This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

  ‘Me too,’ said Mercadet, switching off his computer.

  ‘Is it nice, garbure?’ asked Froissy, who was always concerned with the taste of food.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ said Veyrenc.

  ‘Well,’ Adamsberg added, ‘you have to like cabbage.’

  XXIV

  Mercadet and Froissy, after glancing at the soup tureen brought over for Adamsberg and Veyrenc, had opted for the chicken casserole à la Henri IV. The clouds had cleared somewhat after Veyrenc’s discoveries about the four other victims of the Ex-victim Gang, as they thought of them, who had been locked in combat with the Recluse Gang for twenty years. At last things were falling into place. Chronological elements, psychological elements and technical puzzles could all fit into an overall satisfactory explanation. The distress Adamsberg had felt whenever the word ‘recluse’ was uttered had melted away. All they had to do now was wait for the missions led by Retancourt and Voisenet to deliver results, and the end would be in sight. And for once, it was the commissaire who now cheerfully filled the glasses with Madiran.

  Veyrenc had changed places again, and was sitting with his back to the counter. This evening, he would not get up to fetch coffee or sugar. Mercadet tasted the garbure, but passed it up without regret, and the conversations wandered, ranging in no particular order over the investigation, poisons, spiders, Mexico City, the fact that the cat wasn’t interested in the blackbirds, stink bugs and the Miséricorde orphanage. Seven Recluse Gang members dead already, at the hands of the Ex-victim Gang.

  ‘All right,’ said Mercadet, ‘so they had a hard time in the orphanage, but the poor little victims didn’t turn into angels.’

  ‘Someone who has suffered greatly will make others suffer,’ Veyrenc said.

  ‘I was getting fond of them. But in the end, they’re murderers.’

  ‘And very calculating. I’ve never come across such a long spell of obstinate determination. You’d think age would have made them less involved, but no.’

  Estelle approached, and placed a finger, not a hand, on Veyrenc’s shoulder, to ask if she should serve the Tomme cheese. Yes, of course she should.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Adamsberg asked.

  ‘Half past eleven,’ said Veyrenc. ‘You know, this is getting to be a pain, your asking the time.’

  ‘Retancourt has been in position for three hours, Voisenet and his men two hours.’

  ‘Jean-Baptiste, give it a rest,’ said Veyrenc under his breath.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mercadet was dividing the Tomme when Adamsberg’s mobile rang.

  ‘Must be Retancourt,’ he said, grabbing the phone.

  Then he frowned, as he didn’t recognise the caller’s number.

  ‘Commissaire? You weren’t asleep, were you? I beg your pardon, I know it’s very late, I’m really sorry. This is Madame Royer-Colombe, Irène Royer, Irène! Remember me?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t asleep, Irène. What’s the matter? Has someone been throwing stones at your windows?’

  ‘No, no, commissaire, worse than that.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Adamsberg switched on the speaker and the clatter of cutlery stopped.

  ‘There’s been another, commissaire! The web’s going mad. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to be confusing, not a spider’s web, the internet.’

  ‘Another what?’ asked Adamsberg.

  He wanted to push her to tell him everything quickly, but he had realised that the more pressure one put on Irène, the less coherently she told her story. She had to be in charge of the pace and the digressions.

  ‘Why, another man bitten!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s what’s so weird, not in our region, but in Charente-Maritime. Up in the west, that’s not recluse territory. Still, the black widows have been going north, from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic coast. Why do they do that? Who knows? And last year, you know, a recluse bit someone in the Oise, up north. So you see, there must be some spiders who like adventure, something like that. Wondering whether the grass is greener somewhere else. Well, not literally.’

  ‘Please, Irène. Can you give me the details?’

  ‘Well, it’s been all over Twitter for the last, what? Ten minutes. And I called you right away. They’ve taken him to hospital in Rochefort.’

  ‘Is it certain this is a recluse bite?’

  ‘Oh yes, because this man – it’s another old man, commissaire – he recognised the swelling, there was a blister right away, and then a red spot, and what with all the panic at the moment, he went straight to hospital.’

