but he’d already heard the line go dead in his hand. Gamache had what he needed.

He knew he was being frozen out of decision-making at the highest level of the Sûreté du Québec, a level he had once enjoyed. Officially he was still head of homicide and a senior officer in the force. But privately things had changed. Since the Arnot case.

But it was only recently he’d come to appreciate how much had changed. He had had no more requests for Beauvoir to lead other investigations. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been reassigned more than once since the Arnot case to minor jobs in minor departments, as had other members of his homicide squad. Gamache hadn’t thought anything of it, assuming the temporary transfers had been made because they were necessary. It had never occurred to him his people were being punished for something he himself had done.

Until his own boss and friend, Superintendent Michel Brébeuf, had invited Reine-Marie and him for dinner a few weeks ago and had taken him aside after the meal.

‘Ça va, Armand?’

‘Oui, merci, Michel. Kids are a worry. Never listen. Young Luc has quit his job and wants to travel the world with Sophie and the kids. Annie is working too hard, defending poor besieged Alcoha from all those unfair charges. Imagine believing a corporation would knowingly pollute?’ Gamache grinned.

‘Shocking.’ Brébeuf offered him a cognac and a cigar. Gamache accepted the drink but refused the smoke. They sat in Brébeuf’s study in companionable silence, listening to Radio Canada and the murmur of the women laughing and getting caught up.

‘What did you want to say to me?’ Gamache had turned in his chair and was looking directly at Brébeuf.

‘One day you’re going to be wrong, Armand,’ smiled his friend, often at a loss to know how Gamache could guess what he was thinking. But he couldn’t divine everything.

‘According to you, Michel, I have been wrong, and spectacularly. That day has been and gone.’

‘No. Not gone.’