Seeking Whom He May Devour (27 page)

“The
flics
thought they were doing the right thing,” said Watchee. “They preferred to warn people so as to prevent more murders. Setting a trap for Massart involves putting lives at risk. You have to see their point of view.”

“Bugger that,” said Soliman. “It’s a massive cock-up. Just let me get my hands on the dickhead who spewed it all out.”

“Here I am, Soliman,” said Adamsberg.

A ponderous silence ensued in the lorry. Adamsberg leaned over to the dog and tugged the chewed-up paper from his maw.

“Woof liked that a lot,” he said with a smile. “You should trust the dog. Dogs have got real flair.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Soliman, dumbfounded. “I just don’t believe it.”

“You better had believe it, all the same,” Adamsberg said softly.

“Don’t make him repeat himself,” said Watchee. “The man told you.”

“I called AFP yesterday,” said Adamsberg, “and I told them exactly what I wanted them to know.”

“What’s AFP?” Watchee asked.

“It’s like a huge leading sheep for journalists to flock after,” Soliman explained. “All the newspapers repeat what AFP tells them.”

“Good,” said Watchee. “I do like to understand.”

“But what about the itinerary?” Camille said tensely. “Why did you pass on the itinerary?”

“That’s the point. That’s what I wanted most of all to give them. The itinerary.”

“So Massart can scarper?” asked Soliman. “Is that what you’re up to? Is that what the
flic
with no principles is up to?”

“He won’t vanish.”

“And why won’t he vanish?”

“Because he’s not finished what he set out to do.”

“What’s that?’

“His job. His murder business.”

“He’ll just go and do his business somewhere else!” Soliman shouted as he stood up. “In Amazonia or Patagonia or Outer Mongolia. There are sheep all over the world!”

“I’m not talking about sheep. I’m talking about people.”

“He’ll kill other people in other places.”

“No, he won’t. His work is here.”

There was another pause.

“We don’t get it,” said Camille, on behalf of all three. “Are these things that you know, or things that you believe?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Adamsberg. “But I would like to know. I already said that Massart’s itinerary was precise and contorted. Now his route is known and he’s being looked for, he’s every reason to change track.”

“And he will!” Soliman said. “He’s changing track right now!”

“Or not, as the case may be,” Adamsberg said. “That’s the crux of the whole story. Everything hangs on it. Will he move away from his itinerary? Or will he stick to it? That is the question.”

“What if he sticks to it?” said Camille.

“It changes everything.”

Soliman pulled a puzzled face. Adamsberg explained:

“He’ll only stick to his route if he has no choice. It would mean he has to follow that specific itinerary and that he can’t do anything else, irrespective of the risks.”

“And why would that be so?” Soliman asked. “Because he’s mad? Or obsessed?”

“Or because of his needs, and his plans. If that were so, then nothing that’s happened could be put down to chance. Neither Sernot’s death, nor Deguy’s.”

Soliman shook his head in disbelief.

“We’re letting our minds wander.”

“Of course we are,” said Adamsberg. “What else can we do?”

XXX

THAT MORNING’S NEWS
Brought instant relief to the wildlife wardens in the Mercantour. It was decided straight away to drop their efforts to track both packs of wolves.

Johnstone was walking his motorbike, on his way to meet Camille. He had not seen her for days and days. He missed everything about her. Her voice, her face, her body. He had been through a great deal of stress and he needed her. Camille could get him to come out of his shell, out of his silence.

The Canadian was worried. He had not been able to get his visa extended. What he had been sent to do in the Mercantour was well and truly in the bag, and he could not see any way of getting his contract extended beyond its expiry date. He would have to go back, in less than two months’ time, by 22 August at the latest. He was expected back in grizzly country. He had never discussed such an eventuality with Camille; neither of them had talked about what might happen between them then.
Johnstone
could not see himself going back to his old life without her. Tonight, if he could, if he dared, he would ask her to move to Vancouver. But he wouldn’t dare. Women struck him dumb.

Late on that afternoon Adamsberg had a call from Hermel.

