This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

  ‘How are you going to explain that you’ll pick her up, instead of her coming over to yours?’

  ‘I won’t explain, I’ll convince her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Commissaire, just one thing. This spider. I’m against it, totally against it.’

  ‘I know that, lieutenant. Do we have to get into a discussion about that again? Not that there was any discussion.’

  ‘No, no point.’

  ‘End of conversation, then.’

  ‘Just this, commissaire. If you do need anyone to help out over this fucking spider, I’ll be there.’

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg walked back towards the main building, hands in pockets and a smile on his lips. He went into Froissy’s office: she was too absorbed in her research to be aware of any movement. He had to put a hand on her shoulder, making her jump when she realised he was there.

  ‘You can switch off for a bit, lieutenant. Time for a break.’

  ‘But I’ve just started finding things out.’

  ‘All the more reason. Let’s go and take a stroll round the courtyard. Have you noticed the lilac is out now?’

  ‘You’re asking me?’ said Froissy, a little offended. ‘Who kept it watered during the dry spell when you were in Iceland?’

  ‘You did, lieutenant. But there’s something else as well. Remember that pair of blackbirds that nested in the ivy three years ago? Well, they’ve come back, and the female is on the nest.’

  ‘You think they’re the same ones?’

  ‘I asked Voisenet. Yes, he’s sure they are – the male is very thin. You wouldn’t have a bit of cake, would you? They just love it. Actually, Froissy, what I want is not to talk about the recluse in these offices.’

  ‘I understand. Wait for me in the corridor. I must just finish something off.’

  Adamsberg went out. Everyone knew that Froissy wouldn’t open the cupboards where she kept food, if anyone else was there – imagining it was a well-kept secret. While being aware at some level that it wasn’t. She joined him a moment later with two slices of cake in one hand, and her laptop under her arm.

  ‘Look, there they are,’ said Adamsberg, once they were in the yard, pointing to a dense mass of twigs in the ivy on the wall, about two metres up. ‘See her? The female? Don’t go too close. Here comes the male.’

  ‘You’re right, he does look thin.’

  Froissy carefully set her laptop down on a stone step and began to crumble one of the cake slices.

  ‘I found out about the orphanage,’ she said. ‘It was called La Miséricorde Children’s Home, back then. It was converted into a youth club twenty-six years ago. So its records may have been destroyed, or transferred somewhere else.’

  ‘Our bad luck then,’ said Adamsberg as he scattered more cake crumbs.

  ‘No, wait. The director at the time is dead – well, he would be well over a hundred now! – but he had a son who was brought up inside the orphanage. Not exactly with the orphans, not in the dormitories, but he attended the same lessons and sat with them for meals. He seems to have followed in his father’s footsteps, because he became a child psychiatrist. Children’s psychological problems. Give me a second.’

  Froissy wiped her hands clean of grease from the cake, using a white cotton handkerchief, and opened her laptop.

  ‘I can’t remember the title of his book,’ she explained, as Adamsberg wiped his own hands on his trousers.

  ‘Your trousers will be ruined.’

  ‘No, they won’t. What book?’

  ‘Here we are. The son published a book, privately, just a little brochure: Father of 876 children. The text’s on open access on the internet, I didn’t have to work hard to find it,’ she added, a little disappointed. ‘He describes the life there, the other boys, the crises, the festivities, the fights, how they sneaked out to peep at the girls through the high fence that separated their quarters. But it’s mostly about the subtle methods his father used to care for these abandoned children. Then he analyses the different effects of parental absence. It’s insightful and a hard read, but there’s nothing to help us there. Except that it proves the son obviously knows a great deal about La Miséricorde, and is closely attached to it. There are loads of precise events, notes, with names and dates, that can only come from the records. He must have them, sir.’

  ‘Excellent, Froissy. And can we somehow contact this son?’

