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Her phone had vibrated with a message, as had Gamache’s. He glanced at his, then nodded to Lacoste to take it. She stepped into a quiet corner. Woodford watched her, then turned back to Gamache.
“Where was Castonguay killed? If the Sûreté’s involved, I’m assuming it’s in Québec somewhere and outside of Montréal.”
“True.”
The PM waited for more, but Gamache was silent. So, he asked another question: “How did this Castonguay even know to look for the laptop?”
“Turns out he and Charles Langlois knew each other from school and met up again recently.”
“Does Jeanne Caron know about the murder of her assistant?”
“I haven’t told her.”
Which was different, they both knew, than her not knowing. Woodford nodded his understanding.
“Why are you here, Chief Inspector? Not just to tell me about the tragic death of one of my people.”
“I have reason to believe the attempt to poison Montréal’s water was just the first step. A prelude,” said Gamache.
Now Woodford sat back and stared. “If that’s the prelude, what in the world is the main event?”
“It’s not clear, but it seems to have something to do with water.”
“Again? More poisoning?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think so.”
“Can you explain?”
“No, not really, not yet.”
“Come on, Gamache. You can’t walk in here and tell me, the Prime Minister, that there might be a catastrophic attack on the population without giving me more. What am I supposed to do with that?”
Gamache noticed movement in his peripheral vision and turned.
Isabelle Lacoste was holding out her phone. “Désolée, patron.”
He took it, read the message; then, his face neutral, he handed the phone back to her. “Merci.”
“Something’s happened,” said the Prime Minister, searching their faces.
“We discovered three sets of prints on the laptop. Two were easy to identify: Charles Langlois’s and Jeanne Caron’s. We just identified the last set. I think what I’m about to say won’t come as a surprise. They’re yours. Perhaps, sir, you can explain.”
The warmth had drained from Gamache’s voice.
Now James Woodford cocked his head and smiled. “You aren’t thinking I’m the Black Wolf, are you?”
“How do you know that term?”
Woodford looked at Lacoste, then back to Gamache. “Can we speak in private?”
“Absolutely not. How do you know about the Black Wolf?”
“Jeanne Caron told me. She said it was your code for whoever’s behind the poisoning plot. I’m assuming you mean Marcus Lauzon.”
“You’ve been in touch with Madame Caron recently, then?”
“Yes.” Like Gamache, his eyes, his expression, his entire posture had hardened. The temperature inside the office had plunged. Sleet was possible … “You don’t really expect me to be content in my ignorance? I learned after Lauzon was exposed that ignorance is not, in fact, bliss. I wanted to hear directly from her all she knew.”
