by Fred Vargas
Adamsberg pulled together the photos and put them back in his bag. He pointed to the plate with a gesture suggesting ‘Do you want to keep it?’
‘What use is that to me?’ she said. ‘It’s all cracked. And they won’t let me use that to eat from in prison, will they?’
Adamsberg put the bubble wrap round the plate and carefully replaced it inside his bag.
‘What are you going to do with it then?’ she asked.
‘Put it back there, I think. In the earth from the recluse cell.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘And now, Irène,’ he began, standing up and glancing across at Veyrenc.
‘Oh well, can you let me have a few minutes?’ she interrupted. ‘I need to clear away the coffee cups first, then pack a bag.’
‘You can have as long as you like. Get lost, Irène!’
Adamsberg pulled on his jacket, pocketed his snowstorm, shouldered his bag and made for the door. Both Irène and Veyrenc stood still, looking at him.
‘What did you say?’ asked Irène.
‘I said: get lost, Irène. Pack a bag, take some money, if you’ve got cash. And disappear. By tomorrow. I’m quite sure Enzo will be able to provide you with a new identity, as he did for himself. And an untraceable mobile phone.’
‘No, no, commissaire,’ said Irène, as she began collecting up the cups. ‘You don’t understand. I want to go to prison, that was always part of the plan.’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Not another cell, not for the third time.’
‘But that’s just it. I’ll be perfectly all right there. For reasons which you seem to have guessed. I’ve completed my mission, I’m going back inside my four walls. I respect what you’re doing there, Jean-Bapt, I respect it, and I thank you. But let me go to prison. And since you did offer me a bit of time, can I take two days, just to get my affairs in order, and go and see Annette and Enzo? Thank you very much for the delay. I don’t like unfinished business. And whether you like it or not, on the third day, I’m going to walk into the gendarmerie in Nîmes. Because it would be best if it’s them that put me away. Not you. If it was you, I get the feeling you wouldn’t like it very much.’
Adamsberg had put down his bag and cocked his head, staring at her as if to consider her resolution.
‘I can see you get the point, commissaire.’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come on, you don’t have to try hard. What will they give me? At my age? With all the “special circumstances” as they say? Ten years perhaps. Then after four, they’ll let me out. Just the right amount of time to write my book on the stink bugs of the Miséricorde. And that, I can only do in a prison cell. You follow me? But I have another thing to ask, this is a bit tricky. I’m sorry, I’m a bit embarrassed.’
‘What is it?’
‘Can you see if there’s some way I could have my collection of snowstorms in prison? They’re light, they’re made of plastic, no danger to anyone, and I haven’t got anyone else to kill now.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Irène.’
‘Will you manage it?’
‘I’ll bring you the lot.’
At this Irène smiled more broadly than he had ever seen her do in the past.
XLVIII
Adamsberg slept continuously for the three and a half hours of the train journey, leaning on his side with the snowstorm digging into his ribs, but without moving it. Veyrenc shook him as the train pulled in to the Gare de Lyon with a screech of the brakes which had failed to wake him.
Back home, in crumpled clothes, and still feeling some inner turmoil, he put his bag down carefully on the floor in the kitchen – so as not to break the plate – then went into the little garden, sat down under the beech tree, lit one of Zerk’s cigarettes, and stretched out on the dry grass, watching the clouds pass across the stars blocking out any light from the moon. Just as well – it corresponded to his state of mind. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty.
Propping himself up in the dark, he sent a message to all his officers:
Attention all crew members. 52nd parallel reached. Embargo on news for two days. Take time off, keep basic team on guard, feed the birds. Details Friday 2 p.m.
Then he lay back down, thinking that when Magellan discovered the strait, the ships had fired their cannon in victory. He did not wish to do anything of the sort.
And his phone’s buzzing disturbed him.
A text from Veyrenc.
Am twenty metres from La Garbure, still open. Waiting for you. Have a question.
No, Louis, sorry.
I have a question.
Adamsberg understood that Veyrenc, knowing about the icy waters of the strait, was calling to take him out of the frozen shades of the recluse’s cell. He saw once more the worn statuette of St Roch. The man was deep in the forest, where the dog, the messenger from the external world, had found him.
On my way, he replied.
* * *
*
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Adamsberg as he sat in front of a dish of garbure.
