by Fred Vargas
‘Too bad. What we say is: “The police have reason to believe that the French people who were involved in the dramatic events in Iceland, etc., etc., might be at risk from this killer. Anyone who feels they might be concerned should report as soon as possible to a gendarmerie or police station, for the sake of their own protection, etc., etc.” With the address and telephone number and email of our squad.’
Bourlin finished his impromptu breakfast, crushed the can in his huge paw, closed the laptop, and hauled himself up out of the sofa by leaning on the arm.
‘So send down the ball,’ he said.
XIV
BY TEN THIRTY, Adamsberg, unshaven and with his T-shirt on inside out, had finished telling members of the squad the circumstances of the third murder. And that the whisky glass found under Céleste’s floor contained no suspicious substance – which might exonerate her, unless there was some secret love story, as Danglard had suggested. She might have wanted to keep the last trace of Henri Masfauré’s lips.
The press release had been composed and Lieutenant Froissy would be responsible for circulating it any minute. Almost all the officers had come back this morning from their mission in the Yvelines.
The council chamber was emptying when Adamsberg caught Froissy by her sleeve.
‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘after putting out the release, can you find me something to eat? I haven’t had a bite since last night.’
‘I’ll do that right away,’ said Froissy with concern.
Food was Hélène Froissy’s weakness, some said a pathological one. Far from stuffing herself as Bourlin did, Froissy ate little and remained slim and elegant, but was seized with panic that she would not be able to find food when she needed it. The filing cabinet in her office had been converted into a kind of survival cache in case of war, and members of the squad knew they could go and forage there for something to eat if they were working overtime. These depredations scared Froissy enough to prompt her to replace them immediately, making up unconvincing excuses to leave the station and go shopping. The commissaire’s pangs of hunger reflected her own anguish as if in a mirror. She would have dropped anything to feed someone else. Despite this painful obsession, Froissy was a valuable member of the team, by far their best computer expert, ahead of Mercadet. But Mercadet just now was asleep upstairs in the coffee-machine room.
‘It’s not urgent,’ Adamsberg assured her. ‘Do the release first. Quick as you can. Then while I eat, you can tell me anything you’ve found out about Alice Gauthier.’
Within ten minutes, the expeditious Froissy had put out the press release which was now on its way round the world, and brought some rations for Adamsberg to eat at his desk. They came on a plate with a knife and fork, since the lieutenant did not neglect the proper way to serve food. Adamsberg guessed why there was no fresh bread. Froissy had been afraid that if she took the time to go out to a baker’s, she would find the commissaire fainting from starvation. An eating emergency always came first.
‘So go ahead,’ said Adamsberg, cutting himself a slice of pâté.
‘That one’s wild boar pâté with armagnac. I’ve also got some thin-sliced Parma ham, in a packet, so it’s not so good, or some smoked duck, or – ’
‘It’s perfect, Froissy,’ said Adamsberg holding up his hand. ‘Now tell me. Did you find out any more about Alice Gauthier’s visitor, the one on Tuesday 7 April, the day after Amédée called?’
‘The neighbour thinks it was the same person both times, because he heard that Dédé in the name again. And it was the same time of day too, when she would be alone. But he can’t swear to that.’
‘And what do Gauthier’s colleagues say about her?’
‘I saw two of them and the head. When she got back from that Iceland trip, they all greeted her as a sort of heroine, but she wouldn’t have any of it. She refused all their commiserations. Like we already knew, she was a tough cookie. She insisted they never raise the subject, and they obeyed. They didn’t know anything about her private life. One of her colleagues thought she was a lesbian, but she wasn’t sure, not that it matters anyway. Nothing from that, then. I asked the head if there were perhaps any of her former pupils who had a grudge against her and might have taken revenge. But he said that even if they had had a row with her, they wouldn’t step out of line.’
‘Even the drug dealers she pursued?’