  ‘But how did the news get out so quickly on social media?’

  ‘Must have been someone at the hospital, a paramedic perhaps, who knows? With all the scares at the moment.’

  ‘And do you know the man’s name?’

  ‘Ah, commissaire, that’s confidential, isn’t it? They don’t let you know that sort of thing. All we heard is that he was bitten after supper in Saint-Porchaire. Up there somewhere. He felt the bite.’

  ‘Was he indoors or outdoors?’

  ‘They don’t say. What I wonder is whether this is a normal bite victim, or one of those special ones that you talked about.’

  ‘I understand, Irène. I’ll tell you when I know.’

  ‘Wait, commissaire. Don’t call me on my mobile – I forgot it at home on a chair.’

  ‘But where are you then?’

  ‘I’m in Bourges.’

  ‘In Bourges?’

  ‘Yes, because I pick a spot on the map and I go off there, it’s for the antalgic posture, you understand.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Antalgic posture. Arms on the steering wheel, feet on the pedals, I can hardly feel my arthritis at all, see? I’d love to live like this, sitting at the wheel, on the road.’

  ‘Well, do you have a hotel number?’

  ‘This isn’t a hotel, I’m in a guest house. It’s very clean, I must say, and I’ve borrowed the owner’s mobile. He’s very kind, but I mustn’t take advantage.’

  Adamsberg switched off and looked round at his colleagues with a strained expression.

  ‘This man is at Saint-Porchaire. Wasn’t one of our stink bugs living there?’

  ‘Yes, Olivier Vessac, age eighty,’ said Froissy.

  ‘I’m off then,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Our man’s got only two days to live. I want to drag out of him the exact time of the wound and who or what gave it to him.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Veyrenc, without moving. ‘We could be in Rochefort in five hours. But what the heck would be the point of arriving in front of a hospital at half past four in the morning?’

  Adamsberg nodded and called Retancourt, keeping the speaker on.

  ‘Did I wake you, Retancourt?’

  ‘Since when do I go to sleep on the job?’

  ‘We’ve got another victim, Olivier Vessac, Saint-Porchaire near Rochefort. Bitten this evening, probably between eight and quarter to eleven. Any of your targets moved?’

  ‘Negative. Richard Jarras and his wife went to a little restaurant in the town centre at 19.30 and left again at 21.30. Kerno says he’s seen René Quissol and his wife in front of the TV, no movement there.’

  ‘Kerno’ was what they all called Kernorkian, turning an authentic Armenian into a Breton.

  ‘You can leave Alès, lieutenant. Mission over. It must be someone from the Vaucluse that went. I’ll get back to you.’

  Adamsberg called Voisenet immediately.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Voisenet. ‘Little Louis is right now sitting on a bench outside his house – it’s still warm here. And what makes life easier for me is that he’s playing cards with his pal Marcel.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s them, Voisenet?’ said Adamsberg, raising his voice.

  ‘Certain?’
>
  ‘Absolutely, commissaire. Louis Arjalas and Marcel Corbière. Not difficult to spot, alas for them, because Louis has an artificial leg and Marcel is missing part of his cheek. He covers it up with a flesh-coloured dressing.’

  ‘What about Lamarre? Has he seen any sign of Jeannot in Courthézon?’

  ‘No, Jean Escande isn’t there, the neighbours think he went to the seaside, to Palavas.’

  ‘In his car?’

  ‘Yes, he often goes there in fine weather.’

  ‘And what about his mobile?’

  ‘Nothing, no signal.’

  ‘Very good. OK, get the whole team to move in on Palavas, and check the hotels, campsites everywhere. An old man limping about is easy enough to spot, especially if he’s a regular. Find him, or better still, don’t find him, lieutenant!’

  ‘I’ve got his registration,’ called Froissy who had consulted her phone, where she kept most of her current data. ‘He drives a blue Verseau, five-door automatic, 234 WJA 84.’

  ‘Got that, Voisenet?’

