The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (27 page)

‘New plates, eh?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Zerk. ‘I put ’em on a fortnight ago.’

‘Seven-year-old car, new plates?’

‘That was in Paris, officer,’ Zerk explained. ‘Plates were knocked in, front and back, had to change ’em.’

‘Why, weren’t they readable any more?’

‘Yeah, but you know what it’s like, Paris, if your plates are fucked up, they just think they can, like, bash your car any time they park.’

‘You’re not from Paris then?’

‘O-oh no. Pyrenees, us.’

‘Ha, better than Paris, anyway,’ said the gendarme with a hint of a smile as he handed back their papers.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, letting their heartbeats settle down.

‘Hey, you were ace,’ said Mo. ‘I could never have done that.’

‘We’d better stop and rearrange the plates a bit. Kick ’em a few times.’

‘Put on some soot from the exhaust.’

‘We’ll grab a bite same time. Put your ID in your back pocket, so it gets a bit distressed. Looks too new.’

At 11 a.m. they met a second roadblock at Angoulěme. At four in the afternoon, Zerk stopped the car on a mountain road near Laruns.

‘Let’s take an hour to rest here, Mo. But no more. Got to get across now.’

‘This is the frontier?’

‘Practically. We’ll get into Spain at this crossing point, Les Socques. And then, know what we’ll do? We’ll eat like kings at the cafe in Hoz de Jaca. We’ll stay at Berdún and tomorrow Granada, another twelve hours on the road.’

‘Get a shower, too? We both stink.’

‘Yeah, we do, and two guys who stink get noticed.’

‘Your dad’s going to be in big trouble. All because of me. What’ll he do?’

‘Dunno,’ said Zerk, between gulps of water from a bottle. ‘I don’t really know him.’

‘What?’ said Mo, grabbing the bottle.

‘He only found me couple of months ago.’

‘He found you? Adopted you? But you look like him.’

‘No, I said he
found
me, when I was twenty-eight. Before that he didn’t know I existed.’

‘Shit, man,’ said Mo, rubbing his cheeks. ‘My dad’s the opposite. He knew fine I existed but he didn’t want to know.’

‘Nor did mine. I found him first. Fathers. Complicated.’

‘We better get some sleep.’

Mo had the impression that Zerk’s voice had cracked. Maybe talking about his dad. Maybe just from exhaustion. The two young men bumped up against each other trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

‘Zerk.’

‘Yeah?’

‘There’s one little thing I could do for your dad, make it up to him.’

‘Find whoever killed Clermont?’

‘No, find whoever tied the pigeon’s feet.’

‘Some little toerag.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’d really be something. But you can’t do that.’

‘In your house, the basket you brought Hellebaud in?’

‘Yeah?’ said Zerk, sitting up.

‘There was this string in it, been round his legs.’

‘Yeah, my dad kept it, to get it analysed. What about it?’

‘Well, it’s string from off a diabolo.’

Zerk sat up properly, lit a cigarette, gave one to Mo and opened the car window.

‘How d’you know?’

‘You use special string. If you don’t, it gets worn out, it frays, and the diabolo won’t work properly.’

‘Like a yo-yo or what?’

‘No, no, no. Because the diabolo wears out the string in the middle, it can even break, so you need this special strong nylon string.’

‘So?’

‘You can’t get it in just any shop, you have to go to a diabolo store. And there’s not that many in Paris.’

‘Well,’ said Zerk, after a moment’s thought, ‘I don’t see you finding
whoever tortured our pigeon by watching people going in and out the shops.’

‘No, there’s a way,’ Mo insisted. ‘It wasn’t professional string. I don’t think it was heart-woven.’

‘What?’
said Zerk.

‘Reinforced centre – real pros have this very pricey string. You get it in rolls of ten metres, twenty metres, whatever. But this wasn’t like that. It was just the kind you get in a kit, with a diabolo and sticks.’

‘I’m still not with you, Mo.’

‘It didn’t look to me like it was worn at all. But maybe the guys that work with your dad, they could look at it with a magnifier?’

‘Microscope probably,’ said Zerk. ‘But anyway, what if it
was
new?’

‘Well, why would a kid use the string from his new diabolo set? Why doesn’t he just take some string from round the house?’

‘Because he’s got plenty of it?’