‘Same thing apparently. They were all young, underage, and they got off lightly, not even suspended sentences. You don’t go killing someone years later on account of something like that. No, the only hot event, well, cold event, in her life is this Icelandic business.’
‘She didn’t have some friend or confidante, man or woman, whom she might have spoken to about it, before she saw Amédée?’
‘Nobody that we know of. The two colleagues say that after that drama, she became more reclusive. The woman they had seen sometimes meeting her from school disappeared. I guess that must have been her friend, the “environmental expert”. So presumably they quarrelled. As for the twice-yearly dinners for the staff, she stopped coming to them. Her pupils’ homework was always marked and returned next day, which suggests she didn’t go out at night. The concierge in her building confirms that – she didn’t go out or receive visitors. And then two years ago, she became ill. And stopped leaving the house altogether.’
‘So that’s a blank,’ said Adamsberg. ‘We’ve either got dead ends or a hundred contradictory theories that twist and turn and leave us more confused.’
‘Don’t worry, commissaire, the press release will get us out of this. When we manage to question all the survivors from Iceland, the fog will lift in ten minutes, like it did there.’
Adamsberg smiled. Froissy had a way of coming out with naively optimistic remarks, as if she were speaking to a child. Feed, reassure, comfort.
‘Don’t leave your computer, Froissy, don’t miss a single message, I beg you.’
‘Night and day, sir,’ said Froissy, taking away the empty plate. ‘I’ve arranged a targeted alert, in case there’s any reply to the release.’
And she was indeed capable of carrying out instructions night and day. She would doze off in her armchair, waiting for the alert. A special alert tailored to a single message. Adamsberg didn’t even know that existed in the ‘witches that count’.
XV
AND NOW A period of silence, at first bemused and then anxious, gradually overcame the squad.
By the evening of the day the press release had gone out, not one of the surviving members of the Icelandic expedition had contacted anyone. Adamsberg had removed the last burrs from his trousers and was wandering from one room to another, surrounded by his puzzled officers, whose activities were slowing down from hour to hour, everyone waiting for Froissy to appear from her office and invigorate them. A small discussion group had gathered in the corridor.
‘Even if they don’t all go on to social networks,’ said Voisenet, ‘or even if none of them do, someone will have told them. A friend or a family member.’
‘They’re scared,’ said Retancourt.
She was carrying over her arm the squad’s large white cat, a shapeless creature that liked to rest like a folded towel, paws dangling, relaxed and confident. Retancourt was the favourite human of this cat, known as the Snowball, a ‘ball’ of eighty centimetres when at full stretch. She was on her way to feed it, that is to take it upstairs to its dish, since the cat – which was in perfect health – refused to walk upstairs on its own and eat, unless it had company. So you had to wait alongside it while it finished its meal, then carry it back down to its favourite perch on the warm photocopy machine.
‘More afraid of the killer in the abstract than of being murdered tomorrow?’
‘They’re obeying the rule of silence. If they show up and talk to us, they’ll be executed. So why trigger that? They think they’re safe as long as they keep quiet.’
‘After three deaths, you’d think one of them at least would be looking for refuge.’
/> ‘Victor was right when he said this guy frightened them out of their wits.’
‘Ten years down the line?’
Adamsberg joined them.
‘Yes, ten years down the line,’ he agreed. ‘And if he’s got a hold like this over them, it must be because he doesn’t let them forget. He must see them, or write to them. He’s watching them and exerting constant pressure.’
‘But why, in the end?’ asked Mordent. ‘This group met pretty much by accident one night at an inn, they don’t know each other’s full names. What could they say that would endanger him?’
‘We might get an identikit of him, a profile,’ suggested Voisenet. ‘Some of them might know what kind of work he did. Or perhaps they actually know much more than we think.’
‘You mean Victor?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘For example. He had no choice, he had to answer our questions. But perhaps he only told us the minimum. It would be too risky for him, and for the others, if he gave us any precise details about this man. Same goes for Amédée. Perhaps Alice Gauthier told him a lot more than he’s let on. So he’s keeping his mouth shut too, in order to survive.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Estalère, who was shaken by the squad’s apparent paralysis.