  ‘Right, we’re off, sir.’

  Then back to Retancourt.

  ‘There’s only one of them missing, lieutenant. Jean Escande, who has apparently gone swimming in Palavas, but without a mobile signal. Voisenet’s on to it. Can you go with your team to Saint-Porchaire, where Vessac was bitten? Jeannot Escande is seventy-seven. If he drove all the way from the Vaucluse to Saint-Porchaire, seven hours minimum, I doubt he’d be in much shape to set off straight back south, especially at night. Can you check the small hotels there and work outwards? An old man with an artificial foot should be easy to trace.’

  ‘He might have slept in his car.’

  ‘Here are the car’s details: a blue Verseau automatic, five doors, 234 WJA 84.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Retancourt.

  Adamsberg sat down again, holding his phone.

  ‘If it isn’t Jeannot, we’re dished. Wrong all along the line. We’ve gone headlong into the sands, like Danglard said.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Veyrenc. ‘It all fits. Let’s snatch a couple of hours’ sleep and then go to Rochefort. We can still be there by eight o’clock.’

  Adamsberg nodded silently.

  ‘No, it’s gone dead, Louis. We’re missing something.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s gone dead. Get some rest. I’ll see you at base at 3 a.m.’

  Adamsberg nodded again. The word ‘recluse’ ran through his head once more, making him shiver. Veyrenc shook his shoulder, and pushed him outside.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Jeannot’s disappeared, he’s gone somewhere.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would be reasonable for just one of the Ex-victim Gang to do the job. They’re not going to travel about in a group of five. They take turns, we can be sure of that. We’ll get him.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Jean-Baptiste?’

  ‘I can’t see through the mists any more, Louis. Nothing there.’

  XXV

  Adamsberg packed a bag in haste, then sat down in his kitchen, feet resting on the fender. For a moment, he had been on the point of going out to join Lucio under the beech tree in the garden, forgetting that his neighbour was in Spain. Nothing would have fascinated Lucio more than the terrible itching caused by the recluse spider.

  And what would Lucio have said to him, in between swigs of beer under the tree?

  ‘Go deep inside your fear, hombre, don’t let it go, you gotta scratch it all the way, till it bleeds.’

  ‘It’ll go over, Lucio.’

  ‘No it won’t. Go deep, lad, you’ve got no choice.’

  Yes, that’s what he would have said, no question. He met Veyrenc outside the squad office at 3 a.m.

  ‘You haven’t slept, have you?’ said Veyrenc.

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll drive. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours. If I was your mother, I’d tell you to shut your eyes.’

  ‘I need to call her, actually, Louis, she’s broken her arm.’

  ‘Did she have a fall?’

  ‘Yes, she tripped over the broomstick. She doesn’t know whether the broom got in her way or whether she got in its way.’

  ‘Important question when you think about it,’ said Veyrenc, starting the engine, ‘and it applies to quite a few things.’

  ‘It’s this very big broom she uses to chase spiders. Not recluses though, you don’t get them round us.’

  And Adamsberg, feeling a chill at the back of his neck, immediately regretted having pronounced the word. Or having associated it with his childhood home, and, even worse, with his mother. Perhaps Danglard’s forebodings were finally worming their way into his thoughts.

  Veyrenc pulled up just before 8 a.m. in front of the Rochefort main hospital and shook the commissaire by the shoulder.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Adamsberg, ‘you didn’t wake me.’

  ‘No,’ said Veyrenc.

  * * *

  *

  The doctor on duty at Rochefort at first opposed any visitors having access to his patient, even the police. The man’s condition had worsened overnight.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Adamsberg asked.

  ‘The wound has spread too fast, it’s already necrotic. We’re faced with an accelerated reaction. He has a fever of 38.8.’

  ‘Like the three patients in Nîmes.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, but I can’t see what business it is of the police. Send us a specialist in poisons, that might make more sense,’ he said, putting an end to the conversation and turning away.

  ‘Where was he bitten?’ Adamsberg asked.

