Page 61

The host started off politely enough, asking after her well-being. Then they showed clips from the event. It was footage the Sûreté, as far as he knew, had not been given.

From what he could see, there was nothing new in it. The camera was focused on the stage, of course, not the audience.

It showed the pandemonium. The restoration of a fragile calm. And then the shots.

When the video ended, the host started in on Professor Robinson.

“You make it sound like what you’re proposing is some sort of kindness, but aren’t you actually saying, ‘God help you if you get sick, ’cause society sure won’t.’ We all saw what happened in care homes during the pandemic, and now you want to make that government policy?”

“First of all, I’m not saying anything. The statistics speak for themselves. And what we learned in the pandemic is that that tragedy must never, ever be repeated. No one should die like that. This would prevent—”

Gamache turned it off, and Colette noticed that his right hand was trembling just slightly.

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” said the Chancellor.

“She knows how to handle herself in an interview, yes.” Which was, he knew, far different from being good. “How well did you know Abigail’s father?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem to have had an intimate relationship.”

She smiled and sat down next to him. “I guess we did. But not in the way you might mean. He was older than me. A combination of mentor and older brother. It was more a meeting of the minds than the hearts.”

“And his wife, Abigail’s mother? How did she feel about your relationship?”

“I never met her. She’d died. Why’re you interested? It was decades ago. Maybe you want to concentrate on the living.”

He smiled. “I’ve chased ghosts before, but no, I just like to get a full picture. With both her mother and father dead, Abigail must’ve grown close to you.”

“No, not really. After Oxford she went back to BC, and Jean-Paul and I returned to Québec.”

“And there was no one else? No brother or sister?”

“She had Debbie. That seemed to be enough.” She smiled. “What’s that suspicious mind of yours conjuring?”

Creases appeared at the corners of his eyes and ran deep down his face as he too smiled. “Nothing. An occupational hazard. Seeing specters where none exist.”

“And accomplices?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure they exist.”

He got up and, walking over to the bookcase, pulled out a volume he’d noticed as he’d entered the study.

He looked at the cover, then turned it around to show her. The Chancellor laughed.

“That was a gift from my husband when we got engaged.” She took it and looked down at it as though at a beloved face.

The book was called How to Lie with Statistics.

From the kitchen he could hear the kids making noise again, and knew the interview must be over. Bringing out his phone, Armand checked Abigail Robinson’s social media account and saw the numbers clicking, churning, sweeping upward. As fast, he thought, as the American national debt meter he’d seen in New York City. And now he watched with the same alarm as Professor Robinson’s numbers flew up. A barometer of a moral deficit.

Armand pocketed his phone and walked to the door of the study. Down the hall he could see Inspector Lacoste standing with Abigail and Debbie. He caught her eye and nodded.

They were leaving.

He turned to the Chancellor. “Please don’t let them go off the property. Not until we catch the accomplice.”

“Suppose you never do?”