This Night's Foul Work (42 page)

F
OR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE, AND FOR TWENTY-TWO DAYS NOW
, Francine had not been pulling the blankets over her face at night. She went to sleep with her head calmly resting on the pillow, which was much more comfortable than being curled up under her sheets with a tiny opening to breathe through. Not only that, but she had been making only the most cursory checks on the woodworm holes, hardly bothering to count the new perforations moving towards the south end of the beam, and not worrying about what the nasty little creatures looked like.

This police protection was a gift from the gods. Three men came in turns every night and watched over her, even in the morning, until she went to work. It was a dream come true. She had asked no questions about the reason why she was under guard, for fear her curiosity might annoy the gendarmes and then they would abandon their bright idea. From what they had given her to understand, it was something to do with recent burglaries, so Francine didn't find it at all odd that the gendarmes should be keeping an eye on all the women locally who lived alone. Others might have protested, but she was far from doing so. On the contrary, she gratefully cooked supper every evening for the gendarme on duty, and a much better supper than she had ever made for her father.

The rumours of these good suppers – and of Francine's pretty face – had
spread in the Evreux brigade, so although Devalon did not know why, there was never any problem finding volunteers to guard Mademoiselle Bidault. Devalon had no time at all for the cock-and-bull investigation being led by Adamsberg, which he thought was a complete waste of time. But there was no way this Paris police chief, who had already demolished the Evreux reports on Elisabeth Châtel and Pascaline Villemot because of a bit of lichen on a stone, was going to trespass on his patch. His men would be the ones to guard the farm, and not a single cop from Adamsberg's outfit would set foot there. Adamsberg had had the cheek to insist that the men doing shifts would have to be sitting up and awake. Well, he could stuff that. He wasn't going to have his team short-manned for this ridiculous enterprise. He would send his men over to Francine's after their normal day's work, with orders to eat and sleep there, without trying to stay awake.

During the night of 3 May, at three-thirty-five in the morning, only the woodworms were awake in the bedrooms where Francine and
Brigadier
Grimal were sleeping. The insects were quite uninhibited by the presence of an armed man in the house as they munched their thousandth of a millimetre of wood. Woodworms being deaf, they did not react to the creak of the scullery door. Grimal, who was sleeping in the bedroom of Francine's late father, tucked in under a purple eiderdown, sat up in the dark, unsure what kind of sound had woken him, or whether his gun was on the left or right of the bed, on the chest of drawers or on the ground. He felt blindly on the table, then crossed the room, wearing only his T-shirt and shorts, and opened the door leading to Francine's bedroom. Empty-handed, he watched as a long grey shadow approached him in a strangely slow and silent way, without stopping when the door opened. The shadow didn't approach normally, it slid and stumbled, passing over the floor in a hesitant but unstoppable progress. Grimal had just time to shake Francine awake, without knowing whether he was trying to save her or to ask her for help.

‘A ghost, Francine! Get up, run!'

Francine screamed, and Grimal, although terrified, approached the shadow to cover the flight of the young woman. Devalon had not prepared him to deal with this, and he cursed his boss with his last thought. To hell with him, and the ghost as well.

A
DAMSBERG GOT THE CALL FROM THE
E
VREUX BRIGADE AT EIGHT-TWENTY
in the morning, as he was sitting in the workmen's café opposite the sleeping
Brasserie des Philosophes
. He was drinking a coffee there with Froissy, who had embarked on her second breakfast.
Brigadier
Maurin, who had arrived at Clancy to take over from Grimal, had found his colleague dead with two bullets in the chest, one of them through the heart. Adamsberg slammed his cup down on his saucer.

‘And the virgin?' he asked.

‘Disappeared. It looks like she jumped out of the back window. We're looking for her.'

The gendarme's voice was broken with sobs. Grimal had been forty-two years old, and more concerned with clipping his garden hedge than with upsetting people.

‘What about his gun?' asked Adamsberg. ‘Couldn't he have used it?'

‘He was in bed, asleep, sir. His gun was on the chest in the bedroom – he can't have had time to pick it up.'