  ‘On the right arm. There’s hope if we amputate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too hopeful, doctor. This man hasn’t just been bitten by a spider. He’s received twenty doses of venom. This is a murder.’

  ‘Murder? By twenty recluse spiders?’

  The doctor turned back to face them again, arms folded, legs apart, and smiled in a determined and defensive posture. He was a solid, efficient-looking man, authoritarian and tired.

  ‘Since when,’ he asked, ‘have we been able to get spiders to obey orders? Whistle them up, get them into armies and send them to attack a victim? Eh? I ask you, since when?’

  ‘Since 10 May, doctor. Three men have died and two more will die if you don’t let us see your patient. I could get a warrant, if you insist, but I’d much prefer not to waste time and to be able to talk to him before his fever goes above 40.’

  It would of course have been impossible for Adamsberg to obtain a warrant, since his superiors knew nothing about this investigation. But the word ‘warrant’ was enough to shake the doctor’s confidence.

  ‘All right, I’ll let you have twenty minutes, no more. Don’t get him worked up, we don’t want his fever to rise any more. As for the wounded arm, whatever happens, he mustn’t move it at all.’

  ‘Where and when was he bitten? Was he indoors? Outdoors?’

  ‘Outdoors – he was just arriving home with his lady friend. After dining out, they were coming back at nightfall. Room 203. Twenty minutes.’

  The old man was not alone. Sitting in an armchair, where she seemed to have spent the night, was a woman of about seventy, with tear-swollen eyes, twisting a handkerchief in her fingers.

  ‘Police,’ Adamsberg announced quietly, approaching the bed. ‘This is Lieutenant Veyrenc de Bilhc, and I’m Commissaire Adamsberg.’

  The man blinked his eyes, seeming to say, ‘Understood.’

  ‘We are sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Vessac. We won’t be long. Madame?’

  ‘My lady friend,’ Vessac introduced her. ‘Élisabeth Bonpain. And she deserves her name.’

  ‘Madame, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to leave us. I need a few words
alone with Monsieur Vessac.’

  ‘I’m not moving from here,’ said Élisabeth Bonpain in a faint voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just normal procedure,’ said Veyrenc. ‘Please don’t hold it against us.’

  ‘They’re right,’ Vessac said. ‘Be reasonable, Élisabeth. Take advantage of the break, get some coffee and something to eat, it’ll do you good.’

  ‘But why are these policemen here to see you?’

  ‘That’s what they’re going to tell me. Please go. Coffee, croissants,’ Vessac said again. ‘Do you good. Look at a magazine, get a change of scene. Don’t worry, some piddling little spider isn’t going to get the better of me.’

  Élisabeth Bonpain left the room and Vessac indicated two chairs.

  ‘You’re keeping the truth from her, aren’t you?’ said Adamsberg.

  ‘Of course. What else can I say to her?’

  ‘And you’re lying, because you know. It wasn’t just a piddling little spider.’

  Adamsberg was speaking gently. Stink bug or no stink bug, you don’t bully a man who has two days to live and knows it. He tried to avoid his eyes being drawn to the wound, which already looked repulsive. Covering a patch ten centimetres by four, the necrosis was at work eating at muscle and vein.

  ‘Nasty, eh?’ said Vessac, following Adamsberg’s gaze. ‘But you’ve seen worse, as cops.’

  ‘We’ve only got twenty minutes, Monsieur Vessac. So you know what’s happened to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew about the deaths of Albert Barral, Fernand Claveyrolle and Claude Landrieu, coming rapidly after bites from a recluse spider, last month in Nîmes.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve worked that out, have you?’

  Vessac gave a grim smile, and with his left arm signed to Veyrenc to pass him some water. His pronounced features had resisted the ravages of time, and even after so long, Adamsberg could recognise him from the teenage photos.

  ‘We know about the orphanage, where the Recluse Gang attacked eleven children, leaving a couple of them as amputees, one impotent, another disfigured. And you were part of that gang, with eight other boys.’