Still Life (Page 72)
‘You have no idea what I’m capable of.’
‘I guess that’s true. I mean, if you can beat your son you can do anything.’
Croft’s nostrils flared and his lips compressed. Gamache suspected if he truly was violent he’d have taken a swing at him then.
They left Croft sitting in the interview room. ‘What’d you think, Jean Guy?’ Gamache asked when they reached the privacy of the station commander’s office.
‘I don’t know what to think, sir. Did Croft do it? Philippe’s story hangs together. It’s possible.’
‘We found absolutely no evidence of Jane Neal’s blood in Croft’s truck, or Mrs Croft’s car. His fingerprints weren’t anywhere—’
‘True, but Philippe said he wore gloves,’ Beauvoir interrupted.
‘You can’t wear gloves and shoot a bow and arrow at the same time.’
‘He could have put them on after he shot, once he saw what he’d done.’
‘So he had the presence of mind to put on gloves, but not enough to call the police and admit the accident? No. On paper it makes sense. But in real life it doesn’t.’
‘I don’t agree, sir. One thing you’ve always impressed on me is that we can never know what happens behind closed doors. What really goes on in the Croft home? Yes, Matthew Croft gives every impression of being a thoughtful and reasonable man, but we’ve found time and again that that’s exactly how abusers appear to the outside world. They have to. That’s their camouflage. Matthew Croft may very well be abusive.’ Beauvoir felt stupid lecturing Gamache on the very things he’d learned from the man himself, but he thought they bore repeating.
‘What about the public meeting, when he was so helpful?’ Gamache asked.
‘Arrogance. He admits himself he never thought we’d find him.’
‘I’m sorry, Jean Guy. I just don’t buy it. There’s absolutely no physical evidence against him. Just the accusation of a very angry teenager.’
‘His bruised son.’
‘Yes. A bruise that’s exactly like yours.’
‘But he’d shot arrows before. Croft said only beginners got bruises like that.’
They had a problem and they knew it. What to do about Matthew Croft?
‘I’ve called the prosecutor’s office in Granby,’ said Gamache. ‘They’re sending someone around. Should be here soon. We’ll put it to him.’
‘Her.’
Beauvoir nodded through the glass door at a middle-aged woman standing patiently, briefcase in hand. He got up and brought her in to the now cramped office.
‘Maître Brigitte Cohen,’ Beauvoir announced.
‘Bonjour, Maître Cohen. It’s almost one o’clock; have you had lunch?’
‘Only a brioche on the way over. I consider that an hors d’oeuvre.’
Ten minutes later they were in a comfortable diner across from the station house, ordering lunch. Beauvoir put the situation to Maître Cohen, succinctly. She grasped the pertinent details immediately.
‘So the one with all the evidence against him won’t admit it, and the one with no evidence can’t stop admitting it. On the surface it appears the father’s protecting the son. Yet when you first arrived, Chief Inspector, he seemed willing to let his son be charged with the crime.’
‘That’s true.’
‘What changed his mind?’
‘I think he was stunned and deeply wounded by his son’s accusations. I don’t think he saw that coming at all. It’s hard to know, of course, but I get the feeling that had once been a very happy home, but hasn’t been for a while now. Having me Philippe I think the unhappiness radiates from him. I’ve seen it before. The angry kid runs the home because the parents are afraid of him.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen il too. You don’t mean physically afraid, do you ?’ asked Cohen.
‘No, emotionally . I think Croft confessed because he couldn’t stand what Philippe must think of him . It was a desperate, even momentarily insane action designed to win back his son. To prove to Philippe he loved him. There also seemed to be an element of, what?’
Gamache thought back to Croft’s face, across the kitchen table. ‘It was like suicide. A resignation. I think he couldn’t stand the pain of what his son had accused him of, so he just gave up.’ Gamacher looked at his two companions and smiled slightly.