by Fred Vargas
* * *
*
He parked the shiny black limousine in front of the station, just as Kernorkian and Lamarre were escorting Carvin towards him. The lawyer shot a quick glance at the commissaire. Shabby dark jacket and trousers, a faded T-shirt that might once have been grey or blue, none of this fitted the idea Maître Carvin had of the rather celebrated chief of this unit. He held out his hand.
‘Apparently, monsieur le commissaire, you are going to take me for a drive?’
Without waiting for an answer, Carvin headed for the passenger seat.
‘No, maître,’ said Adamsberg, handing him the keys, ‘I’d like you to drive.’
‘Oh, you want to test my competence?’
‘Something like that.’
‘As you wish,’ said the lawyer, coming back round the car.
Carvin could not rid himself of his slightly provocative attitude, but Adamsberg noted that he was being more affable towards him than to his colleagues. As far as this man was concerned, a man who strove untiringly to dominate those around him, Adamsberg was boss class. Instinctively, therefore, he considered it more prudent to maintain a respectful distance. Just because a man is shorter than you and is wearing a shabby linen jacket doesn’t mean you should underestimate him, if he’s the chief.
‘I imagine,’ the lawyer said, sliding behind the steering wheel, ‘that this car doesn’t belong to the squad? Or perhaps the public has been misled about the resources at the police’s disposal?’
‘It belongs to the divisionnaire,’ said Adamsberg, fastening his seat belt. ‘I get the feeling you drive well, but fast. I’ve got to get it back to him tonight without a scratch, so I’d ask you to be careful.’
Carvin switched on the engine and smiled.
‘Trust me. Where are we going?’
‘The car park outside the video games place.’
‘And then to the spot where someone killed my wife?’
‘To start with, yes.’
The lawyer drove off, flicked the indicator without looking for it first and turned left.
‘I suppose you’re going to play this game with that Bouzim character as well?’
‘Bouzid. Yes, of course.’
‘I confess I can’t see where you’re heading with this, commissaire.’
‘I still don’t know myself, if that’s any comfort.’
‘I’m not worried. Nice car, this. Very nice.’
‘You like cars?’
‘What man doesn’t?’
‘Me for a start, they leave me cold.’
After first parking the car opposite the games arcade, then driving to the rue du Château-des-Rentiers, Carvin stopped at the traffic light where his wife had been run over by his own 4x4.
‘Here we are, commissaire. What next?’
‘Back to the games room, just as the killer did.’
Adamsberg could read on the lawyer’s sardonic lips his scorn for the simplistic stratagem of the commissaire.
‘Which way should I go?’
‘Go through the side streets. Take the first right, then the next three right turns, and it’ll bring us out there.’
‘Very well.’
‘Be careful, there are roadworks on the rue de l’Ormier, the surface is uneven.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t damage your car,’ said Carvin, moving off.
Four minutes later, they were back at the games arcade. Adamsberg signalled to Carvin to carry on back to the police station.
‘Come inside, please,’ he said. ‘The commandant would like a word with you.’
‘Not you?’
‘No, not me.’
‘The commandant? But I’ve already talked to him any number of times.’
‘This is a different one.’
‘It smells of something in here,’ said Carvin, wrinkling his nose.
‘Yes, we had a delivery,’ said Adamsberg.
Danglard introduced himself. Maître Carvin registered the well-cut, English-tailored suit worn by this tall man of unprepossessing looks, with his very pale blue eyes, bent legs and hunched shoulders. But Adamsberg noticed a slight sign of apprehension in the lawyer, not inspired simply by Danglard’s choice of clothes. He had recognised in Danglard an enemy of a different calibre from those he had so far faced.
‘Nassim Bouzid has already arrived, commissaire,’ said Danglard.
‘Fine, I’ll take him out at once.’
The two suspects came face-to-face in the hall, one following Danglard, the other Adamsberg.
‘You bastard, Bouzim!’ shouted the lawyer. ‘What had she ever done to you? You piece of shit! Barbarian! What tribe do you belong to, the dopeheads? Hashish-eaters . . . !’
Adamsberg and Danglard each took hold of their man by the arm, aided by Retancourt and Lamarre, who had run up to assist. Bouzid was the one dealt with by Retancourt, who propelled him back a full six metres, though no one quite understood how she managed it.
‘I’ve never even met your wife!’ shouted Bouzid.
‘Filthy liar! Doesn’t the Koran tell you lying is a sin?’
‘What makes you think I read the Koran? I don’t even believe in God, you ignorant scumbag!’
‘I’ll kill you, Bouzim!’
They managed to keep the two men apart, and Adamsberg took a good five minutes to calm Nassim Bouzid down, as they stood on the pavement: the other man kept repeating in a shaken voice: ‘He started it!’ – the way children talk. The commissaire installed him in the driving seat and waited for a while until he felt he had settled down emotionally enough to drive.
