This Night's Foul Work (35 page)

‘See, Tom, how simple it is,' said Adamsberg to his son, who was snuggled up on his stomach.

‘Are you saying that for my benefit?' asked Danglard.

Adamsberg sensed the lifelessness in his deputy's voice.

‘If you think it was me that got Veyrenc set up to be killed,' Danglard went on, ‘you're quite right. I could say I didn't mean it to happen, and I could swear that I had no idea that's how it would turn out. But so what? Who would ever know whether I didn't really want it to happen, deep down?'

‘Capitaine
, don't you think we worry enough about what we really
do
think, without having to worry about what we might have thought if we did think it?'

‘Maybe,' said Danglard, in a barely audible voice.

‘Listen, Danglard, he's not dead, nobody's dead. Except perhaps you, drinking yourself to death in your sitting-room.'

‘I'm in the kitchen.'

‘Danglard?'

No answer.

‘Danglard, get a bottle of wine and come over here. I'm on my own with Tom. Saint Clarisse has popped out for a walk. With the tanner, I dare say.'

The
commissaire
hung up so that Danglard couldn't refuse. ‘Tom,' he said, ‘remember the very wise chamois, who had read all those books? And had done something very stupid? Well, the inside of his head was so complicated that he got lost inside it himself in the evenings. And sometimes during the day as well. And not all his wisdom and knowledge helped him to find a way out. So then the ibex had to throw him a rope and pull hard to get him out of it.'

Adamsberg suddenly looked up at the ceiling. From the attic came a slight sound, as of a robe swishing over the ground. So Saint Clarisse had not popped out to see the tanner after all.

‘It's nothing, Tom. A bird or the wind. Or a rag blowing over the floor.'

In order to sort out the inside of Danglard's head, Adamsberg made a good fire in the grate. It was the first time he had used the fireplace, and the flames rose up high and clear without smoking out the room. This was how he intended to burn the Unsolved Question about King David, which was clogging up his deputy's head, spreading doubts into all its corners. As soon as he came in, Danglard sat down by the fire
alongside Adamsberg, who added log after log to the fire to reduce his anguish to ashes. At the same time, without telling Danglard, Adamsberg was burning the last traces of his resentment of Veyrenc.

Seeing the two ruffians from Caldhez again, hearing Roland's vicious voice, had brought the past back to mind, and the cruel attack in the High Meadow reappeared to him in full colour. The scene played itself out from start to finish before his eyes, in screaming detail. The little kid on the ground, held down by Fernand, while Roland approached with a piece of broken glass. ‘Not a peep out of you, you little shit.' The panic of little eight-year-old Veyrenc, his head bleeding, his stomach slashed, in unspeakable pain. And himself, young Adamsberg, standing motionless under the tree. He would give a lot not to have lived through that scene, so that this unfinished memory would stop pricking him thirty-four years later. So that the flames would burn away Veyrenc's persistent trauma. And, he caught himself thinking, well, if being in Camille's arms could help Veyrenc get rid of it, so be it. On condition that the damned Béarnais didn't take his territory. Adamsberg threw another log on the flames and smiled vaguely. The territory he shared with Camille was out of Veyrenc's reach. He needn't worry.

By midnight, Danglard, at last feeling calmer about King David, and soothed by the serenity emanating from Adamsberg, was finishing the last of the bottle he had brought with him.

‘Burns well, your fire,' he commented.

‘Yes, that was one of the reasons I wanted this house. Remember old Clémentine's fireplace? I spent night after night in front of it. I would light the end of a twig and make circles in the dark, like this.'

Adamsberg put out the overhead light and plunged a long twig into the flames, then traced circles and figures-of-eight in the near-darkness.

‘Pretty,' said Danglard.

‘Yes, pretty, and mesmerising.'

Adamsberg gave the twig to his deputy and rested his feet on the brick surround, pushing his chair back.

‘I'm going to have to drop the third virgin, Danglard. Nobody seems to believe in her, nobody wants to know. And I haven't the slightest idea how to find her. I'll have to abandon her to her fate and her cups of coffee.'

‘I don't think so,' said Danglard, blowing gently on the end of the twig to rekindle it.

‘No?'

‘No, I don't believe you're going to let her drop. Nor am I. I think you'll go on looking. Whether the others agree or not.'

‘But do you think she even exists? Do you think she's in danger?'

Danglard drew a few figures-of-eight.

‘The hypothesis based on the
De Reliquis
is very fragile,' he replied. ‘It's like a thread of gossamer, but the thread does exist. And it links together all these odd elements in the story. It even links up to the business of shoe polish on the soles of the shoes and dissociation.'

‘How?' asked Adamsberg, taking back the twig.

‘In medieval incantatory ceremonies, people drew a circle on the ground. In the middle of it would be the woman who would dance and call up the devil. The circle was a way of separating off one piece of ground from the rest of the earth. Our killer is working on a piece of ground that belongs just to her, spinning her thread inside her own circle.'

‘Retancourt hasn't gone along with me about this thread,' said Adamsberg, rather grumpily.

‘I don't know where Retancourt is,' said Danglard, pulling a face. ‘She didn't come into the office again today. And there's still no reply from her home.'

‘Have you called her brothers?' asked Adamsberg with a frown.

‘Called her brothers, called her parents, called a couple of her friends I had the numbers of. Nobody's seen her. She didn't let us know she wouldn't be in. And nobody in the squad has any idea what she's up to.'

‘What was she working on?'

