This Night's Foul Work (36 page)

‘Come and keep me company in the kitchen, then.'

Roman sighed and shuffled on his skis to a chair in the kitchen.

‘Do you want a cup?' asked Adamsberg.

‘Yes, put in as much as you like, nothing stops me sleeping, twenty hours out of twenty-four. A lot, eh? I don't even have time to get bored.'

‘Like a lion. You know a lion sleeps twenty hours a day?'

‘It has vapours too?'

‘No, it's just made that way. Doesn't stop it being king of the animals.'

‘But a deposed king. You've found a replacement for me, Adamsberg.'

‘I didn't have any choice.'

‘No,' said Roman, closing his eyes.

‘Don't the medicines help?' asked the
commissaire
, looking at the pile of boxes on the table.

‘They're stimulants. They wake me up for about a quarter of an hour, long enough to work out what day it is. What day is it?'

The doctor's voice was thick, dragging out the vowel sounds as if something was stopping him articulating clearly.

‘This is Thursday. And last Friday night, six days ago, you were visited by Violette Retancourt. Do you remember?'

‘I haven't lost my wits, you know – it's just that I don't have any energy. Or taste for anything.'

‘But Retancourt brought you some stuff you like to see. Forensic pictures, photos of corpses.'

‘That's right,' smiled Roman. ‘She's very considerate.'

‘She knows what keeps you happy,' said Adamsberg, pushing a bowl of coffee towards the doctor.

‘You look all in,
mon vieux,'
commented the doctor. ‘Exhausted physically and mentally.'

‘You haven't lost your touch, have you? I'm in the middle of an investigation that's like a horror movie, and it's slipping away from me. I've got a Shade that won't leave me alone, a nun in my own house and a new
lieutenant
who's biding his time till he nails me. I've just spent all night rescuing him from a gang who were after him. And then, the next day, I find out that Retancourt has vanished into thin air.'

‘Thin air? Has she got the vapours too?'

‘She's disappeared, Roman.'

‘Yes, I heard what you said.'

‘Did she say anything to you last Friday? Anything that might give us a lead? Did she say she was worried about anything?'

‘No. I don't see what could ever worry Retancourt, and the more I think about it, the more I think I ought to have got her to try and deal with my own vapours. No,
mon vieux
, we talked shop. At least we pretended to. After three-quarters of an hour, I tend to drop off.'

‘Did she tell you about the district nurse? The angel of death?'

‘Yes, she told me all about that, and the graves that had been opened. She comes quite often, you know. Heart of gold, that girl. She even left
me some of the photos, to give me something to do if I could work up any interest.'

Roman extended a limp arm over the mass of papers on the kitchen table and pulled out a bundle which he slid over to Adamsberg. Some enlarged colour photographs showed the faces of La Paille and Diala, the details of their wounds, the traces of injections in their arms, and the photographs of the two corpses of Montrouge and Opportune. Adamsberg pulled a horrified face at the last two and put them at the botttom of the pile.

‘Very good-quality prints, as you see. Retancourt has been spoiling me. You really have got a heap of shit here,' observed the doctor, tapping the pile of photographs.

‘Yes, I realise that, Roman.'

‘There's no one harder to catch than these methodical maniacs, until you've cottoned on to their obsession. And since their obsession is always completely crazy, you're always in the dark.'

‘Is that what you said to Retancourt? You discouraged her?'

‘I'd never dare try to discourage your
lieutenant.'

The
commissaire
saw Roman's eyelids start to droop, and filled up his bowl of coffee again at once.

‘Give me a couple of uppers as well. The red and yellow box.'

Adamsberg put two capsules in the hollow of Roman's hand, and the doctor swallowed them.

‘OK,' said Roman, ‘where were we?'

‘What you said to Retancourt the last time you saw her.'

‘Same as I said to you. Your murderer is completely insane and very dangerous.'

‘Do you agree it's a woman?'

‘Obviously. Ariane's the best. If that's what she says, you can be absolutely sure of it.'

‘I know what the killer is after, Roman. She wants absolute power, divine potency, eternal life. Didn't Retancourt tell you that?'

