This Night's Foul Work (17 page)

‘Tell me something,' she said. ‘Was it really you that identified her? Just you?'

‘Yes.'

‘If it hadn't been for you, she'd still be free.'

‘Yes.'

‘And she knows that? She understood that?'

‘I think so.'

‘How did you get on to her?'

‘By her scent. She used some stuff called Relaxol, a sort of camphor-and-orange aromatherapy oil that she dabbed on herself.'

‘Well, watch out, Jean-Baptiste. Because, for her, you're the one who broke down the wall that Alpha mustn't know about, at all costs. You're the one who knows, so you need to disappear.'

‘Why?' asked Adamsberg, drinking a mouthful from Ariane's glass.

‘So that she can become a peaceful Alpha again, somewhere else, in another life. You're a threat to everything she's built up. Perhaps she's looking for you.'

‘The Shade.'

‘I think the shade must come from something inside you, some unfinished business.'

Adamsberg's eyes met the intelligent gaze of the doctor, and he saw once again a path in Quebec at night-time. He moistened his finger and rubbed it round the edge of his wineglass.

‘The watchman at the Montrouge cemetery saw her too. The Shade was walking in the cemetery a few nights before the tombstone was smashed. It wasn't walking normally.'

‘Why do you make that noise with your glass?'

‘So as not to scream myself.'

‘Go ahead and scream, I'd rather that. Are you thinking of the nurse? As a possibility for the Diala and La Paille murders?'

‘Well, you described an elderly female murderer, armed with a syringe, possibly dissociated, and with a medical background. It tends to add up.'

‘Or not. Do you remember how tall she was, the nurse?'

‘No, not very clearly.'

‘Or what kind of shoes she wore?'

‘No, not that either.'

‘Well, try checking that out before you make your wineglass scream. Just because she's out of jail doesn't mean she can get about everywhere.
Don't forget that her speciality is killing old people in their beds. She hasn't been known to rob tombs or go round cutting the throats of hefty young men in La Chapelle. It doesn't fit anything we know about her.'

Adamsberg agreed. The solid reasoning put forward by the pathologist took him away from his nightmares. The Shade couldn't be everywhere – Freiburg, La Chapelle, Montrouge. She was above all inside his head.

‘You're right,' he said.

‘If I were you I'd just go on investigating carefully, routine stuff, step by step. Shoe polish, shoes, the portrait of the killer I've worked out, any witnesses who might have seen her with Diala or La Paille.'

‘You're advising me to proceed logically, basically.'

‘Yes. Do you know any other way?'

‘The other way is the only one I know.'

Ariane offered to drop Adamsberg off at his home, and he accepted. The drive would enable him to resolve the erotic question still in suspense. But by the time they arrived, he was fast asleep, having forgotten about the Shade, the pathologist and the tomb of the unknown Elisabeth. Ariane was standing on the pavement, holding the car door open and gently shaking his shoulder. She had left the engine running, a sign that there was strictly nothing to be attempted, therefore no problem to resolve. As he went into the house, he checked the kitchen to see if his car keys were on the hook. They weren't.

I'm a man, he concluded. At least, allowing for a margin of error of twelve per cent, as Ariane would say.

V
EYRENC HAD LEFT THE TEAM IN
M
ONTROUGE AT THREE P.M. AND GONE
straight to bed, where he had slept like a log. So by nine in the evening he was up again, refreshed but full of detestable nocturnal thoughts which he would have liked to escape. But how and where? Veyrenc knew there was no way out until the tragedy of the two valleys had reached its resolution. Only then would a space open up in front of him.

Very true, Veyrenc said to himself, relaxing a little. He had rented a furnished room for six months, and there was no hurry. He switched on his small television set and sat down quietly. A natural-history documentary. Perfect, that would do very well. Veyrenc saw once more Adamsberg's fingers clenched on the door handle. ‘They came from the Gave de Pau valley.' Veyrenc smiled.

Veyrenc lit a cigarette and put his ashtray on the arm of his chair. A herd of rhinoceroses was charging rowdily across the television screen.

Veyrenc jumped up, suddenly irritated. What throne, what lord, what soldier, what forgiveness? Who precisely is shaken with sudden dread? He paced up and down for an hour in his room before making up his mind.

He had made no preparations, thought of no words to say or reasons to give. So when Camille opened the door he stood there without speaking. He seemed to recall afterwards that she was aware that he was no longer on duty, that she had not been surprised to see him – perhaps even relieved, as if she'd known that the inevitable would happen, and welcomed it with both embarrassment and naturalness. Later, he remembered things more clearly. He had stepped inside and stood looking at her. He had touched her face with his hands. He had said – probably it was the first thing he had said – that he could leave at once. Then they both knew that he could not possibly leave and that what happened was inevitable. That it had been laid down and agreed from his very first day on the landing. That there was no way of avoiding it. Who had kissed the other first? He had, perhaps, since Camille was as anxious as she was adventurous. He was unable to reconstruct that first moment, except that he was still aware of the simple fact that he had reached his goal. He it was, again, who had taken the dozen steps towards the bed, leading her by the hand. He had left her at four in the morning with a gentle embrace, for neither of them wanted to
speak next day of this predictable, fore-ordained and almost silent coming together.

When he arrived home, the television was still on. He switched it off and the grey screen swallowed up both his complaint and his resentment.

And Veyrenc fell asleep.

Camille had left the lamp on and was wondering whether giving in to the inevitable was a mistake or a good idea. ‘In affairs of the heart, it is better to regret things done than to regret things left undone.' A Byzantine proverb is sometimes the only thing that can help you organise your life – almost – to perfection.

