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He saw a potter’s wheel. He saw plastic bags filled with clay, their tags still on. The walls were lined with shelves holding unglazed pieces. He saw what Cameron had meant. No one could possibly use Tracey’s works for anything practical. They wouldn’t hold food or drink or flowers.

But they did hold the attention. Not unlike the man himself.

Carl Tracey seemed an unfinished, partially formed man. Soft. Useless. And yet there was also something about the man. Not attractive. In fact, Gamache felt repulsed by him. But he also felt his eyes returning to him. Carl Tracey was a presence. There was no denying that. A statement piece. Like his works.

But while his pottery looked, to Gamache’s eye, good, Tracey did not.

Gamache turned and saw, in the corner, the source of the extraordinary heat.

A kiln.

It had obviously been fired up in the last day or so.

Kneeling down, he looked into the opening in the bottom of the kiln. It was filled with ash.

“Make sure you collect this,” he said, straightening up. “Have you found anything?”

“Not yet,” said the agent in charge. “If there’s any blood here, it’d be impossible to hide or clean. The bricks and clay are porous. If it’s here, we’ll find it.”

“Bon. Merci.”

He turned and saw Carl Tracey looking in.

“The kiln’s been used recently,” said Gamache.

“Yes. I was firing some works.”

“When?”

“Saturday night.”

“It’s still hot.”

“Takes a long time to cool down. Needs to be really hot to bake the clay.” He examined Gamache, then laughed. “You don’t think…” He looked astonished. “You actually think I stuck Vivienne in there? Piece by piece? Are you crazy? Do you know how much work that would be? And imagine the mess.”

Gamache knew Tracey was trying to get under his skin. Denying the murder and cremation of a woman and her unborn child not because it was abhorrent but because it was too much work.

“Look,” Tracey said as he followed Gamache into the kitchen, “it wasn’t much of a marriage, but she did her thing, I did mine. Why would I kill her?”

“Why would you kill him?” Gamache pointed to the old dog, still lying by the warm stove.

“Because he’s no use anymore. He can’t hunt and isn’t gonna guard the place. He just eats and shits. Gonna get a new dog. A better dog.”

“Maybe that’s why you’d kill your wife,” said Gamache. “So that you could get a new one.”

“Why kill her? I’d just chuck her out.”

“Because she’d take you to court and get half the property,” said Gamache.

“Yes,” said Tracey, nodding. “That would be a good reason.”

It was as close to a confession, without actually being one, that the head of homicide had heard.

Tracey looked down at the dog. “He’s not mine. He’s hers. Came with her, and he can leave with her. The sooner the better.”

He made a shooting gesture with his hand. The dog struggled up, took a step closer to Tracey, and licked the trigger finger.

They found nothing. After conferring with the local agents, it was decided they’d done all they could. It was time to leave.