Adamsberg made him follow the same circuit as the lawyer, only asking him to do it twice. Before setting off, Bouzid had taken a few minutes to check the positions of the controls, and unlike the lawyer, he talked the whole time during their drive – while asking for instructions, as Carvin had – about his family, his work, that lawyer bastard, this woman who’d been run over, who was not his mistress, whom he’d never seen. Terrible thing to run a woman down like that, isn’t it? No, Bouzid didn’t cheat on his wife, never, when would he have had the time? And anyway, his wife, she was the suspicious kind, she watched him like a hawk. So? How could he possibly have done what they said? He’d never been called to do repairs in the shop where the murdered woman worked. He was too good-natured, that was the problem, always obliging people, he even offered his services free to Adamsberg if the drinks dispenser at the station was out of order. (As a matter of fact, it no longer dispensed soup, but nobody cared.)
On his return, Adamsberg passed the car over to the fingerprint team, explaining precisely what he wanted them to look for, both on the divisionnaire’s car and on Carvin’s 4x4. Just one thing, which could be quickly checked. Danglard was coming out of his office, his cheeks slightly pinker than usual, as he accompanied the lawyer to the door. Carvin stalked out, his jaw set, avoiding any eye contact and shaking hands only with the commissaire when he came face-to-face with him. Clearly the score was 10–nil to Danglard, an execution carried out with consummate skill, Adamsberg was sure. Who lives by the sword perishes by the sword.
* * *
*
Arms folded, Adamsberg paced round the office. Voisenet had now returned to work, and had realised, as he entered the room, that it did indeed smell like a fish market. With all the windows wide open, there was a ferocious draught and everyone had had to pin down paper files with whatever came to hand, pencil cases, shoes, tins nabbed from Froissy’s reserve-food cupboard – wild boar pâté, duck parfait with green pepper. This assortment of contrivances made the office look like a cross between a car boot sale and a charity bazaar, and Adamsberg hoped the divisionnaire would not make a surprise visit to come and fetch his car, and find half the squad minus their shoes in a room stinking of fish.
‘Froissy,’ he said, ‘download
the interrogation of Carvin by Danglard to everyone. It’ll be entertaining, don’t miss it. But first, can you make for me an enlargement of Carvin’s hands during his first interrogation, as close up as you can get it, of the ends of his fingers, the fingernails?’
Froissy was a fast worker and a few minutes later she sent Adamsberg a picture of the lawyer’s left hand. ‘I get best results one hand at a time,’ she explained.
‘Can you turn up the contrast?’
She did so.
‘And enlarge it again.’
Adamsberg looked for a long while at the screen before sitting back up, looking pleased.
‘Can you do the same for the right hand?’
‘It’s on the way, sir. What are you looking for?’
‘Do you see, he has round nails? I mean the ends of his nails curl over like a shell at the end of the finger. See? That’s the kind of nail us cops particularly like, because they are more likely to capture substances than other types.’
‘What substances?’
‘I’m looking for earth, some nice brown earth.’
‘Right, I’ll work on it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To bring up the brown. There you are.’
‘Excellent, lieutenant! Now, where can you see the dirt?’
‘Under the nails on the thumbs and the ring fingers.’
‘Yes, and he still had a bit on his thumbnail even today, one of the corners hardest to clean, especially if it’s soft, clinging soil and especially with that shape of nail.’
‘Could it be engine oil?’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg tapping the screen, ‘it’s earth. But either way, earth or oil, do you think that’s normal for a man as fastidious about his appearance?’
‘Perhaps he was planting something in the garden – it’ll soon be June.’
‘That’s the kind of thing he’d leave to his wife. Can you print off the close-ups, please? Then get on with the Danglard video. That’ll cheer them all up.’
* * *
*
The fingerprint team was putting away its equipment in the back courtyard.
‘Sorry, commissaire,’ said their leader, stretching his arms. ‘We got a print, two actually, thumb and index, on the windscreen of your divisionnaire’s car, but nothing on the 4x4. Can’t win ’em all.’
‘That’s fine. Send me the report as soon as you can, with pictures of both windscreens.’
‘Not till tomorrow, sir. Two more jobs to do by tonight.’
* * *
*
The office was emptying out as the video began in the chapter room. Adamsberg grabbed Voisenet as he was leaving.
‘Voisenet, get your camera, a trowel, gloves and an evidence bag. I’m taking the metal detector. We’re not going far, just to the Impasse des Bourgeons.’
‘But, commissaire,’ Voisenet protested, wondering whether this was some kind of disciplinary action, ‘I wanted to see Danglard crushing that lawyer guy.’
‘You can look at it afterwards on your own, you’ll enjoy it even more.’
Voisenet looked at Adamsberg’s face: by his expression, he seemed to have completely forgotten the moray eel business, for good or ill, and was moving on to other things. The eel on the other hand hadn’t forgotten them, because it had taken care to leave its atrocious smell behind. Although Voisenet well knew that the commissaire did not nurse a grudge, he found it hard to accept, since he was inclined to do so himself.