T
HE
D
RUG
S
QUAD HAD BEEN OBLIGED TO GIVE UP ITS CLAIM, BUT
Adamsberg was not far off doing the same. His road was blocked: doors seemed to be closing on the investigation whichever way he looked.

Perhaps the Swedish stools weren't so bad after all, because you couldn't really sit on them, only perch there as if on horseback, with your legs dangling. Adamsberg had settled on one, quite comfortably, and was looking out of the window at the cloudy spring sky, which seemed as sunk in gloom as his inquiries. The
commissaire
did not enjoy sitting at his desk. After an hour sitting still, he felt the itch to get up and walk around, even if it was only round his office. This high bar stool gave him a new possibility, a sort of halfway house between standing and sitting, allowing his legs to swing gently as if he were suspended in the void, or flying through the air – something that suited the shoveller of clouds. Behind him, on the foam cushions, Mercadet was dozing.

The soil under the fingernails of the two men did, of course, come from the grave. It had been confirmed. But where did that lead? It said nothing about whoever had sent them to Montrouge, nor about what they had come to dig for underground, something sufficiently terrible to have cost them their lives two days later. Adamsberg had checked the recorded height of the nurse at his first opportunity: one metre sixty-five – neither too tall nor too short to be ruled out of the picture.

The information about the dead woman threw his thoughts into even greater confusion. Elisabeth Châtel, from the village of Villebosc-sur-Risle, in Upper Normandy, had been employed by a travel agent in Evreux. She hadn't been handling dodgy sex tourism or adventurous safaris, just coach trips for elderly tourists. She had not been wearing any jewellery when she was buried. A search of her home had revealed no hidden wealth, nor any passion for valuables. Elisabeth had been austere in her tastes, never wearing make-up, and dressing plainly. Her relatives described her as religious and, from what one gathered, underlying their words was the assumption that she had never had any relationship with a man. She had paid no more attention to her car than to her person, and that was what had caused her death on the dangerous three-lane road between Evreux and Villebosc. The brake fluid had leaked and her car had been crushed by a truck. The previous most significant event in the Châtel family had been in 1789, when the family had been split between those who favoured the Revolution and those who opposed it. There had been a death as a result, and since then the two feuding branches of the clan had not spoken to each other. Even in death they were divided, with one branch being buried in the village graveyard at Villebosc, the other in a concession in the cemetery at Montrouge.

This cheerless summary seemed to contain the entire life of Elisabeth, a life apparently devoid of either friends or secrets. The only remarkable thing that had happened to her was the interference with her grave. None of that made sense, thought Adamsberg, swinging his legs. For the sake of this woman, who had apparently attracted no desire during her lifetime, two men had died after trying to reach her head in the coffin. Elisabeth had been placed in the coffin at the hospital in Evreux, and nobody could have had the opportunity to slip anything inside it.

At two o'clock there was to be a hasty conference at the
Brasserie des Philosophes
, where half the staff was still eating lunch. Adamsberg was not one to fuss about the conferences, either their regularity or the
venue. He walked the hundred metres across to the brasserie, trying to find, on the map which kept flapping in the wind, the location of Villebosc-sur-Risle. Danglard pointed it out to him.

‘Villebosc comes under the Evreux gendarmerie,' he said. ‘It's one of those villages with half-timbering and thatched roofs, and you should know it, because it's only fifteen kilometres from your Haroncourt.'

‘What Haroncourt?' Adamsberg asked, trying to control the map which was flapping about like a sail.

‘You know – Haroncourt, where you went for that concert, when you were being the gallant escort and babysitter.'

‘Of course. I'd forgotten the name of the village. Have you noticed that maps are like newspapers, shirts and obsessions? Once you've unfolded them, there's no way you can get them folded up again.'

‘Where did you get that map?'

‘From your office.'

‘Give it here, I'll fold it,' said Danglard, extending an impatient hand.

Danglard, unlike Adamsberg, appreciated those objects – and ideas – which imposed a discipline on him. Every other morning, he would find that his newspaper had already been consulted by Adamsberg and as a result was lying crumpled on the desk. For lack of any more serious matter, it bothered him. But he could hardly complain about this disorder, since the
commissaire
regularly arrived in the office before it was light – and looked at the newspaper – while never complaining about Danglard's habitually poor timekeeping.

The officers were huddled in their usual spot in the brasserie, a long alcove lit by two large stained-glass windows that threw blue, green or red reflections on their faces, according to where they sat. Danglard, who considered the windows ugly and refused to have a blue face, always sat with his back to them.

‘Where's Noël?' asked Mordent.

‘On work experience by the Seine,' explained the
commissaire
as he sat down.

‘Doing what?'

‘Inspecting the seagulls.'

‘Anything's possible,' said Voisenet peaceably, speaking as an indulgent positivist and zoologist.

‘Anything's possible,' Adamsberg agreed, putting a packet of photocopies on the table. ‘So now we're going to work logically. I've prepared your marching orders, with a new description of the killer. For the moment, we're looking for an older woman, height about one metre sixty-two, conventional in appearance, who may wear navy-blue shoes, and who has some kind of medical knowledge. We're starting the inquiry at the Flea Market on this basis, in four teams. You'll each have photos of the nurse Claire Langevin, the serial killer with the thirty-three victims.'

‘The angel of death?' asked Mercadet, sipping his third cup of coffee ahead of the others, in order to stay awake. ‘Isn't she in prison?'

‘Not any more. She killed a guard and escaped, ten months ago. She may have arrived via the Channel coast, and she's probably back in France. Don't show the photographs till the end of your inquiries, don't influence the witnesses. It's just a possibility, no more than a shadow of a chance.'