‘Feed the cat,’ said Retancourt, going upstairs.
‘Mercadet’s asleep,’ said Estalère, counting on his fingers, ‘Danglard’s having a drink, Retancourt’s feeding the cat, Froissy’s watching her screen. But what about the rest of us?’
Adamsberg shook his head. There wasn’t a single strand of seaweed emerging from the tangle that one could pull without its breaking.
He spent the weekend more or less glued to his phone, with the sound turned up, so as not to miss a call from Froissy. But he had lost hope. They were all terrified, had gone to ground, and were keeping their mouths shut. As for police protection, no one believed in that. Who would think that having a couple of policemen outside your door would dissuade the murderer from reaching them? They knew what to expect, they knew him, they had seen him in action. And how long would protection last anyway? A couple of months? A year? Could the police mobilise fifty men to protect them for ten years? Of course not. The killer had warned them: even prison wouldn’t prevent him from eliminating them. Themselves, their partners, children, brothers and sisters. So what was the point of turning up like idiots at a police station? They would be like lambs to the slaughter.
That is, if Iceland was the right lead . . .
It was warm, that Sunday evening. Adamsberg was pacing round the garden, mobile in hand, followed by the mother cat. As if he had been watching from the window, the old Spaniard joined him, carrying two bottles of beer.
‘Not getting anywhere, eh, hombre?’
‘And I’m not going to, Lucio. Three people die in a week, and others are in danger, four of them that I can’t even identify. They will be murdered tomorrow, or in a year, or in twenty years, who knows?’
‘Have you tried everything?’
‘I think so. Even making a mistake.’
Because in the end, the press release would only have managed to put the killer on the alert. Without bringing in a single piece of evidence. It had been a blunder, and that was all. Perhaps he hadn’t thought hard enough. Perhaps he hadn’t turned his thoughts over seven times.
Lucio took the top off the bottle with his teeth.
‘You’ll ruin your teeth, opening bottles like that.’
‘They’re not my own teeth.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘This isn’t like an investigation where you just stop in the middle,’ said Lucio. ‘It’s a story that’s come to an end. It ought not to be itching.’
‘It’s not itching. But it’s not over. Another day, another death. That’s where I am now, waiting for someone to die and hoping he’ll leave a clue. Which he won’t, believe me.’
‘There must be some pathway you haven’t explored.’
‘No, there aren’t any pathways. Just a big tangle of seaweed. Dried up. No way through. And he’s constructed all this. And just when you think you see a light, he confuses everything again, tangles it up.’
‘He’s enjoying himself, isn’t he, this guy?’
Lucio scratched his empty arm in the air at the place where the spider had bitten.
‘You’re like this because there’s been no woman in your life for months.’
‘What do you mean “like this”?’ said Adamsberg, opening his bottle of beer sharply by tapping the top against the beech tree.
‘That damages the tree too. “Like this”, moaning to everyone about your tangled seaweed.’
‘And how do you know I don’t have a woman in my life? I’ve always got a woman somewhere.’
‘No you haven’t.’
XVI
HE DIDN’T GET into work until 9.20 on the Monday morning. A bad night, haunted by tangled seaweed. A dozen or so squad members were gathered round in reception, dominated by the large figure of Retancourt, who seemed to balance the composition of the whole, giving a high point to this rather pictorial scene. They were waiting, silent and tense, all eyes on the desk, as if Gardon, the duty officer, held in his hands either a providential gift or an explosive device. Gardon had never found himself the centre of attention before, and he was at a loss what to say or do. Everyone knew that Gardon was not the sharpest knife in the box, but no one was thinking of taking the letter out of his hands. That would have been to insult the man at the desk. He’d received it, it was his job to deal with it.
‘It came by special courier,’ he explained to the commissaire.
‘What did, Gardon?’