‘Yes, she read out to me the old recipe for the potion,' said Roman, tapping the photos. ‘And yes, you're spot on with that, “the quick of virgins”.'

‘The quick of virgins,' Adamsberg murmured. ‘She couldn't have told you much about that, because that's the one bit we didn't understand.'

‘You didn't understand?' asked Roman, looking stunned, and seeming to come back to life as he talked shop. ‘But it's staring you in the face. It's as obvious as your mountain.'

‘Forget my mountain. What do you mean? Tell me what it is, this “quick”.'

‘What do you think, slowcoach? The quick and the dead. The quick is what remains alive even after death: it defies death and even old age. Hair, of course. When you're an adult and your body has stopped growing, the only thing that carries right on growing all the time is your hair.'

‘Unless it falls out.'

‘Well, women don't go bald, stupid. Hair, nails. Both the same thing anyway, both keratin. The quick of the virgins must be their hair. Because, in the grave, it's the only part of the body that doesn't decay. It's anti-death, an antidote to death if you like. It isn't rocket science. Are you following me, Adamsberg, or have you got the vapours as well?'

‘I'm following you,' said Adamsberg, looking amazed. ‘It's clever, Roman, and more than probable.'

‘Probable? Don't you believe me? It's absolutely certain – it's in the photos, for pity's sake.'

Roman pulled over the pile of photos, then yawned and rubbed his eyes.

‘Get some cold water from the tap on the dishcloth. Rub my head with it.'

‘The dishcloth's filthy.'

‘Never mind. Hurry up.'

Adamsberg obeyed and rubbed Roman's head hard with the cold
cloth, as one might rub down a horse. Roman emerged from the treatment looking red-faced.

‘Better?'

‘It'll do. Give me the rest of the coffee and pass me the photo.'

‘Which one?'

‘The first woman, Elisabeth Châtel. And fetch me my magnifying glass from my desk.'

Adamsberg placed the glass and the ghastly photo in front of the doctor.

‘There,' said Roman, pointing to the right temple on Elisabeth's skull. ‘Some locks of her hair have been cut off.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘The quick of virgins,' said Adamsberg, looking at the photo. ‘This crazy woman has killed them to get at their hair.'

‘Which had resisted death. On the right of the skull, you'll note. Remember the text?'

‘The quick of virgins, on the dexter hand, sorted by three in equal quantities.'

‘Dexter, on the right. Because the left, sinister, is the dark side, in Latin. The right means life. The right hand leads to life. You follow?'

Adamsberg nodded silently.

‘Ariane did think it might be hair,' he said.

‘I think you're a bit sweet on Ariane.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Your blonde
lieutenant.'

‘So why didn't Ariane notice if the hair had been cut?'

Roman laughed, rather cheerfully.

‘Because she wasn't as good at spotting it as I am. Ariane's very good, but her father wasn't a barber. Mine was. I can spot when a lock of hair has been freshly cut. The ends are different – clean, not split. Can't you see that here?'

‘No.'

‘Well, your father wasn't a barber either.'

‘No.'

‘Ariane has another excuse. Elisabeth Châtel, from what I'd guess, didn't pay much attention to her looks. Am I right?'

‘Yes. She didn't use make-up, didn't wear jewellery.'

‘And she didn't go to the hairdresser. She cut her hair herself and made a bit of a mess of it. If her fringe was in her eyes, she picked up the scissors and cut it, just like that. So her hair is all different lengths, some long, some short, some medium. It would be pretty impossible for Ariane to spot which locks had been freshly cut in the middle of that mishmash.'

‘We were working at night under arc lamps.'

‘That would be another reason. And in the case of Pascaline, it's hard to see anything.'

‘And you told Retancourt all this on Friday?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘Nothing. She looked thoughtful, like you. I don't think it makes that much difference to your inquiry, though.'

‘Except that now we know why she opens graves. And why she needs to kill a third virgin.'

‘You really think that?'

‘Yes. By three, the number of women.'

‘Possibly. You've identified the third?

‘No.'

‘Well, look for a woman with a good head of hair. Both Elisabeth and Pascaline had plenty of hair. Get me to my bedroom,
mon vieux
, I can't take any more.'