“It’s the same hair, old chap,” Hermel told him. “Same thickness, same shade, same make-up, same genetic fingerprint. No doubt about it. If it isn’t him, it’s his twin. You’ll have to wait a bit longer for the nails. We’ve only just spotted some by the bed in his shack. That idiot from Puygiron searched only the bathroom. A man can just as well chew his fingernails and spit them on the floor from his bunk, am I right? I sent one of my own men over there this morning with instructions to comb the bedroom and find nails from each of the man’s ten fingers, nothing less would do. So if you hear of a fresh outbreak of hostilities between the police and the
gendarmerie
, you’ll know what it’s about. In any event, your Massart is the man, almost absolutely certainly. You know what lab people are like. You can never get them to say ‘yes’ without some piddling reservation. Hang on, I haven’t told you everything yet. There really were particles of blood on the fingernails we picked up from the groove on the hotel windowsill. And there’s not the slightest doubt now – that blood belonged to Fernand Deguy. So the man who stayed in the hotel really did let his beast loose on Deguy. By the way, we did have the body looked at again as you requested, but we didn’t find one single unexplained animal hair on Deguy. There
were
some dog hairs, but
they
came from his own spaniel. We’re working on Deguy, we’re scooping up all there is to know about him. Don’t expect to be entertained when you read it, Adamsberg. Mountain guide, old chap, then mountain guide. It’s all there is. He lived all his life long in Grenoble and retired to Bourg-en-Bresse because Grenoble has ceased to be anything more than the bottom of a bowl filled to the brim with exhaust. Never put a foot wrong either, never did anything exciting, never even had a mistress as far as we know at this point in time. I talked to Montvailland at Villard-de-Lans. He’s made progress with his file on Jean-Jacques Sernot. He never put a foot wrong, never did anything exciting, never even had a mistress as far as is known at this point in time. Sernot taught maths in Grenoble for thirty-two years. Grenoble is the only common factor, but it’s rather broad, as common factors go. Oh, I’m forgetting, they were both good sportsmen. There are lots of them in this place. The Alps are full of folk determined to walk for hours and hours up and down the rocks. That’s not news to you, old chap, seeing as you’re from the Pyrenees, or so they tell me. Nothing to indicate that the two men ever met each other. And even less likelihood that either of them ever met Suzanne Rosselin. I’ll keep at it all the same and fax the final results wherever you tell me.”

Adamsberg ended the call and went back to the lorry. Soliman had quietened down and had got his blue plastic bowl out again. Camille was in the cab, with the door open, writing music. Watchee was sitting near the back steps, humming.
He
was delousing the dog: he cut the insects neatly in half with his thumb and the nail of his index finger. Life around the sheep wagon was settling into its own rituals: each now had his and her own home patch. Camille had the front area, Soliman the side, and Watchee the rear.

Adamsberg went to the front.

“The hair is Massart’s,” he told Camille.

Soliman, Watchee and Camille gathered round the
commissaire
. They were silent, serious, almost stupefied. They had known it was Massart from the start, but having it confirmed cast a kind of fright upon them. It was the same kind of difference as between the idea of a knife and the sight of a blade. It gave an extra dose of precision and realism. It made it a certainty that cuts to the quick.

“We’re going to light a candle in the lorry,” Adamsberg said, breaking the silence. “Watchee will make sure it doesn’t go out.”

“What’s come over you?” asked Camille. “You think that’ll help?”

“It’ll help to find out how long it takes to burn down.”

Adamsberg went to his car and scrabbled about in his case and came back with a tall candle. He melted the bottom so that it would stand straight in a saucer. He put it in the lorry and lit the wick.

“There you are,” he said, stepping back with an air of satisfaction.

“Why are we doing this?” Soliman asked.

“Because we’ve nothing better to do. You’re going to
come
with me on a lazy drive down the side roads so that we can visit all the local churches. If Massart was overcome with contrition after murdering Deguy, then we’ve got a chance of seeing where he went. We have to check whether he’s still following his itinerary or whether he’s switched track.”

“Good idea,” said Soliman.

“Camille, if we do come across a trace of Massart, you’ll drive the lorry over to where we are.”

“No can do. I’m not planning on driving this evening.”

“Because of the candle?” Soliman exclaimed. “Watchee will keep it safe in his lap.”

“No,” Camille said. “I’m staying in Bourg-en-Bresse. Lawrence is coming tonight.”

