Page 105
CHAPTER 22
The team from homicide met at the Incident Room the next morning, where Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir went over the case so far.
The formal investigation into the murder of Patricia Godin had begun.
Everyone listened respectfully, though there were a few raised brows when they were told about the Stone letter and the hidden room.
The search warrant had come through, and they headed to the old Stone house, arriving just after seven a.m.
Disheveled, unshaven, and tying up his dressing gown, Monsieur Godin glanced past the Chief Inspector to the men and women ranged behind him. Then his eyes returned to Gamache.
“You believed me.”
“Oui.” Gamache introduced Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir and the team from the Sûreté homicide unit. “May we come in?”
Godin stepped back, and they followed him into the living room, where Gamache explained, in a voice that was gentle and clear, that Monsieur Godin was right. His wife had been murdered.
The man sank into a chair and stared ahead of him. It was one thing to believe something, it was another to know it. And now he knew.
“Why?”
Gamache had taken the seat across from him. “We don’t know. That’s what we hope to find out, but that means searching your home. We have a warrant.”
Beauvoir brought it out of his pocket, but Monsieur Godin waved it away.
“Just do what you have to. The house is yours. Tear it apart if you need to.”
While Inspector Beauvoir coordinated the search, Gamache took Monsieur Godin into the kitchen. There he made a pot of coffee for the stunned man, then joined him at the table.
“Did you have any visitors in the days before your wife died?”
“Only the family.”
“Had your wife been in contact with anyone? Anyone new?”
He shook his head.
They’d take her computer and go over her emails and texts. In case. It was the worst part of any investigation. This invasion of privacy. All those even remotely associated with the crime would have their private lives exposed. Events, messages, decisions, actions that had seemed reasonable, or perhaps a little shady, would suddenly look contemptible. Shameful. Even suspect, when examined closely and taken out of context by strangers.
Sometimes they discovered crimes not related to the investigation. If not outright evidence, then strong suggestions of wrongdoing.
Those were the things Armand kept in the locked room in their basement.
Everyone, he knew, had one. A locked room. Either in their home, or their head, or their heart. Where things that should never see the light of day lived, and waited. For their chance to escape.
“Was she worried about anything? Anything at all?”
Monsieur Godin considered, then shook his head. Non.
“Were you and your wife on good terms?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Arguments? It’s natural to have some.”
“Sometimes over money. And travel. Pat wanted to go places now that I’m retired. But I like it here.” He paused. “I’m afraid to fly.”
He stared down at the table, where they’d had so many meals. Many in silence. After thirty years of marriage, there didn’t seem to be a great deal to say to each other. It wasn’t an angry or regretful silence. More a peaceful quietude.
