Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

by Fred Vargas

  Unless he was totally mistaken. He spared a thought for Vivaldi who was sending him this danger signal across the centuries. A good guy, Vivaldi, a real buddy, and the quintet were doing him proud. It was not for nothing then that his car had driven him here, to steal an hour out of Camille’s life, and to receive a precious warning from the composer. Since he was apparently hearing from the dead, he might very well hear a whispered message from Antonio Vivaldi, and he was sure the Venetian musician had been good company. A guy who writes music of such beauty is bound to give you excellent advice.

  It was only at the end of the concert that Adamsberg spotted Danglard, whose eyes were fixed on his protégée. The sight immediately destroyed all his pleasure. What the devil was Danglard up to now? Was he going to meet him at every turn? Interfering with his whole life? Obviously he knew all about the concerts and was faithfully at his post, the dependable, loyal and irreproachable Adrien Danglard. Well, shit. Camille didn’t belong to him, for God’s sake. So what was the capitaine planning with this close surveillance? Was he trying to creep into Adamsberg’s life? Real anger towards his deputy rose within him. The grey-haired benefactor, slipping in through the door left open by Camille’s heartbreak.

  The speed with which Danglard then disappeared surprised Adamsberg. The capitaine had gone round the back of the church and was waiting at the artists’ entrance. To offer congratulations, no doubt. But no, Danglard was loading stuff into a car, and then taking the wheel, and Camille was with him. Adamsberg drove off behind them, anxious to see how far his deputy would take this secret solicitude. After a halt, then a further ten minutes’ drive, Danglard parked the car, then opened the door for Camille, who handed him a bundle wrapped in a blanket. The blanket, and the fact that the bundle made a noise, communicated to Adamsberg, in a spasmodic shock, the extent of the situation.

  A child, a baby. And going by the small size of the bundle and the voice, perhaps no more than a month old. Motionless, he watched the door of the house close behind the couple. Danglard, the bastard, the thief in the night.

  But Danglard reappeared quickly, gave Camille a friendly wave, and hailed a taxi.

  Good God, a child, thought Adamsberg on the long drive back to Hull. Now that Danglard had been absolved from the role of treacherous bastard and had once more become the loyal and dependable friend – which by no means lessened his resentment towards him – his thoughts were concentrated on the young woman. How on earth had Camille ended up with a child? Inevitably, he thought with a pang, that meant some kind of connection with a man. If the baby was a month old, that meant nine plus one, say ten months. So Camille had waited only a few weeks before finding his successor. He trod on the accelerator, suddenly impatient to overtake the damned cars rolling peacefully along at the sacred speed of ninety kilometres an hour. Anyway, that was the situation, and Danglard must have been informed early on, and hadn’t breathed a word about it to him. Still, he understood why his deputy had spared him this news, which even now stung him deeply. But why? What had he, Adamsberg, been hoping? That Camille would weep for a thousand years and never forsake her lost love? That she would turn into a statue whom he could bring back to life whenever he wanted to? Like in a fairy story, as Trabelmann would have said. No, she had stumbled, but survived, and then met some other man, it was as simple as that. A harsh reality which he had to digest with difficulty.

  No, he thought later, lying on top of his bed, no, he had never really taken on board that he would lose Camille when he lost Camille. It was logical enough after all, but he couldn’t handle it. And now there was this bastard of a new father, who was driving him out of the picture. Even Danglard had taken the side of the other man against him. He could easily imagine the capitaine walking into the maternity ward and shaking hands with the newcomer, who would be a reliable sort of chap, safe as houses, offering all his uprightness and benevolence in contrast to him, Adamsberg. A man of irreproachable habits and morality, a businessman, with a labrador, no, two labradors, and polished shoes with new laces.

  Adamsberg hated him fiercely. That night, he would have massacred the man and his dogs, without hesitation. He, the flic, the cop, the pig, would have gladly committed murder. With a trident too, why not?

  XXII

  WAKING LATE ON THE SUNDAY, ADAMSBERG DECIDED NOT TO GO and look at the boss of the Canada geese, nor to go visiting lakes. He went straight to the portage trail. The young woman wouldn’t be working on Sunday, and there was a good chance he would find her sitting on her rock. And indeed, there she was, smoking her cigarette, with an ambiguous smile on her lips, and quite ready to go back to his room with him.

  Her enthusiasm offered Adamsberg some partial comfort for the pain he had felt the night before. It was difficult to get rid of her in the early evening, though. Sitting naked on the bed, Noëlla was determined to spend the night there. Out of the question, Adamsberg explained gently, persuading her to get dressed, my colleagues will be back any minute. He had to push her into her jacket, before propelling her through the door.

  Once Noëlla had left, his thoughts no longer remained with her, and he called Mordent in Paris. The commandant was a night owl and telephoning at quarter past midnight, French time, would not mean waking him up. Mordent combined his taste for rigorous bureaucracy with an old-fashioned liking for the accordion and cabaret songs, and he had just returned from a musical evening which he seemed to have enjoyed.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg, ‘I’m not calling to give you any news. The whole thing’s going very smoothly, the team’s fine, nothing to report.’