‘This letter. It’s addressed to you, sir. But it’s on thick paper, with fancy writing, it looks like a wedding invitation, and it says this on it –’ and he pointed to the top left-hand corner of the envelope. ‘I showed it to Lieutenant Veyrenc, and then they all came to take a look.’
Gardon handed the letter to Adamsberg on the flat of his hand, as if on a silver salver. Everyone else stayed stock-still, fixed to the spot, all eyes now on the commissaire. ‘They know something you don’t know,’ Adamsberg said to himself, hearing Lucio’s husky voice in his head.
The address had been written with a fountain pen, not in biro or felt pen, and the writing was almost calligraphical, while the envelope was a luxurious lined one. He hesitated to look at the top left-hand corner to decipher the name of the sender, in small print, which seemed to have turned his whole squad to stone.
ASSOCIATION FOR THE STUDY OF THE WRITINGS OF MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE.
His fingers tightened their grip on the envelope and he looked up.
‘The guillotine!’ whispered Veyrenc, summing up everyone’s thoughts – everyone’s single thought – as the others nodded, indicated agreement, shrugged their shoulders or stroked their chins.
Adamsberg’s original interpretation of the sign as a guillotine had amused some people and irritated others; either way, they had considered it a distraction, a speculative wander off the beaten track, such as they had come to expect from him, and they had attached little importance to it – with the exception of Veyrenc. Adamsberg met his gaze, and saw that he was smiling.
‘Its shining blade must flash, as dawn begins to break,’ Veyrenc began in a low voice. ‘The darkened planks stand tall, reaching to the sky. / The cold steel severs now the life that it will take / To view this deathly image is to prepare to die.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Veyrenc, get the metre right,’ said Danglard.
Veyrenc shrugged. He had an ingrained habit, inherited from his grandmother, although she was no poet, of speaking in twelve-syllable alexandrines. Sometimes he got the syllabification wrong, which annoyed his learned colleague. Alone among the others, Danglard was now staring at the floor, shoulders hunched. Adamsberg could guess what he was thinking. His deputy was suffering again, both over his inability to decipher the sign and his sarcastic dismissal of Adamsberg’s suggestio
n. Like the others, he hadn’t wanted to view the ‘deathly image’.
‘Well, if it’s a letter, we should open it, shouldn’t we, sir?’ asked Gardon, without meaning to be impertinent, and his words prosaically interrupted the moment of collective tension that had transported them all to some threatening, or perhaps poetic, universe.
‘A paper knife,’ said Adamsberg, holding out his hand. ‘I don’t want to tear this envelope. Council chamber,’ he added, ‘and fetch the others from their offices or the coffee room.’
‘Mercadet’s feeding the cat,’ said Estalère.
‘Well, get both Mercadet and the cat down here.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Retancourt and nobody objected, since bringing down the Snowball, plus the lieutenant, who would be half asleep, was no easy feat, especially with the uneven step on the stairs that regularly tripped people up.
Adamsberg read the letter to himself, while Estalère busied himself serving coffees in the council chamber. Adamsberg was no good at reading out loud with fluency, and he stumbled over words or mispronounced them. Not that he was embarrassed at doing so in front of his colleagues, but he wanted to present them with a clear text, foreseeing that the prose written by this refined correspondent might not be the simplest in the world.
Froissy was last to enter the room, her eyes tired after three days and nights in front of her silent screen.
‘We’ve got an answer finally, but it’s come the old-fashioned way,’ Adamsberg told her.
He waited for the noise of coffee spoons to die down before starting to read.
‘This is from François Château, who is president of the Association for the Study of the Writings of Maximilien Robespierre.’
Monsieur le commissaire,
It was only late last night that I was informed by one of my colleagues of the communiqué your service has released, concerning three recent murders within a few days: those of Mme Alice Gauthier and of MM Henri Masfauré and Jean Breuguel. Your statement informed me of their names, which were unknown to me. However, I immediately recognised the photographs of all three unfortunate persons, which you had circulated to the press.