‘
Yeah
, see? His dad runs the shop. So he takes some string off of a big roll, and of course he doesn’t take the expensive stuff. So his dad’s maybe a dealer, sells string to people who make the kits? So there, you’re talking, can’t be many of them in Paris. Most likely near your dad’s office, because Hellebaud couldn’t walk after that, could he?’

Zerk was smoking with his eyes half closed, looking at Mo.

‘You must’ve been thinking a lot to come up with that,’ he observed.

‘Nothing else to do when I was in that house. But you think it’s rubbish?’

‘No, I think if we could get on the Internet, we’d soon get a name and address for the little bastard.’

‘But we can’t, it’s too big a risk.’

‘Yeah, we could be on the run for ages. Unless you can find whoever tied
your
legs.’

‘It’s not a fair fight, is it? These Clermonts, it’s like we’re taking on the whole country.’

‘Quite a few countries, probably.’

XXVIII

In the hospital corridor, anxiety had replaced instinctive politeness, and nobody spoke a word. Lina shivered, her shawl slipped off again and fell to the floor. Danglard was quicker than Adamsberg. With two of his clumsy steps, he was behind her, replacing the shawl with old-fashioned fussiness.

Irradiated, thought Adamsberg, while Émeri, blond eyebrows locked in a frown, looked disapproving. All of us irradiated, Adamsberg concluded. All putty in her hands, she can say what she likes, catch whoever she wants. Then everyone’s eyes once more turned to keep watch on the closed door of Léo’s room, hoping for the handle to turn, as if waiting for the curtain to rise on an exceptional show. They all stood as still as cows in the fields.

‘There we are, engine’s turning over again,’ said the doctor simply, as he emerged from the room.

He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow methodically, still holding the door back.

‘
You
can go in,’ he said to the count, ‘but don’t say a word. And don’t try to get her to talk either. Not for another two weeks. She needs all that time to come to terms with things, she absolutely mustn’t be rushed, or she’ll go back into the dark again. If I have your solemn word, all of you can look at her.’

The heads nodded together.

‘But who will see that you all do what I ask?’ the doctor insisted.

‘I will,’ said Dr Turbot, whom nobody had noticed as he followed Hellebaud out, looking somewhat dazed and overcome.

‘Very well, my dear colleague, I’ll take your word for it. You’ll have to accompany any visitor or see that they are accompanied. Or I’ll hold you responsible for any relapse.’

‘Trust me, I’m a doctor. I won’t let anyone interfere with this cure.’

Hellebaud nodded and let the count approach the bed. Danglard was supporting his trembling arm. Valleray stopped still, open-mouthed as he saw Léo with colour in her cheeks, breathing regularly and able to greet him with a smile and a meaningful look. He stroked the old woman’s hands, which were now warm again. Turning to the doctor to thank him, or to express his veneration, he suddenly collapsed on to Danglard’s arm.

‘Look out,’ said Hellebaud, pulling a face. ‘He’s had a shock, it’s given him a bit of a turn. Sit him down, take off his shirt and check his feet – are they going blue?’

Valleray allowed himself to be moved on to a chair, but Danglard had trouble getting his shirt off. In his confusion, the count was resisting as forcefully as he could, apparently refusing absolutely to be stripped and humiliated in a hospital room.

‘He always hates being undressed,’ Dr Turbot commented laconically. ‘I’ve seen him act like that once before, up at the chateau.’

‘Does he often get attacks like this?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘No, the last time was a year ago. Just stress, it’s not too serious. He’s more alarmed than ill. Why do you ask, commissaire?’

‘For Léo’s sake.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s as tough as old boots, she’ll have him for a few years yet.’

XXIX

Just then, Capitaine Émeri, looking deeply alarmed, came into the room and shook Adamsberg’s elbow.

‘Mortembot has just found his cousin Glayeux dead. Murdered!’

‘What? When?’

‘Last night apparently. The police doctor’s on the way. And you haven’t heard the worst – his skull was split open. With an axe. The murderer is returning to his original method.’

‘Are you thinking of the Vendermots’ father?’

‘Obviously, it must have started everything. A brute creates brutality all round him.’

‘But you weren’t even living here when that happened.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Ask yourself why nobody was ever arrested for that at the time. Or why perhaps somebody didn’t
want
anyone arrested.’

‘Who do you mean by “somebody”?’