  ‘What are the Canadian colleagues like?’ Mordent asked.

  ‘Correct, as they say here; pleasant and competent.’

  ‘Do you get evenings off, or is it lights out at ten?’

  ‘We’re free, but you’re not missing anything. Hull-Gatineau isn’t exactly jumping with cabarets and circuses. A bit flat, as Ginette says.’

  ‘But the countryside’s beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, very. No problems in the squad back there?’

  ‘Nothing serious. Object of your call, commissaire?’

  ‘Can you get hold of a copy of the Nouvelles d’Alsace for Friday 10 October. Or any other local paper, it could be.’

  ‘Object of the request?’

  ‘The murder committed in Schiltigheim on the night of Saturday 4 October. Victim, Elisabeth Wind. Handling the investigation, Commandant Trabelmann. Chief suspect, one Bernard Vétilleux. What I’m after, Mordent, is an article or just a little news item mentioning the visit by a Parisian detective, and any mention of a serial killer. Something along those lines. Friday 10 October, not any other day.’

  ‘The Parisian detective was you, was it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Confidential as far as the office is concerned, or is it OK to mention it in the Chat Room?’

  ‘Top secret, Mordent. This business is causing me nothing but grief.’

  ‘Urgent?’

  ‘Yes, top priority. Let me know when you turn something up.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘That’s important too. Just call me either way.’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Mordent. ‘Can you send me an email every day about your activities with the RCMP? Brézillon’s expecting a precise report at the end of the mission and I dare say you’d like me to write it up.’

  ‘What would I do without you, Mordent?’

  The report. He had completely neglected to do that. Adamsberg forced himself to write a record of the sampling process of the previous days, while he could still remember the efforts of Jules and Linda Saint-Croix. He was only just in time, since his recent preoccupation with Fulgence, with the new father and then with Noëlla had driven the collection cards, with their samples of sweat and urine, deeper into the past. He would not be sorry tomorrow to be rid of his tough and boisterous companion, and start working with Sanscartier the Good.

  Late in the evening, he
heard the brakes of a car in the parking lot. Looking down from his balcony, he saw the Montreal group, Danglard in front, bending their heads against a snow shower. He would like to give Danglard a piece of his mind, as the superintendent would have said.

  XXIII

  STRANGE HOW THREE DAYS ARE ENOUGH TO DISSIPATE FEELINGS OF disorientation, so that one slips readily into a routine, Adamsberg thought, as he parked in front of the RCMP buildings, a few metres from the diligent squirrel who was as usual guarding the doors. The feeling of strangeness was disappearing. Everything was beginning to find its niche in the new territory, shaping it to its own form, as a favourite armchair shapes itself round the body. So the whole group was back in position in the meeting room this Monday, listening to the superintendent. After the fieldwork the laboratory, with extraction of the samples, which were to be placed on paper discs two millimetres in diameter, then inserted into the ninety-six wells of the process plate. All these instructions Adamsberg noted approximately, for his report to Mordent.

  Adamsberg let Fernand Sanscartier get out the cards, prepare the discs and switch on the robotic punch. Sitting in front of a white guardrail, they both watched the machine going to and fro. For two days now, Adamsberg had been sleeping badly and the monotonous movement of the synchronised scores of punches mesmerised him.

  ‘It makes you sleepy, doesn’t it? Shall I go and get us a regular?’

  ‘Make that a double regular, Sanscartier, as strong as you like.’

  The sergeant returned, carrying the plastic cups carefully.

  ‘Watch out, it’s scalding hot,’ he said, passing one to Adamsberg.

  The two men took up their positions, leaning on the rail.

  ‘Time’ll come, won’t it,’ said Sanscartier, ‘when a guy won’t be able to piss in the snow without setting off a barcode and three helicopters full of cops.’

  ‘Time’ll come,’ said Adamsberg echoing him, ‘when we won’t even need to question the guy.’

  ‘Time’ll come, when we won’t even need to see him, hear his voice, wonder whether yes or no he could’ve done it. We’ll just turn up at the crime scene, take a smear of his sweat and the guy’ll be picked up at home with a crane, and dropped into a cell just his size.’

  ‘Time’ll come, when we’ll be totally pissed off.’

  ‘What do you think of the coffee?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘It’s not our specialty.’

  ‘Are you happy in your work, Sanscartier?’

  The sergeant thought before answering.

  ‘What I’d really like is to be back out doing hands-on stuff. Where I can use my own eyes, and piss in the snow when I feel like it, if you get my meaning. Specially since my girlfriend lives in Toronto. But don’t tell the boss, or I’d get an earful.’

  A red light flashed and the two men stayed still for a moment watching the machine come to a stop. Then Sanscartier moved heavily away from the rail.

  ‘Better get a move on. If the boss sees us taking a breather, he’ll start bawling at us.’

  They emptied the plate and set to work on another set of cartons, discs and wells. Sanscartier activated the robotic process again.

  ‘Do you do a lot of hands-on work in Paris?’

  ‘As much as I can. And I walk a lot too, I just walk round the streets and think.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Do you work things out by shovelling clouds?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.

