Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

by Fred Vargas

  ‘Oh, I transfer stuff, I balance it up, I share it out.’

  Adamsberg did not try to explore this enigmatic answer. Any other time, Josette’s activities might have interested him, but not in extreme circumstances. He was chatting with her out of politeness, and because he had taken in what Retancourt said about him. Josette’s quavery voice was delicately modulated, and Adamsberg recognised the remnants of her upper-class intonations.

  ‘Have you been in computers a long time?’

  ‘I started when I was sixty-five.’

  ‘Not so easy to get the hang of it then, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, I manage,’ said the old woman, in her fragile voice.

  XLII

  DIVISIONNAIRE BRÉZILLON HAD SUMPTUOUS QUARTERS ON THE AVENUE de Breteuil, and was never home before six or seven o’clock. Furthermore, it was known in the Chat Room that his wife had gone to spend autumn in the mists and mellow fruitfulness of England. If there was one place in France where the flics would not go looking for a fugitive, it was the avenue de Breteuil.

  Using his pass-key, Adamsberg entered the apartment quietly at five-thirty that afternoon. He sat down in an opulent reception room, with bookshelves full of works on law, administration, policing and poetry. Four topics, all carefully separated from each other. There were six shelves full of poetry – much more than the parish priest had, back in his village. Adamsberg took down a volume of Victor Hugo, taking care not to get his make-up on the precious bindings. He was looking for the golden sickle in the field of stars. A field he currently supposed to be located over Detroit, but he had not yet been able to release his sickle. At the same time, he rehearsed the speech he had prepared for the divisionnaire: it was a version in which he hardly, if at all, believed himself, but it was the only one that might convince his boss. He repeated whole sentences from this speech over to himself, trying to conceal the great gulfs of doubt that lurked underneath it, and to inject into his voice a note of total sincerity.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, the key turned in the lock and Adamsberg lowered the book to his knee. Brézillon gave a genuine start, and was on the point of crying out, when he saw this unknown Jean-Pierre Emile Roger Feuillet sitting peacefully in an armchair. Adamsberg put his finger on his lips and going towards Brézillon, took him gently by the arm, guiding him to a chair opposite his own. The divisionnaire was more astonished than afraid, no doubt because Jean-Pierre Emile did not look a very threatening person. And the surprise also prevented him finding his tongue for a moment or two.

  ‘Hush, Monsieur le divisionnaire. Please don’t make a noise. It would only get you into trouble.’

  ‘Adamsberg!’ said Brézillon, recognising his voice.

  ‘I’ve come a long way for the pleasure of this interview.’

  ‘Not so fast, commissaire,’ said Brézillon, once more in control of himself. ‘See that bell? If I press it, there’ll be a couple of dozen flics in here in two minutes.’

  ‘Please let me have the two minutes before you press it. I know you’ve been a lawyer, you should hear evidence from both sides.’

  ‘Two minutes with a murderer? That’s asking a lot, Adamsberg.’

  ‘I didn’t kill that girl.’

  ‘They all say that – as you and I know full well.’

  ‘But they don’t all have a mole in their team. Somebody got into my flat, before your men went in, using the spare key left at headquarters. Someone consulted my dossiers on the judge, and was already looking at them, even before my first trip to Canada.’

  Hanging on to his shaky story, Adamsberg was speaking rapidly, knowing that Brézillon wouldn’t give him much time, and that he must take him by surprise as fast as possible. He wasn’t used to talking quickly, and stumbled over words like a runner hitting stones on the path.

  ‘Somebody knew I used the portage trail. Somebody knew I’d met this girl over there. Somebody killed her, using the same methods as the judge, and put my prints on her belt. And dropped the belt on the path, not in the frozen water. That makes too many coincidences, Monsieur le divisionnaire. The file’s too clear, no loose ends in it. Have you seen anything like that?’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s the regrettable truth, Adamsberg. Your girlfriend, your prints, your evening out drinking. Your usual route back and your obsession with the judge.’

  ‘It’s not an obsession, it’s a police matter.’