‘But that's impossible,' muttered Adamsberg. ‘I particularly asked that the guard should be sitting up, awake, fully dressed and armed.'

‘Devalon didn't bother with all that, sir. He sent us over there after work. We couldn't stay awake all night.'

‘Tell your boss he can go roast in hell.'

‘Yes, I know,
commissaire.'

Two hours later, gritting his teeth with fury, Adamsberg was leading his men into Francine's farmhouse. The young woman had been found in tears, her feet bleeding, in a neighbour's hay barn, where she had taken refuge between two bales of straw. A grey shape that wobbled like a candle flame was all she had seen, that and the arm of the gendarme who had pulled her out of bed and pushed her towards the back bedroom. She was already running towards the road when the two shots had rung out.

The
commissaire
felt Grimal's cold forehead, kneeling by his head so as not to tread in his blood. Then he called a number, and heard a sleepy voice at the other end.

‘Ariane, I know it's not eleven yet, but I need you.'

‘Where are you?'

‘In a village called Clancy in Normandy, on the Chemin des Biges, number four. Please hurry. We won't touch anything till you get here.'

‘Who's this technical team you've got here?' asked Devalon, indicating with a sweep of his hand the small group who had accompanied Adamsberg. ‘And who are you bringing in now?' he added, jerking his chin at the telephone.

‘I'm bringing in my forensic pathologist,
commandant
. And I don't advise you to raise any objections.'

‘Go fuck yourself, Adamsberg – this is one of my men.'

‘A man you sent to his death.'

Adamsberg glanced at the two gendarmes who had accompanied Devalon. Their body language indicated that they agreed with him.

‘Stay here to guard your man's body,' he said to them. ‘And don't let anyone approach him until the doctor gets here.'

‘Don't you give orders to my men, Adamsberg. We don't have to take any shit from a Paris cop.'

‘I'm not from Paris. And you haven't got any men any longer.'

Adamsberg went out, dismissing Devalon's fate from his mind immediately.

‘What have you found?'

‘I think I can piece it together,' said Danglard. ‘The killer came in over the north wall, crossed the grass, that's about fifty metres, then came in though the scullery door, which is the most dilapidated.'

‘The grass isn't very long. No footmarks, then.'

‘The outside wall's banked with earth, so there are some prints. A lump of clay's fallen out, showing where the killer came over.'

‘What else? asked Adamsberg, sitting down and half-sprawling across the kitchen table.

‘Forced the door, went through the scullery, then the kitchen, and into the bedroom through this door. No prints there, there isn't a speck of dust on the tiles. Grimal must have been coming out of the back room, and the shooting took place near Francine's bed. He was shot at point-blank range, apparently.'

Devalon had been obliged to leave the farmhouse, but he was refusing to cede the territory to Adamsberg. He was walking up and down in the road, cursing as he waited for the arrival of the doctor from Paris, firmly intending to use his own pathologist for the post-mortem. He saw a car screech to a halt in front of the old wooden gate of the farm, and a woman got out and turned towards him. He had his last shock that day when he recognised the well-known features of Ariane Lagarde. He retreated and saluted without a word.

‘Yes, point-blank,' said Ariane. ‘Must have been between about three and four-thirty, at a guess. The shots were fired during a fight, they must have been struggling. He didn't have time to resist much. And I think
he was scared stiff, you can see it in his expression. On the other hand,' she said, sitting down next to Adamsberg, ‘the murderer took her time. She's even signed it.'

‘You mean she injected him like the others?'

‘Yes, on the left arm – it's almost invisible. We can check it later, but I think it's like for Diala and La Paille: a make-believe injection, with nothing going in at all.'

‘It's her trade mark,' said Danglard.

‘Can you make a guess at the killer's height?'

‘I need to check the direction of the bullets. But at first sight, not anyone very tall. And the weapon was small-calibre. One of those deadly little handguns.'

Mordent and Lamarre returned from the bedroom.