There was a brief pause.

“Yes, I see,” said Adamsberg.
“Laurence
Johnstone is coming tonight. Fine.”

“The trapper could join up with us further north,” said Soliman. “What difference does that make to him?”

Camille shook her head. “He’s en route and I can’t contact him in the meantime. I made a date with him at Bourg, so I’m staying at Bourg.”

Adamsberg nodded. “OK,” he said. “Stay at Bourg. That’s quite all right.”

Adamsberg and Soliman looked into nineteen churches. In the twentieth, at Saint-Pierre-de-Cenis, a tiny village about ninety kilometres north of Bourg-en-Bresse, they spotted five candles set apart from the others and laid out more or less in the shape of the letter M.

“That’s him!” said Soliman. “It’s as it was at Tiennes.”

Adamsberg took a fresh candle, lit it from one of the others, and stood it in the candleholder.

“What are you doing?” Soliman asked in amazement.

“I’m comparing.”

“Even so. If you light a candle you have to make a prayer. And pay for the candle. Otherwise your wishes won’t be met.”

“Are you religious, Sol?”

“I am superstitious.”

“Ah. That must be tiring.”

“It is. Very.”

Adamsberg bent forward to observe the candles more closely.

“They’ve burned about one third of the way down,” he said. “We’ll measure it against the lorry candle, but Massart was probably here some four hours ago. Between three and four in the afternoon. It’s a remote spot. Probably he slipped into the church when there was nobody else here.”

He fell silent and looked smilingly at the candles.

“What good is that to us, really?” asked Soliman. “He’s a long way off by now. And we already knew he lights candles.”

“You still haven’t twigged, have you, Sol? This church is on his marked-out route. That means he’s not moved off it. He’s sticking to the itinerary. That means nothing is happening by chance. If he’s been this way it’s because he had to be. He won’t branch off now.”

Before they left the church Adamsberg put three francs in the silver tray.

“I know you made a wish,” said Soliman.

“I was only paying for the candle.”

“You’re lying. You made a wish. I saw it in your eyes.”

Adamsberg drew up twenty metres away from the lorry. He pulled slowly on the handbrake. Neither he nor Soliman got out. Watchee had lit a brazier, which he was poking with the metal-tipped end of his crook. Standing beside him, with his eyes on the fire, stood a tall and handsome man in a white T-shirt. His long fair hair came down to his shoulders, and his arm was around Camille. Adamsberg looked at him for a while without stirring.

“That’s the trapper,” Soliman finally vouchsafed.

“I can see that.”

The two of them fell silent again.

“He’s the guy who lives with Camille,” Soliman went on, as if he was telling it to himself over again, just to be sure. “That’s the guy she picked.”

“I can see that.”

“He’s good-looking, he’s tough, he can hold his own. And he’s got ideas up here,” Soliman added, tapping his forehead. “You can’t say Camille picked a dud.”

“No.”

“You can’t hold it against her to have picked that guy rather than another one, can you?”

“No.”

“Camille is free. She can pick whomever she wants. Whoever she likes best. If that’s the one, well, she goes for him, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s up to her, after all. Not up to us. Not up to anyone else. Up to her. Can’t say anything against that, can you?”

“No.”

“And she’s not made a bad choice, really. Right? Don’t see why it should be any of our business.”

“No. It’s none of our business.”

“No, none at all.”

“It’s actually got nothing to do with us.”

“Actually, no.”

“No,” Adamsberg repeated.

“What next?” Soliman asked after a pause. “Shall we get out?”

Watchee put a grill on top of the embers and unceremoniously deposited two columns of chops and tomatoes on it.

“Where did you get the grill?” Soliman asked.

“It’s chickenwire. Buteil had left it in the lorry. Heat disinfects everything.”

Watchee kept his eye on the meat as it cooked, then shared it out. He wasn’t saying much.

“What about the candles, then?” asked Camille.

“Five at Saint-Pierre-du-Cenis,” Adamsberg said. “He most likely lit them around three o’clock. He’s keeping to his route. We really ought to get moving this evening, Camille. Now that
Laurence
is here we can move on.”

“Do you want to go to Saint-Pierre?”