‘I'm really sorry, Roman,' said Adamsberg, standing up abruptly.

‘Doesn't matter. But while you're looking through those old remedies, try and find one against the vapours for me.'

‘I promise,' said Adamsberg as he helped Roman towards the bedroom. The doctor turned his head, intrigued by Adamsberg's tone.

‘Are you serious?'

‘Yes, I promise.'

R
ETANCOURT'S DISAPPEARANCE, PLUS THE NIGHT-TIME COFFEE HE HAD
drunk with Roman, the tender lovemaking of Camille and Veyrenc, the quick of virgins, and Roland's thuggish face had all disturbed Adamsberg's sleep. Between two shuddering bouts of wakefulness, he had dreamed that one ibex – but which one, the brown or the ginger? – had gone crashing down the mountain. The
commissaire
woke feeling sick and aching. An informal conference, or rather a sort of funeral session, had spontaneously opened that morning at the Serious Crime Squad. The officers were all hunched over on their seats, cramped with anxiety.

‘None of us has voiced it,' Adamsberg began, ‘but we all know Retancourt hasn't wandered off, or been hospitalised, or lost her memory. She's fallen into the hands of our maniac. She left Dr Roman knowing something we didn't know. That the “quick of virgins” means their hair, and that the murderer opened the graves to cut it off their corpses, because it's the only part of the body that resists decomposition. On the dexter, in other words on the right side of the skull, which is positive compared with the left. And she hasn't been seen since. So we might deduce that, after leaving Roman, she understood something that took her straight to the killer. Or else something that sufficiently worried the angel of death that she decided Retancourt must disappear.'

Adamsberg had deliberately chosen the word ‘disappear' as being
more evasive and optimistic than ‘die'. But he had no illusions about the nurse's intentions.

‘With that stuff about the “quick of virgins”,' said Mordent, ‘and nothing else, Retancourt must have understood something we still haven't worked out.'

‘That's what I'm afraid of. Where did she go next, and what did she do to alert the killer?'

‘Well, the only way is to try and work out what she understood,' said Mordent, rubbing his forehead.

There was a discouraged silence and several hopeful faces turned towards Adamsberg.

‘I'm not Retancourt,' he said, with a shake of his head. ‘I can't reason as she would, nor can any of you. Even under hypnosis, or catalepsy, or in a coma, nobody knows how to merge themselves with her in spirit.'

The word ‘merge' sent Adamsberg's thoughts back to the Quebec expedition, when he had indeed had to merge his body with his
lieutenant
‘s impressive bulk. The memory made him tremble with chagrin. Retancourt, his tree. He had lost his tree. Suddenly he raised his head and looked round at his motionless colleagues.

‘Yes,' he said in a near-whisper, ‘there is just one of us who might have merged in spirit with Retancourt, to the point of being able to find her.'

He stood up, still hesitating, but a kind of light dawned on his face.

‘The cat,' he said. ‘Where's the cat?'

‘Behind the photocopier,' said Justin.

‘Hurry up,' said Adamsberg in a frantic voice, going from chair to chair and shaking his officers as if he were waking soldiers in his exhausted army. ‘We're all so stupid. I'm so stupid. The Snowball will lead us to Retancourt.'

‘The Snowball?' said Kernorkian. ‘But that cat's a waste of space.'

‘The Snowball,' Adamsberg pleaded, ‘is a waste of space who adores Retancourt. The Snowball wants nothing more than to find her. And
the Snowball is an animal. With a nose, sensory organs, a brain as big as an apricot, stuffed with a hundred thousand smells.'

‘A hundred thousand?' said Lamarre sceptically. ‘Could the Snowball cope with a hundred thousand smells?'

‘Yes, perfectly. And if he remembered only one, it would be Retancourt's.'

‘Here's the cat,' announced Justin, and doubt returned to all minds as they saw the beast draped like a flaccid dishcloth over the
lieutenant's
arm.

But Adamsberg, who was pacing up and down at a frantic speed in the hall, refused to give up his idea, and was issuing his battle orders.