This was never about money, except as a means to corrupt. To buy silence and complicity.
This was about power. Political power. Georges Renard was not satisfied with being the Premier of a province. He wanted to be the father of a new country. He’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven.
And to do that all he needed to do was to manufacture rage, then direct it at the federal government. He’d convince the population that the reason the bridge had come down was that Canada had willfully used substandard material. That the federal government did not care for the citizens of Québec.
And his words would carry great weight, not because he was himself a Québec separatist, but because he wasn’t. Georges Renard was a lifelong Federalist. He’d built a political career as a supporter of Québec staying in Canada. How much stronger the argument for separation would be when coming from a man who’d never espoused it, until this hideous event.
By the New Year Québec would have declared its independence. The day the Champlain Bridge fell would be their Bastille Day. And the victims would pass into legend.
* * *
“Where’re they going?” Jérôme whispered.
As he, Thérèse and Agent Nichol watched from Myrna’s window, the unmarked SUV drove slowly around the village green and over the stone bridge.
“To the old train station,” said Nichol. “It’s where Chief Inspector Gamache set up his Incident Room in the past.”
“But how would they know that?” Jérôme asked.
“Could they have got the Chief Inspector?” Nichol asked.
“He’d never lead them here,” said Thérèse.
“Someone needs to go down,” said Clara.
They looked around the room at each other.
“I’ll go,” said Nichol.
“No, it needs to be one of us,” said Clara. “A villager. When they find nothing at the old train station they’ll come back to ask questions. Someone needs to answer them, or they’ll take the place apart.”
“I think we should vote,” said Gabri.
They all, slowly, turned to look at Ruth.
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to be voted off the island,” she snapped, then turned to Rosa, stroking her head. “They’re all shits, aren’t they? Yes they are, yes they are.”
“I know who gets my vote,” said Gabri.
“I’ll go.”
Olivier had spoken, and now he walked decisively toward the stairs down from Myrna’s loft.
“Wait.” Gabri ran after him. “Let Ruth.”
“You need to go.”
Superintendent Thérèse Brunel had spoken. Clearly, decisively. She’d taken charge, and everyone in the loft now turned to her. She’d spoken to Olivier.
“Go to the bistro and if they come in, act as though you don’t know who they are. They’re just tourists, nothing more. If they identify themselves as Sûreté, ask if they’re looking for the Chief Inspector—”
She was cut off by their protests, but Thérèse held up her hand.
“They already know he was here, for the Ouellet case. No use denying it. In fact, you need to appear as helpful as possible. Three Pines has to look like it has nothing to hide. Got it?”
“Let me come too,” said Gabri, his eyes wide.
“Yes, we vote he goes,” said Ruth, putting up her hand.
“You’re my best friend,” said Olivier, looking at his partner. “My greatest love, but you couldn’t lie to save your life. Fortunately, I can, and have.” He looked at his friends. “You all know that.”
There was a feeble attempt at denial, but it was true.
“Of course I was just practicing, for today,” said Olivier.
“The dickhead’s lying now,” said Ruth, almost wistfully, and walked over to join him. “You’ll need customers. Besides, I could use a Scotch.”
Thérèse Brunel turned to Myrna and said, apologetically, “You need to go down too.”
Myrna nodded. “I’ll open the store.”
Clara went to join them, but Superintendent Brunel stopped her.
“I’m sorry, Clara, but I’ve seen your paintings. I don’t think you’d be a very good liar either. We can’t risk it.”
Clara stared at the older woman, then walked over to her friends at the top of the stairs.
“Myrna needs a customer too in her bookstore,” said Clara. “I’m going.”