  ‘So you say. But how do I know you’re not sick, Adamsberg? Do I have to remind you about the Favre affair? Worst of all, and it could be a sign of major disturbance, you’ve wiped the night of the murder from your memory.’

  ‘And how did they know that?’ Adamsberg asked leaning forward. ‘Danglard was the only person who knew about that, and he didn’t tell anyone. So how did they know?’

  Brézillon frowned and loosened his tie.

  ‘Only one other person could possibly have known I’d lost my memory,’ Adamsberg went on, using Danglard’s words. ‘And that’s the person who managed to make me lose it. It’s evidence that I wasn’t alone on that path, or in the whole affair.’

  Brézillon lumbered to his feet, fetched himself a cigarette from the bookshelf and sat down again. It was a tiny sign of interest, a momentary distraction from the alarm bell.

  ‘My brother lost his memory too, and so did all the other men arrested after the judge’s murders. You’ve seen the files, haven’t you?’

  The divisionnaire nodded, lighting his coarse untipped cigarette, much the same kind as Clémentine smoked.

  ‘So where’s your proof?’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘The only defence you can put up is this judge, who died about sixteen years ago.’

  ‘The judge, or a follower.’

  ‘Phantoms, Adamsberg.’

  ‘But phantoms are worth some consideration. Like poems,’ Adamsberg risked.

  He was approaching his man from another direction. Would a poet hit the panic button without hesitating?

  Brézillon leaned back in the chair, expelled a puff of smoke and pulled a face.

  ‘The RCMP, now,’ he said. ‘What I didn’t like, Adamsberg, was the way they did this. They hauled you back over there to help in the investigation, and I believed it. I don’t like being lied to, or having one of my men trapped like that. It’s absolutely against all the rules. Légalité deceived me with false explanations. It was a premature extradition and a legal sleight of hand.’

  Brézillon’s pride and professional integrity had been offended by the superintendent’s trick. Adamsberg had not anticipated this favourable element.

  ‘Of course, now Légalité tells me he only discovered the evidence against you after you’d arrived.’

  ‘Quite untrue. He’d already put his file together.’

  ‘That was dishonest,’ said Brézillon with a contemptuous grimace. ‘On the other hand, you’re a refugee from Canadian justice, and I do not expect that kind of behaviour from one of my commissaires.’

  ‘I didn’t run from Canadian justice, because no one had said anything about an arrest at that stage. There were no charges, nobody had cautioned me, I still had my freedom of movement.’

  ‘I suppose that’s technically correct.’

  ‘I was free to have had enough, to smell a rat, and to leave.’

  ‘In disguise and with false papers, commissaire.’

  ‘Well, shall we say that was the necessary path to take. A sort of game,’ said Adamsberg, improvising.

  ‘And you often play games with Retancourt?’

  Adamsberg paused, as the image of the close-combat incident flashed into his mind.

  ‘All she was doing was fulfilling her mission, which was to protect me. She was strictly obeying your orders.’

  Brézillon stubbed out his cigarette end with his thumb. His father was probably a roofer and his mother a laundress, like Danglard’s parents, Adamsberg thought. Origins which he did not trouble to conceal when sitting on a velvet armchair, a
sort of noble lineage one assumes proudly, and honours by the choice of cigarettes and a way of putting them out.

  ‘So what do you want from me, Adamsberg,’ said the divisionnaire, rubbing his finger. ‘You want me to take your word for it? There’s too much evidence stacked up against you. The fact that someone searched your flat is a slight point in your favour. As is Légalité’s previous knowledge of your memory loss. Two points, but they’re both very slender.’

  ‘If you hand me over, the credibility of your whole squad goes down with me. I think I could avert the scandal, if I was allowed some freedom.’

  ‘You want me to go to war with the Ministry and the Mounties, both?’

  ‘No, just to stand down the police surveillance.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all, is it? I’ve given my word about it.’

  ‘But you could get round that. By certifying that I am known to be abroad. I’ll stay in a safe house of course.’

  ‘Is it really safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else?