  ‘He lives in Mas-de-Pessac, seventeen kilometres outside Nîmes. His name is Roland Cauvert, he’s seventy-nine now. Piece of cake to find him. 5 rue de l’Église. I’ve got his phone number, email, all you need to get in touch.’

  Adamsberg caught Froissy by the arm.

  ‘Don’t move. See the male? He’s already daring to pick up crumbs, although we’re here.’

  ‘Want some cake yourself? I know Zerk stayed behind, in Iceland. And I get the feeling you’ve not been eating properly since then. I’ve got something on the third man who died, Claude Landrieu. It’s not much. And he wasn’t at La Miséricorde.’

  ‘Landrieu, the shopkeeper?’

  ‘Owner of a chocolate shop, to be precise. When he was fifty-five, he was questioned about a rape in Nîmes.’

  ‘Got a date for that? The rape?’

  ‘30 April 1988. Victim’s name, Justine Pauvel.’

  ‘And Landrieu was a suspect?’

  ‘No, he turned up spontaneously next day as a witness. He knew the girl well, saw her almost daily. Her parents both worked and Justine came to his shop to do her homework, long-standing family friend, kind of godfather. He knew the names of most of the boys in her class, which was why he went to the police. But none of the leads took them anywhere.’

  ‘Find out where the victim lives today, if you can. I’m always suspicious of spontaneous witnesses. They come running to help the cops without being asked. Have either of the others been suspected of rape?’

  ‘I’ve begun looking in the court records for the Gard département – nothing so far. I’ll extend it to all of France, though as a rule rapists tend to attack on their own ground. And these guys don’t seem to have left their département. Still, they could have gone away on holiday or for a weekend, who knows?’

  ‘In the case of the first two, one might suspect revenge for their “mischief” at the orphanage. But seventy years later? And for Landrieu, it could be revenge for a rape. But almost thirty years later? Is someone trying to wipe out these stink bugs?’

  ‘These what, sir?’

  ‘They’re a kind of horrible smelly beetle, they’ve got lots of names, but that’s the best one. Apparently they eat rat shit, and maybe these three men who died were like that: stink bugs. Still, we keep coming back to the same thing. Can you kill anyone with recluses? No, it’s impossible.’

  ‘So it’s no use, what I’ve found?’

  ‘On the contrary, Froissy. Keep on digging and save anything you can find. Impossible or not, there are stink bugs somewhere in this story.’

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg received the text message from Commissaire Descartier an hour later, as he was about to leave the office.

  Prints identical. He’s the one.

  He replied quickly:

  Got the laptop and images?

  Yes. Nobody else knows. Fetch when you want.

  Then a final message:

  Cheers, Ad, and thanks.

  Adamsberg put his phone down on Retancourt’s desk. She read what it said in silence.

  ‘I won’t be in tomorrow, Retancourt. Quick trip to the provinces. I’ll be reachable though.’

  ‘Taking Sunday off, are you?’

  Adamsberg could hear in her voice the relief she was feeling on Froissy’s behalf.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. A walk in the country.’

  ‘Langue
doc perhaps? Nice area.’

  ‘Very. I plan to go to a little village near Nîmes.’

  ‘Careful, commissaire, they say there are recluse spiders in the area. Apparently they’ve been biting people.’

  ‘You seem well informed, lieutenant. Want to come too?’

  ‘Can’t, I’ve got Vivaldi tomorrow, remember?’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, that’ll be very nice too.’

  Adamsberg put his head in at Veyrenc’s door.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, 8.43 train to Nîmes? Suit you?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘And tonight 8.30 at La Garbure?’

  ‘I’ll be there too.’

  Veyrenc had been right. The investigation into the recluse, even now it was known about, had turned into a sort of plot, obliging Adamsberg to keep his voice down in the office or escape into the courtyard. Which was noticed of course. The atmosphere of secrets and whispers wasn’t good for anyone. They needed more troops, and to pool their knowledge.