  ‘Got anything good on at the moment?’

  Adamsberg pulled a face.

  ‘That’s absolutely the wrong word, Sanscartier. I’m shovelling earth with this one.’

  ‘Skull and crossbones, eh?’

  ‘Worse than that. I’ve come across a whole skeleton. But he’s not the victim, he’s the murderer. A dead man, an old man who’s still going round killing people.’

  Adamsberg looked at Sanscartier’s brown velvety eyes, almost as round as the ones on children’s toys.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sanscartier. ‘So if he’s going round killing people, he can’t be entirely dead.’

  ‘Well yes, he is,’ Adamsberg insisted. ‘He really died, I have to tell you.’

  ‘In that case, he’s fighting it then,’ said Sanscartier, ‘he’s struggling like a devil in holy water.’

  Adamsberg leant on the rail. At last, someone prepared to stretch out an innocent hand towards him, like Clémentine.

  ‘You’re an inspired cop, Sanscartier, you really should be doing hands-on stuff.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head, ‘time’ll come, when you’ll get your hand caught in a mangle with this devil. If you’ll allow me to give you some advice, you’d be wise to watch out. Some people will say you’ve completely flipped.’

  ‘Flipped?’

  ‘Lost the plot, making stuff up.’

  ‘Oh, that’s already happened, Sanscartier.’

  ‘Then you’d better clam up, and don’t try to convince them. But in my book, you’ve got what it takes, so you should follow your hunches. Keep chasing your damn killer, but until you collar him, lie low.’

  Adamsberg remained leaning on the rail, feeling the comfort and relief brought by the words of this warm-hearted colleague.

  ‘Why don’t you think I’m crazy, Sanscartier? Everyone else seems to.’

  ‘Because you aren’t, that’s easy to see. How’s about lunch? It’s after twelve.’

  * * *

  The following evening, after another day spent doing automatic DNA extraction, Adamsberg regretfully said goodbye to his kindly colleague.

  ‘Who are you working with tomorrow?’ asked Sanscartier, walking over to his car with him.

  ‘Ginette Saint-Preux.’

  ‘She’s a good pal. You’ll be in safe hands with her.’

  ‘But I’ll miss you,’ said Adamsberg as they shook hands. ‘You’ve done me a lot of good.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You just have, that’s all. Who are you working with?’

  ‘The whopper. What’s her name?’

  ‘The whopper?’

  ‘Well, er, the big fat one,’ said Sanscartier, embarrassed.

  ‘Ah, Violette Retancourt.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but when you do catch this dead man walking, even if it’s in ten years’ time, can you let me know?’

  ‘Are you that interested?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ve taken a shine to you.’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Even if it takes ten years.’

  Adamsberg found himself going up in the lift with Danglard. His two days with Sanscartier the Good had calmed him down, and he postponed his decision to pick a bone with his deputy.

  ‘Going out tonight, Danglard?’ he asked in a neutral voice.

  ‘No, I’m knackered. I’m going to have a bite to eat, then go to bed.’

  ‘How are the children? Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ replied the capitaine, looking a little surprised.

  Adamsberg smiled as he went to his room. Danglard wasn’t very skilled at subterfuge. The previous night he had heard him start his car at 6.30 p.m. and return at almost two in the morning. Time to drive to Montreal, listen to the concert and do his good deed for the day. So he was short of sleep, as one could tell from the rings round his eyes. Good old Danglard, so certain that he was undetected, keeping his mouth shut about the secret that was a secret no longer. Tonight was the last concert in the series, which would mean another return trip for the gallant capitaine.

  Adamsberg watched from his bedroom window, as Danglard made his furtive getaway. Drive safely and enjoy the concert, capitaine. He was watching the car’s tail-lights, when Mordent called.

  ‘Sorry not to get back to you before, commissaire, but we had a crisis on. A guy who was trying to kill his wife and call us at the same time. We had to surround the building.’

  ‘Any damage?
’

  ‘No, his first bullet went into the piano and the second into his own foot. A complete loser, luckily.’

  ‘Any news from Alsace?’

  ‘Simplest thing is, I’ll read you the article. It was on page eight of the Friday paper. “Doubts about the Schiltigheim murder? Following the investigation by the Schiltigheim gendarmerie into the tragic killing of Elisabeth Wind on Saturday 4 October, the authorities have placed in preventive detention the man who was reported to be helping them with their enquiries, Bernard Vétilleux. However, according to information that has reached us, Vétilleux was allegedly questioned by a senior detective from Paris. According to the same source, the murder of this young girl may be linked to a serial killer who has struck elsewhere in France. This theory is however firmly rejected by Commandant Trabelmann who is leading the investigation. He dismissed it as an idle rumour, and said that the arrest of Vétilleux was on the basis of cast-iron evidence.” Is that what you were after, commissaire?’

  ‘Absolutely. Can you hang on to the article for me? I’ll just have to pray that Brézillon doesn’t read the Nouvelles d’Alsace.’

  ‘Would you prefer them not to charge Vétilleux?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s hard to shovel earth.’