Penny, Louise - All the Devils Are Here

That, of course, was the other possibility. That she had hired the right Jean-Guy Beauvoir. The senior investigator with the Sûreté du Québec. Skilled, trained. Not in engineering, but in finding criminals.

Madame Gossette sat back in her seat. Examining him. “Why do you say that? Has something come up?”

“Non,” he said, careful now. “It’s just a thought.”

To be fair, it wasn’t something that had occurred to him until he’d said it. But once it was out, he could see that it might be true.

“Why else would you hire a cop to fill a senior management job when clearly it should be taken by an engineer?”

“You undervalue yourself, Monsieur Beauvoir. We have plenty of engineers already. They’re thick on the ground. Eh bien , another engineer was the last thing we needed.”

“What did you need?”

“A skill set. An attitude. A leader. You convinced men and women to follow you into life-and-death situations. I’ve read the reports. I’ve seen the online videos.”

Beauvoir bristled at that. Those stolen videos should never have been posted. But they had been, and there was no undoing the damage.

“You’re not expecting me to do the same for you,” he said, managing a smile.

“Lead us into battle? I hope not. I’d make quite a target.” She laughed and put her hands on her substantial body. “No. You’re heading up a new department, created to provide another level of scrutiny. Each project is carefully evaluated before we choose to bid on it. It must be both profitable and have some benefit to the larger population.”

He had noticed that. It was one of the reasons he’d accepted to work for GHS. As the father of one child with another on the way, he was waking up to certain frightening truths about the state of the world.

GHS designed dams and highways, bridges and planes.

But at least half of its projects were water treatment plants, anti-erosion methods, reforestation. Alternatives to fossil fuels. Disaster relief modules.

“But,” said Madame Gossette, breaking into his thoughts, and leaning forward, “it’s always wise to have disinterested observers making sure all is going according to plan. That’s your department.”

“Then nothing’s wrong?” he asked.

“I didn’t exactly say that.” She was choosing her words carefully now. “It’s one thing to have a philosophy. It’s another thing to follow through. That’s what we expect from you. Not to come up with the plan, others will do that, but to make sure it doesn’t … what’s the word? Corrupt.”

“You suspect corruption?”

“No, no, not that sort of corrupt. Our concern is that, with all good intentions, some project managers might start cutting corners. It’s easily done. Don’t be fooled by the trappings.” She glanced around the cabin of the corporate jet. “This sort of success comes with a lot of pressure. There’re deadlines, penalties, bank loans, violent regime changes. And our people are stuck in the middle. Priorities can become muddy. It would be natural for some to feel that pressure and choose speed over quality. And try to hide it when something goes wrong. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’re people. That way lies tragedy.”

“Which isn’t good for business,” he said.

She spread her hands. It was a simple truth. She reached for her tea. Then, after taking a sip, she said, “Are you familiar with the poet Auden?”

Oh, shit , Beauvoir thought. Not another one. And here he was, trapped at thirty thousand feet. What was it about bosses?

“I’ve heard of him.” Her?

“And the crack in the tea-cup opens / A lane to the land of the dead.”

“Is there a crack in your cup?” he asked.

She smiled and put it down. “Not that I know of. If one occurs, it’s your job to find it.”

He understood then what she meant. And, miraculously, what Auden meant.

“But how can I tell if something’s wrong if I don’t even know what’s ‘right’?”

“That’s why you have a department full of engineers, including Séverine Arbour. She’s a first-rate engineer. Use her.” Madame Gossette’s eyes held his. “Trust her.”

Beauvoir nodded, but quietly wondered why, if Arbour was such a great engineer, she was in his department instead of working on actual projects.

“So ‘Quality Control’ is a bit misleading. It’s really policing. I’m an enforcer?” asked Beauvoir, cutting into his profiterole.

“You must’ve suspected that when we gave you those brass knuckles in your welcome basket.”

He laughed then.

“No, you’re not an enforcer,” she said. “You’re our safety net. Our last hope if things go wrong, to stop something horrible from happening.” She held his eyes, deadly serious. “I don’t expect it, don’t suspect it. But I need to be sure.”

It was interesting, thought Beauvoir, that she said “I,” not “we.”

“I’ve told you why I hired you, now you tell me why you took the job. You turned it down a number of times.”

She was right. He’d declined it twice, but finally relented. And the reason?

He was worn down, worn out by his work in the Sûreté du Québec. He’d headed up the homicide department after his mentor and chief, and father-in-law, Armand Gamache, had been suspended.

Beauvoir had watched the humiliation Gamache had been put through. The insinuations of wrongdoing. The failure by politicians to protect and defend Gamache. Though they knew he’d only acted in the service’s, in the citizens’, best interest.

Chief Inspector Beauvoir himself had been reinstated after an almost equally humiliating series of investigations.

Each day they tracked down killers. Each day they put their own lives on the line.

And in return they were scapegoated. Chained to the ground, food for politicians looking for reelection.

The salary was modest compared to private industry, the risks incalculable, the rewards harder and harder to find. Jean-Guy had a young family, who he hoped to see grow up. He had a daughter arriving who’d need both her parents.

And so the third time GHS Engineering had approached him, shown him the salary they were offering, told him the job was in Paris, he’d discussed it with Annie. And they’d agreed.

So Jean-Guy Beauvoir had left the Sûreté, just as Chief Inspector Gamache had returned. Beauvoir handed the job back to the once and future head of homicide.

But he wouldn’t tell Madame Gossette all that.

“It was time for a change,” he simply said as the flight attendant cleared their plates.

And change it certainly was proving. Though perhaps not quite as much of a change as he’d thought.

“What happens if I find something’s wrong?”

“You come to me.”

“How do I know the—how did you put it?—crack in the teacup didn’t come from higher up? It often does, you know. Start there.”

“ Oui. I guess that’s where your investigative skills come in.” Once again she leaned forward, as the plane banked and prepared to land on the tiny island in the middle of the vast and impossibly blue ocean. “ Voyons , I have absolutely no reason to suspect anything’s wrong. If I did, I’d direct you to it. You’re here to make sure we don’t, intentionally or not, open a lane to the land of the dead. ” Her gaze now was hard. Almost fierce. “We design things that improve quality of life. But that, if they fall apart, take lives. We need to make absolutely sure. You understand?”

She stared at him so intently, he was taken aback. Until that moment he’d seen the job from his perspective.

A soft landing after the harsh realities of the Sûreté. A salary far in excess of anything he ever thought he’d make. They’d be safe. They’d be comfortable. They’d be in Paris.