  ‘Shall we ask Voisenet along?’ suggested Veyrenc.

  ‘You’re recruiting? I’ve already got Retancourt onside.’

  ‘Retancourt? How did you manage that?’

  ‘A miracle.’

  ‘So, Voisenet, for tonight?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We set off only two, but at once by our side, / As we came to the port, hundreds more for us cried. / And while we marched onward, with our hearts full of zeal, / The timid among them found their nerves turned to steel.’

  ‘Is that one of your Racine imitations?’

  ‘No, it’s genuine Corneille, well, twitched a bit. From Le Cid.’

  ‘Yes, I thought it sounded a bit better than usual. Do you think Voisenet is one of “the timid among them” about this recluse business?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Anyone who can deal with a moray eel isn’t going to be scared of a spider.’

  ‘OK, invite him then.’

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg was preparing to drive away when Danglard appeared alongside his car. He lowered the window and put the handbrake on.

  ‘See the little blackbird, Danglard? She’s returned to nest here again. Perhaps she’ll bring us good luck.’

  ‘They’ve just arrested the rapist in the 9th,’ said the commandant, sounding quite excited.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And a few hours ago, you asked me how to get in touch with Descartier.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So it was you? This arrest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without telling anyone? All on your own?’

  ‘I am all on my own, aren’t I?’

  That was below the belt, Adamsberg thought, as he saw Danglard’s features collapse. Emotions appeared on Danglard’s face like chalk on a blackboard. Adamsberg had just wounded him. But Danglard was beginning to create serious problems for the team. With the weight of his knowledge and the logic of his arguments – for who would believe those men had been killed with recluse spiders as the murder weapon? – Danglard was undermining the cohesion of the squad. He was creating a majority group opposed to the commissaire. For the second time in a year. Good grief, yes, the second time! Of course, Danglard had some right on his side. But on the other hand, he was losing his faculty of imagination, or at any rate his open-mindedness, and even his tolerance. Putting him, Adamsberg, in danger. Danger of losing his authority, though he cared little for that. Danger of appearing insane, but he cared little for that either. Danger of being mocked by his officers, and he did care somewhat about that. Danger that all this would come out, and it was coming out, danger of being sacked as incompetent or wayward, and yes, he did care about that. Besides which, if Danglard was going to carry on like this, a confrontation would be inevitable. Him or me. Two stags clashing antlers. His oldest friend. One way or another, he was going to have to settle this.

  ‘We’ll talk some more about this, Danglard.’

  ‘What about, the rapist in the 9th?’

  ‘No, you and me.’

  And Adamsberg drove off, leaving the commandant standing in the yard with a disconcerted expression on his face.

  XVI

  For the third night in a row, Estelle saw officers from the Crime Squad come into her restaurant. This time, the two from the Béarn were accompanied by a little man with a shock of dark hair and a ruddy complexion, whom she did not know. The policeman with russet highlights had seemed to be showing some interest in her the night before, staying behind after his friend had left, smiling and chatting to her about the mountains back home. But these repeated meetings around the soup tureen were clearly not just a ruse to see her. No, they obviously had some problem, which was obliging them to meet and discuss it every evening. The three men said little until she had brought their food over to the table.

  ‘You don’t have to eat garbure, Voisenet,’ said Adamsberg.

  ‘Aha,’ said Voisenet, patting his stomach. ‘Since you invited me here, I might have thought this was a ritual initiation to join the secret society. It’s that soup you have in your region, isn’t it – chuck everything in?’

  ‘Not everything,’ Veyrenc corrected him. ‘Cabbage, potatoes, shin of pork if there is any.’

  ‘That’ll do fine,’ said Voisenet, ‘I’m not fussy.’