Veyrenc shrugged.
‘No more than you.’
‘So?’
‘You must swallow and I must swallow. That’s how I see things.’
They both conscientiously swallowed their soup in silence, as if they were two workers concentrating on their task.
‘Did you plan in advance to do that?’ Veyrenc asked as, their task completed, he filled their glasses with Madiran.
‘Was that your question?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve drunk a lot of Madiran these last two weeks.’
‘It was probably necessary to fight the cold and the wind driving us from one cliff to another.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t warm, was it?’
‘So answer me. Did you plan to do that? To let her go?’
‘Yes. Only towards the end. But yes.’
Veyrenc raised his glass and the two men clinked glasses on the surface of the table, taking great care not to make a noise.
‘But she’s going back, she’s returning to her cage,’ said Adamsberg.
‘If you hadn’t found her, she’d have set you on her trail anyway.’
‘You did suggest she’d done it on purpose. The mistake. On the phone. “It’s infuriating, the killer’s got them all.”’
‘That woman doesn’t make mistakes. It was over, and she was expecting you.’
‘But why didn’t I react?’
‘I think I already told you that.’
‘Oh? When?’
‘In my bad verses.’
‘Ah,’ said Adamsberg after a pause. ‘Did you slow your footsteps, to let her show her worth?’
‘See, you do remember. But if you want to memorise something, choose some real poetry next time.’
‘Thank you, Socratician,’ said Adamsberg, leaning back half against the chair half against the wall.
‘At the risk of sounding like Danglard, you don’t say “Socratician”.’
‘What then?’
‘Socratic philosopher. But I’m not a philosopher. Are you going to try and get the snowstorms to her in prison?’
‘I’ll try, and I’ll succeed, Louis.’
Adamsberg raised his hand and read the message that had just arrived on his phone.
I salute the navigation of the strait, and present my humble compliments.
‘Who do you think that’s from?’ he said, showing it to Louis.
‘Danglard.’
‘See, he’s stopped being a bloody idiot.’
Adamsberg glanced over at Estelle who was sitting at a distant table, pen in hand. She should have been checking her accounts, but was not doing so.
‘This is your last chance, Louis.’
‘But my mind is in Ca
deirac, Jean-Baptiste.’
‘How could it be anywhere else? But you’re forgetting two things. If you go on doing nothing, you end up doing nothing.’
‘Should I write that down?’
Adamsberg shook his head. Veyrenc had succeeded in distracting him.
‘Absolutely not. You should only write down things you don’t understand.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘This is our last meal at La Garbure. You won’t come back here, Louis. And nor will I.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘There are places like this that accompany a voyage. The voyage is coming to an end and this place has to end too.’
‘The ship’s weighing anchor.’
‘Exactly. So you see you haven’t much time left. Had you thought of that?’
‘No.’
This time it was Adamsberg who filled their glasses.
‘Well, think about it now. While we finish our wine.’
Adamsberg remained silent, accompanied by Veyrenc. Yes, it was the last evening, no doubt about it. After a long moment, Veyrenc put down his empty glass and acknowledged it, with a slight movement of his thick eyelashes.
‘Don’t just chat,’ said Adamsberg, standing up and throwing his jacket over his shoulder. ‘You’ve done too much of that.’
‘Because if you keep on chatting, you’ll do nothing but chat.’
‘Exactly.’
* * *
*
Adamsberg went back along the streets towards his house, taking unnecessary detours, hands in pockets, and gripping the snowstorm. Yes, the ship was weighing anchor, the ship would be carrying off Yraigne, the spider. Tomorrow, Lucio would be back from Spain. He’d tell him all about the spider, as they sat outside on the tea chest. And Lucio wouldn’t be able to order him to do anything: all the bites and stings and wounds had indeed been scratched until blood ran.
He remembered Lucio’s voice as it had come to him, outside Vessac’s house in Saint-Porchaire. A voice that had pushed him to keep on digging, when he had been tempted to give it all up. What old Lucio had said was:
‘You’ve got no choice, hombre.’
Author’s acknowledgement
My heartfelt thanks to Dr Christine Rollard, arachnologist at the L’Institut de Systématique, Évolution, Biodiversité, Muséum National d’Histoire naturelle, Paris, for the information she kindly provided for me about Loxosceles rufescens, the recluse spider.
F.V.
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