Page 114 of A Better Man

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bertrand, looking from one to the other.

Then another thought occurred to Lacoste. Maybe it wasn’t Vivienne who called.

“How about Carl Tracey?”

“What about him?”

“Do you know him?”

“No. Never heard of him either. What’s this about? Why do you think I know these people?”

“Because either Vivienne or Carl called you on Saturday. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, merde. That was her? Some woman kept calling. The first time I tried to tell her she had the wrong number, but she seemed really upset. I’m not sure she was listening. She called back, and I tried again, but after that I just ignored the calls. She left a couple of messages—”

“Can we listen to them?” asked Cloutier.

“I erased them.”

Of course you did, thought Cloutier. What else would a guilty person do?

But then she rethought that.

What else would an innocent person do? She did the same thing with messages from wrong numbers.

She was beginning to see how quickly something completely normal could suddenly seem sinister, if you chose to see it that way.

“May we have a look around?” Lacoste asked.

Gerald Bertrand looked surprised but nodded.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked as they surveyed the small home. It was very messy and very masculine. A man-child lived here, alone. It was furnished with pieces that looked like they’d come from friends or family or a dumpster. Some hockey trophies. A pile of skis and skates and hunting gear was in the basement.

There were a few photos, of Gerald with mates, with teams, with his family. But none of him with Vivienne.

“Who’s this?” Lacoste looked at a photo among many on the fridge.

“Old girlfriend. We broke up a couple of months ago.”