  ‘As for the secret society, or at least the discretion required,’ Adamsberg said, ‘you’re not wrong there. And that’s a great pity. The atmosphere in the office is unhealthy.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Three factions again. The antis, and facing them, not exactly anyone who’s for, but the fellow travellers, so to speak. Because – are any of them entirely in favour? And then there’s a group that haven’t made up their minds, or don’t want to get involved. But some of the neutral ones can be well disposed, like Mercadet, or more hostile, like Kernorkian. Is that what you’re trying to find out? What’s going on inside the squad? But you know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Yes indeed, and I’ve no intention of using you as a spy, lieutenant. I asked you along to tell you a few new details.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you were the first to spot the way the recluse was behaving.’

  ‘I already told you why it interested me.’

  ‘Never mind. Apart from your grandfather, it obviously bothered you.’

  ‘Yes, the thought that the recluse could actually kill someone did bother me. All those rumours about mutations, insecticides, increased numbers, makes you think, doesn’t it? It’s not bad, your garbure, by the way. So what are these new details, sir?’

  ‘The two men who died, Claveyrolle and Barral, had known each other all their lives, they used to sit and chew the fat, while downing a few Pernods.’

  ‘Nîmes isn’t a very big place, as Mordent pointed out. Still, it is a bit odd.’

  ‘Especially when you know they had both been part of a gang of “bad boys” at their orphanage.’

  ‘The sort that bully you in the playground, if you’re too fat, or too skinny, or just look helpless? Believe me, I had my share of those. What would I have given to see them dead, back then! But returning to murder my old tormentors, years and years later? No! Was that what you were thinking, sir?’

  ‘Well, it’s a possibility,’ said Veyrenc. ‘In an investigation, we don’t ignore coincidences, as you well know.’

  ‘Investigation? When Danglard heard that word, he went ballistic.’

  ‘But in any case, nothing proves they didn’t carry on being bastards all their lives.’

  ‘Stink bugs,’ said Adamsberg.

  ‘Stink bugs?’ said Voisenet. ‘Oh, you mean cellar beetles, ones that make a bad smell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the third man who died, Landrieu, he wasn’t from the orphanage.’

  ‘
Maybe they knew each other all the same?’

  ‘And,’ said Veyrenc, ‘this same Landrieu had come forward as a witness in the case of the teenager who was raped.’

  ‘Uh-oh, spontaneous witnesses who come forward, don’t like the sound of that,’ said Voisenet.

  ‘As I was about to say,’ Adamsberg agreed.

  ‘Did they get the rapist?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘Twenty-eight years ago.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s a long time back as well,’ said Voisenet, holding out his plate for a second helping. ‘But it’s not unthinkable. A young woman, who never recovers and decides when she’s older she’s going to kill the man who raped her. After all that time, who would think of her? Especially if the death is camouflaged by other victims. Of spider bites.’

  ‘We keep coming back to that,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You can’t order a recluse spider to bite, and certainly not sixty of them.’

  ‘Sixty?’

  ‘Do you know how much recluse venom it would take to kill a man, Voisenet?’

  ‘Let’s think,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Three to five vipers I think, at fifteen milligrams per snake. So for a tiny little recluse, five times more, surely?’

  ‘You’re close. You’d need the content of forty-four venom glands, or twenty-two spiders.’

  ‘Not counting the times the bites didn’t cause any harm.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But still,’ said Voisenet, ‘I have to say it again, these guys were old. You could imagine that, say, three bites might destabilise the immune system of very old people. It’s not a mild poison, you know. Necrosis, septicaemia, haemolysis. Why not three bites?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Veyrenc.

  ‘Well, it would be possible,’ said Voisenet, warming to his subject and holding out his glass. ‘What’s this wine?’

  ‘Madiran.’

  ‘Very good. So let’s say someone works out a technique for trapping a whole lot of recluses. At night, in the shadows.’

  ‘Or perhaps,’ said Veyrenc, ‘using a vacuum cleaner to suck them out of their holes, spiders can survive that. Then all you have to do is empty out the vacuum bag and catch them.’