Once they were in front of the building where the Carvins lived, Adamsberg walked up and down the street – it was a cul-de-sac, wide but not long, so it looked more like a small square.
‘Three chestnut trees,’ he remarked. ‘That’s handy.’
‘I was just going to tell you, sir. If you want to search their house, I would remind you that we still don’t have permission from the examining magistrate. It was the weekend when it happened, and now he’s digesting the file.’
‘Let’s leave him to his digestion, Voisenet, I don’t need to go inside.’
‘So what are we doing here?’
‘Tell me, Voisenet, are you any kind of expert on spiders?’
‘Not my field, commissaire. And it’s a huge field. Forty-five thousand species in the world, just think of it.’
‘Pity. Not that it’s important, but I had hoped you could help me, lieutenant. Since I got back from Iceland, I’ve been checking back over the news. Apart from various murders and galloping pollution, I was intrigued by a little story about spiders.’
Voisenet’s dark eyebrows contracted in a frown: he was immediately on his guard.
‘What little story, sir?’
‘Something called the recluse spider, apparently there’ve been some cases when it’s bitten people in Languedoc-Roussillon, and now, there have been two deaths,’ said Adamsberg, as he hauled the metal detector from the boot of the car. ‘Let’s try that tree first, Voisenet, the one in the middle. Pull up the grids around it.’
Voisenet watched Adamsberg activate the detector without replying. He was a little lost as he listened to the commissaire’s remarks, switching between the chestnut trees and the recluse spider. Pulling himself together, he began to follow the circular path of the machine, step by step.
‘Nothing under this one,’ said Adamsberg, standing upright again. ‘Carvin is less subtle than I thought. Let’s try the other one, right opposite his building.’
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Voisenet. ‘A metal spider?’
‘You’ll see, Voisenet,’ Adamsberg said with a grin. ‘You won’t regret missing the video. So this recluse spider and its bites, that doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘Well, yes, in fact it does,’ said Voisenet, still moving round the base of the tree. ‘I followed that story up a bit.’
‘You followed it up a lot, you mean. Why, Voisenet?’
‘A long time ago, my grandfather was bitten on the leg by a recluse spider. Gangrene set in, and the leg had to be amputated below the knee. Well, he survived, but he’d lost his leg. And he used to like going jogging in the evening, even when he was eighty-six. I used to go with him. “Listen, son,” he would say, “it’s the time of day when everything tilts over. Listen to the sounds: some animals going to sleep, others waking up. Listen to the flowers folding their petals.”’
‘Flower petals?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they make a sound when they close up?’
‘No. Anyway, he couldn’t go jogging any more, he wasted away and died nine months later. That’s why I hate recluse spiders.’
The two men froze. The detector had just pinged.
‘A coin, maybe,’ said Voisenet.
‘Pass me your gloves.’
Adamsberg carefully examined the earth in the quarter-circle they had covered.
‘See there,’ he said, pointing. ‘No dead leaves on that bit. Someone’s been digging there recently.’
‘But what are we looking for?’ Voisenet persisted.
The commissaire gently removed the topsoil on a patch about ten centimetres wide and about eight centimetres deep. Then he stopped and looked up at Voisenet with a smile.
‘Spare car keys are objects that can turn us all into idiots. You really don’t want to lose them.’
Moving more earth aside, he cleared the earth from around the object his fingers had encountered.
‘And what do we have here, my dear Voisenet?’
‘Some car keys.’
‘Right, photograph them in situ. Close-ups, middle distance and wide angle.’
Voisenet obeyed and then Adamsberg used two fingers to extricate the keys, holding them by their ring. He dangled them in front of his lieutenant.
‘Pass me the evidence bag, Voisenet. We’ll leave the earth on the keys, don’t brush it of
f. Now we put the grids back and pack up. Call the squad, and get them to haul Carvin out of his chambers again. He’s to be taken into custody.’
Adamsberg stood up, brushed the knees of his trousers, then pushed back his hair, leaving bits of earth in it.
‘Sometimes, Voisenet, weak and passive individuals who never say no to anyone and fall over themselves to help others, can kill in a sudden outburst of frustration. It could have been that way with Bouzid.’
‘Passive-aggressive types.’
‘Yeah, right. But sometimes the opposite kind, the arrogant, overconfident ones, who look dangerous, really are dangerous. That’s Carvin. Their greed is like a demon, it grows a new mouth every year.’
‘News to me.’
‘Well, it’s true, Voisenet,’ said Adamsberg taking off the gloves. ‘It gets to the point where everything in their path has to be crushed. Literally crushed, in this case. Is your moray eel as aggressive as that?’
Voisenet shrugged.
‘It’s a timid creature,’ he said. ‘It hides in crevices.’
‘Like the recluse.’
‘Commissaire, what is it with the recluse?’
‘Well, you followed it up, didn’t you, Voisenet?’
‘I already told you why I was interested. But what about you?’
‘Wish I knew, lieutenant.’