‘Round here, Adamsberg,’ Émeri said in a strained whisper, while Danglard escorted the count out of the room, his shirt having been removed, ‘the only real law is what the Comte de Valleray d’Ordebec wants. He has the right of life and death on his estate and far beyond, if only you knew.’

Adamsberg hesitated, remembering the orders he had received the previous night at the chateau.

‘Look at the facts,’ Émeri said. ‘He needs your prisoner to treat Léo? He gets him. You need an extension for the investigation? He gets that too.’

‘How did you know I’ve got an extension?’

‘He told me himself. He likes you to know how far his writ runs.’

‘But who would he have been protecting?’

‘It was always thought one of the kids had killed the father. They found Lina wiping the axe.’

‘She hasn’t denied that.’

‘She couldn’t, it was all stated at the inquest. But she might have been wiping it to protect Hippo. You know what his father had done to him?’

‘Yes, the fingers.’

‘Hacked off with an axe. But Valleray could have decided to kill the monster himself, to protect the kids. What if Herbier knew that? And what if he decided to blackmail Valleray?’

‘What, thirty years later?’

‘He could have been doing it for years.’

‘But what’s that got to do with Glayeux?’

‘Just a bit of local colour to cover his tracks.’

‘But you’re suggesting that Lina and Valleray are in league. She announces that the Riders have come through, so that Valleray can get rid of Herbier. And all the others, Mortembot, Glayeux, whoever, are red herrings to get you chasing after some local maniac who believes in the Hellequin cavalcade and is carrying out His Lordship’s wishes.’

‘Well, it fits, doesn’t it?’

‘Possibly, Émeri. But I’m inclined to think that there
is
a maniac out there, someone who takes the Riders seriously. Either one of those seen with them who’s trying to save his skin, or someone who thinks they might be a victim in future and is trying to win favour from Hellequin by serving him.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Adamsberg admitted.

‘It’s because you just don’t know the people round here. What did the count offer you if you could cure Léo? A work of art perhaps? Don’t hold your breath. He does it all the time. And why is he moving heaven and earth to get her treated?’

‘Because he’s fond of her, Émeri, you know that.’

‘Or to find out what she knows?’

‘Christ, Émeri, he almost fainted just now. He wants to
marry
her if she survives.’

‘That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? A wife’s testimony couldn’t be taken in a court of law.’

‘Make up your mind, Émeri, whether you suspect Valleray or the Vendermots.’

‘Vendermot, Valleray, Léo – they’re all part of the same gang. The Vendermot father and Herbier were the diabolical side of it. The count and the children are the seemingly innocent side. But if you mix the two you get a damned unpredictable mixture, with some clay thrown in.’

XXX

‘He must have been attacked last night at about midnight,’ reported Dr Chazy, the pathologist. ‘Two blows from the axe. But the first was the one that did the damage.’

Glayeux’s body, fully clothed, was stretched out in his office. His head had been split open with two blows, and blood had drenched the carpet, the table and some preliminary sketches he had spread out on the floor. Through the bloodstains, it was still possible to see the head of a madonna.

‘Horrible,’ said Émeri, pointing to it. ‘The Virgin Mary covered in blood,’ he added with disgust, as if this revolted him even more than the scene of butchery before them.

‘Lord Hellequin certainly doesn’t do things by halves,’ Adamsberg murmured. ‘And he wasn’t even impressed by the Virgin Mary.’

‘Obviously,’ said Émeri gloomily. ‘Glayeux had a commission in hand for the church in Saint-Aubin. He always worked late. The killer must have come in, whoever it was, man or woman, they knew each other. Glayeux asked them inside. If the killer attacked him with an axe, they must have been wearing a waterproof of some kind. That would look a bit out of the ordinary with this heat.’

‘Remember there was a threat of rain. Clouds to the west.’

From outside the door came the sound of Michel Mortembot’s sobbing, or rather his stifled cries, the kind produced by men who find it hard to shed tears.

‘He didn’t cry like that when his mother died,’ said Émeri maliciously.

‘Do you know where he was yesterday?’

‘He’d been in Caen for two days, with a big order of pear trees. Plenty of people will confirm that. He only got back late this morning.’

‘And at midnight last night?’

‘He was in this nightclub in Caen, called Shake It Up. A night out with whores and faggots, so now he’s feeling guilty. When he’s stopped snivelling, the brigadier will take him off to get a statement from him.’