‘That sounds right,
commissaire,'
said Mordent. ‘In the struggle, they trod on each other's feet. Grimal was barefoot, so he left no marks, but she did. Just a little, but there's a slight trace of blue.'

‘Are you sure, Mordent?'

‘You have to look for it, but when you see it it's obvious. Come and have a look – take the magnifying glass. It's not so easy on this old floor with its tiles.'

With the extra light provided by the technician, and using the magnifier, Adamsberg looked at a streak of blue on the terracotta tiling, about five or six centimetres long. There was a clearer trace on the join, and a further patch of polish on the next tile. Frowning, he came back into the dining room without speaking, opened the cupboards one by one, then went into the kitchen and found some shoe polish and an old rag on a shelf.

‘Estalère,' he said, ‘take this. Go back to the wall where she came in. Put polish all over the soles of your shoes, then come back here.'

‘But this polish is brown.'

‘Never mind, just go and do it.'

Five minutes later, Estalère was back at the kitchen door.

‘Stop,
brigadier
. Take your shoes off and give them to me.'

Adamsberg examined the soles by the light of the window, then put his hand into one of them and pressed it to the floor, turning it on the spot. He looked at the spot with the magnifying glass and then did the same with the other shoe.

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘The wet grass has washed it all off. There are a few traces of polish on the sole, but not enough to have left it on the floor. You can put your shoes back on, Estalère.'

He came back to sit in the other room with his three colleagues and Ariane. His fingers smoothed the oilcloth on the table, as if trying to find something invisible.

‘No,' he said. ‘It's too much.'

‘Too much polish?' asked Ariane. ‘Is that what you mean?'

‘Yes, too much, in fact it's impossible. But it
is
polish all the same. Only not from the soles of the shoes.'

‘Do you think she's just signing it?' asked Mordent. ‘Like with the syringe? Does she spread the shoe polish around, so as to leave her mark?'

‘Something like that, to pull us along in her wake. To guide us.'

‘Along the wrong track, you mean?' asked the doctor, blinking her eyes.

‘Precisely, Ariane. Like wreckers who used to imitate lighthouses, to lure ships on to the rocks. We've got a false lighthouse here.'

‘A lighthouse that's sending us to the nurse?' said Ariane.

‘Yes, that must be what Retancourt meant. “Tell him not to give a damn.” She must have meant about the blue shoes. That they don't matter.'

‘How is she?' asked Ariane.

‘She's recovering quite quickly. Enough to tell us that it didn't matter, anyway.'

‘You mean the shoes and all the rest of it?' asked Ariane.

‘Yes. The injections, the scalpel, the shoe polish. It's a plausible trail,
but it's false. A real decoy. For weeks now, this killer's been playing games with us. And all of us, myself included, have been stupidly chasing after this lantern that someone is waving in the woods ahead of us.'

Ariane folded her arms and dropped her chin. She hadn't had time to put on her full make-up, and Adamsberg found her more beautiful than ever.

‘It's all my fault,' she said. ‘It was me that said it could be a case of dissociation.'

‘Yes, but I was the one who identified the nurse as our suspect.'

‘Yes, but I went along with it,' Ariane insisted. ‘I told you a lot of back-up stuff about psychological profiling.'

‘Well, this killer certainly knows all about female psychology. Everything was set up so we would make this mistake, Ariane. And if the murderer wanted us to think it was a woman, then it must be a man. A man who took advantage of Claire Langevin's escape to push us towards her. He knew I'd react to the hypothesis that it was the nurse. But it isn't her. And that's why these murders don't correspond to her psychology, the angel of death. You said so yourself, Ariane, that night after Montrouge. There wasn't a second lava-flow out of the volcano. It must be a quite different volcano.'

‘Well, if so, it's someone very clever,' sighed the doctor. ‘The wounds on Diala and La Paille really do indicate a killer who isn't tall. But I suppose it would always be possible to fake that. A man of average height could always calculate how to angle the knife to make it look that way. Of course, he'd really have to know what he was doing.'

‘The syringe in the hangar was already over the top,' said Adamsberg. ‘I should have reacted sooner.'