  ‘A gun. A police badge, in a new name. A little money to survive on. And for Retancourt, her return to the squad, no questions asked.’

  ‘What were you reading?’ asked Brézillon, pointing to the small leather-covered volume in Adamsberg’s hands.

  ‘I was looking for the poem Boaz asleep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For a couple of lines.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘What god, what harvester of eternal summertime,

  Had, as he strolled away, carelessly thrown down

  That golden sickle in the field of stars?’

  ‘Golden sickle? And what’s that meant to signify?’

  ‘My brother, thrown away like a tool that had served its purpose.’

  ‘Or yourself, right now. The sickle isn’t just the new moon. It can cut. It can cut off a head, pierce a stomach, it can be sweet or cruel. Let me ask you a question, Adamsberg. Do you ever have any doubts about what you’re doing?’

  The way that Brézillon was leaning forward, Adamsberg sensed that this unassuming question was decisive. His answer might mean the difference between extradition or freedom of movement. He hesitated. Logically, Brézillon would like a solid assurance, which would keep him out of trouble. But Adamsberg suspected he was expecting a more philosophical answer.

  ‘I doubt myself every minute of the day,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s the best guarantee that you’re on the level,’ said Brézillon curtly, leaning back once more. ‘Right, from tonight you’re free, armed and invisible. But not for all eternity, Adamsberg. For six weeks. After that, you come back here, and sit down in that chair. And next time, ring the bell before you come in.’

  XLIII

  JEAN-PIERRE EMILE ROGER FEUILLET’S FINAL MISSION WAS TO GET HOLD of a new mobile phone. Then Adamsberg abandoned his assumed identity under Clémentine’s shower, with some relief. With a touch of regret as well. Not that he was particularly attached to this rather uptight character, but it seemed a little uncaring, he thought, to let a stream of foundation-tinted water carry away the Jean-Pierre who had given such impeccable service. So he mentally saluted his alter ego, before returning to his usual dark hair, slim figure, and brown complexion. Only the receding hairline remained, and he would have to cover that up until it had grown back.

  Six weeks’ reprieve, a huge extension of his freedom allowed by Brézillon, but a very tight deadline for tracking down the devil or his own demons.

  What he needed to do, according to Mordent, was dislodge the phantom from his usual haunts: sweep out the attics, close up his bolt-holes, and padlock the old trunks and creaking wardrobes he frequented. In other words, fill in the gaps in his records between the judge’s death and the Schiltigheim murder. It might not help to find out where he was now, but who knew whether the judge might from time to time return to his old haunts?

  He raised the question while dining with Clémentine and Josette in front of the fire. He was not expecting Clémentine to come up with any technical suggestions, but to have her listen to him was relaxing, and perhaps by some kind of osmosis, encouraging.

  ‘Is it important?’ Josette asked in her quavery little voice. ‘The places he used to live. Old addresses?’

  ‘Sure and certain it is,’ Clémentine answered for Adamsberg. ‘Wherever that monster lived, he’s got to find out. Mushrooms now, they always grow back the same place, so that’s where you’ve got to look, stands to reason.’

  ‘But is it really important? For the commissaire?’ Josette insisted.

  ‘He’s not a commissaire any longer, m’dear,’ Clémentine pointed out. ‘That’s why he’s here, he’s just telling us about it.’

  ‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ Adamsberg said with a wry smile, to Josette. ‘It’s his skin or mine.’

  ‘Mon dieu, as serious as that?’

  ‘Yes, Josette. As serious as that. And I can’t just go out and about to search the country for him.’

  Clémentine helped everybody to a rice and raisin pudding with a compulsory double helping for Adamsberg.

  ‘And you can’t send some of your men out to do it, if I have understood correctly, monsieur,’ asked Josette timidly.

  ‘Haven’t I told you, Josette, he’s got no men to order about now. He’s on his own,’ said Clémentine.

  ‘Well, I do have two unofficial agents. But I can’t put them on to it, because my movements are blocked.’

  Josette seemed to consider for a moment, as she built a little house out of her pudding.

  ‘Now c’mon, Josette,’ said Clémentine. ‘If you’ve got an idea in that little head of yours, you just come out with it. Poor boy’s got no more than six weeks.’

  ‘This wouldn’t go any further?’ queried Josette.

  ‘Josette, he’s eating at our table. And you ask something like that!’

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ Josette said, still building her tottery pudding castle, ‘there are ways and means of going out and about, if you see what I mean. If Monsieur Adamsberg can’t go out himself, and if it’s a question of life and death …’

  She paused.

  ‘You have to humour Josette,’ Clémentine explained. ‘There’s no getting round it, it was the way she was brought up. Rich people, it’s always the same with them. Look round corners. Worry about everything. Well you’re poor now, Josette, so spit it out.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ Josette went on, ‘you don’t always have to use your legs. That was what I meant. And you can go faster and farther this other way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘With a computer. If you want to find out an address for instance, you can go on to the internet.’

  ‘I do know about the internet, Josette,’ Adamsberg said politely. ‘But the addresses I’m looking for are not publicly available. They’re hidden, secret ones, underground if you like.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Josette hesitantly. ‘But that’s what I meant. The underground web. The secret internet.’

  Adamsberg said nothing, not sure what to make of her words. Clémentine took advantage of the pause to pour him a glass of wine.

  ‘Stop, Clémentine. Since that ghastly night, I’m not touching a drop of anything.’

  ‘Come on, m’dear, you’re not going to tell me it disagrees with you. One glass with the meal is the rule here.’

  Clémentine went on pouring. Josette tapped on the walls of her pudding castle to make the raisins into windows.

  ‘The secret internet, Josette?’ said Adamsberg gently. ‘Is that the way you get about?’

  ‘Oh, Josette goes wherever she likes in her secret underground,’ Clémentine declared. ‘She’s in Hamburg one day, New York the next.’

  ‘Are you a computer pirate?’ asked Adamsberg, in astonishment. ‘A hacker?’

  ‘She’s a hackeress,’ Clémentine declared proudly. ‘Josette takes from the rich and gives to the poor. Underground. Pour me a glass pl
ease, my little Adamsberg.’

  ‘Is that what you meant by “transfers and distribution”?’ Adamsberg asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, briefly meeting his eyes. ‘I equalise things.’

  Josette was now putting a raisin on top of the castle as a chimney.

  ‘Where do you put the money you take?’

  ‘Into an association, and it pays my wage.’

  ‘Where do you take it from?’

  ‘All over the place. Wherever the fat cats are hiding it. I go into their numbered bank accounts and take a percentage.’

  ‘You never get caught?’

  ‘I’ve only had one scare in the ten years I’ve been doing it, and that was three months ago, because I was rushing things. I’ve had to cover my tracks and I’ve nearly finished.’

  ‘You should never rush things,’ Clémentine opined. ‘But for him it’s special, he’s only got six weeks. Mustn’t forget that.’

  Adamsberg contemplated in amazement this internet pirate, the little hacker sitting alongside him: a tiny frail old woman whose fingers trembled. With the old-fashioned name of Josette.

  ‘Where did you learn to do it?’

  ‘You can teach yourself if you’ve got the touch. Clémentine told me you were in trouble. And for Clémentine’s sake, perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘Josette,’ interrupted Adamsberg. ‘Would you be able to get inside a solicitor’s files for instance? His client’s business?’

  ‘It’s a database like any other,’ the little voice replied. ‘The files would have to be computerised of course.’

  ‘Could you unlock their access codes and get through their passwords? Have you got some kind of way through?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Josette modestly.

  ‘Like a ghost,’ Adamsberg concluded.

  ‘Just as well,’ said Clémentine. ‘Because what the commissaire’s got on his back is a real ghost. And he’s got his claws in your neck, hasn’t he? Josette, I’ve asked you before not to play with your food. It’s not so much that I mind, but I was brought up not to do it.’

  Sitting on the old chintz sofa in his tweed suit, with bare feet, Adamsberg got out his new phone to call Danglard.