‘She was supposed to be on the Miromesnil murder with Mordent and Gardon.'

‘Have you listened to her answering machine?'

‘Yes, but there are no particular messages about meeting anyone.'

‘Are any of the squad cars missing?'

‘No.'

Adamsberg threw down the twig and stood up. He paced around the room for a few moments with folded arms.

‘Capitaine
, raise the alarm.'

N
EWS OF THE DISAPPEARANCE OF
L
IEUTENANT
V
IOLETTE
R
ETANCOURT FELL
like a bombshell in the offices of the Serious Crime Squad, immediately repressing any rebellious mutterings. In the ominous panic which began to spread, everyone realised that the absence of the large blonde officer deprived the building of one of its central pillars. The dismay of the cat, who had gone to curl up between the photocopier and the wall, reflected fairly accurately the morale of the staff, with the difference that the officers, armed with her description, were engaged in non-stop searching, inquiring at all the hospitals and
gendarmeries
in the country.

Commandant
Danglard, only just recovering from his own moral crisis over King David, and prey to his usual pessimism, had taken refuge quite openly in the basement where he was sitting on a chair near the boiler, knocking back white wine in full view of anyone who cared to look. Estalère, at the opposite extremity of the building, had gone up to the coffee-machine room and, rather like the Snowball, had curled up on
Lieutenant
Mercadet's foam cushions.

The shy young receptionist, Bettina, who had only recently started working at the switchboard, walked across the Council Chamber, which seemed to be plunged in mourning, and where the only sound was the clicking of telephones and a few repeated words – yes, no, thanks for
calling back. In one corner, Mordent and Justin were talking in low voices. Bettina knocked quietly at Adamsberg's door. The
commissaire
, hunched on his high stool, was staring at the ground without moving. The young woman sighed. Adamsberg urgently needed to get some sleep.

‘Monsieur le
commissaire
, she said, sitting down discreetly. ‘When do we think
Lieutenant
Retancourt went missing?'

‘Well, she didn't come in on Monday morning, Bettina, that's all we know. But she could have gone missing on Saturday, Sunday or even Friday evening. It could be three days ago, or five.'

‘Just before the weekend, on Friday afternoon, she was smoking a cigarette out in the entry with the new
lieutenant
, the one with fancy hair, in two colours. She said she was going to leave the office early, because she had a visit to make.'

‘A visit or an appointment?'

‘Is there a difference?'

‘Yes. Try to remember, Bettina.'

‘Well, I think she used the word visit.'

‘Anything else?'

‘No. They went off towards the big room, so I didn't hear any more.'

‘Thanks,' said Adamsberg, blinking his eyes.

‘You ought to get some sleep, sir. My mother says that if you don't sleep, the mill starts grinding its own stone.'

‘She
wouldn't go to sleep. She'd look for me day and night, without eating or sleeping till she found me. And she would find me.'

Adamsberg slowly pulled on his jacket.

‘If anyone asks, Bettina, I'm at the Bichat Hospital.'

‘Ask one of them to drive you. That way you could nap for twenty minutes in the car. My mother says snatching forty winks here and there is the secret.'

‘But all the officers are busy looking for her, Bettina. They've got better things to do.'

‘I haven't,' said Bettina. ‘I'll drive you over.'

Veyrenc was taking his first tentative steps in the corridor, leaning on a nurse's arm.

‘We're improving,' said the nurse. ‘We've got less of a temperature this morning.'

‘Let's go back to his room,' said Adamsberg, taking Veyrenc's other arm.

‘How's the leg?' he asked, once they had got Veyrenc on to the bed.

‘Not bad. Better than you,' said Veyrenc, struck by Adamsberg's exhausted features. ‘What's happened now?'

‘She's vanished. Violette. For either three or five days. She's nowhere to be found, she hasn't given any sign of life. It can't have been intentional, because all her stuff's still there. She was just wearing her ordinary jacket and had her little backpack.'

‘Dark blue?'

‘Yes.

‘Bettina told me that you were talking to her on Friday afternoon in the hall. And apparently Violette said something about a visit she had to make, that she was going to leave early.'

Veyrenc frowned.

‘A visit? And she told me about it? But I don't know who her friends are.'

‘She told you about this, and then you both walked into the Council Chamber. Try and remember, please,
lieutenant –
you may have been the last person to see her. You were smoking.'

‘Ah,' said Veyrenc, lifting his hand. ‘Yes, she had promised she'd call in on Dr Roman. She said she went in about once a week, to try and distract him. She kept him up to date with the investigations,
showed him photos, sort of trying to bring him up to speed.'

‘What photos?'

‘Forensic photos,
commissaire
, the ones of corpses. That's what she was showing him.'

‘OK, Veyrenc, I see.'

‘You're disappointed.'

‘Well, I'll go and see Roman. But he's completely vague, with his vapours as he calls them. If there had been anything to take notice of, he'd be the last to realise it.'

Adamsberg sat for a moment without moving, in the comfortable padded hospital chair. When the nurse came in later with his supper tray, Veyrenc put his finger to his lips. The
commissaire
had been asleep for about an hour.

‘Shouldn't we wake him?' whispered the nurse.

‘He couldn't have held out a minute longer. We'll let him sleep another hour or two.'

Veyrenc telephoned the squad while examining his tray.

‘Who am I talking to?' he asked.

‘Gardon,' said the
brigadier
. ‘Is that you, Veyrenc?'

‘Is Danglard there?'

‘Well, he is, but he's practically out of commission. Retancourt's disappeared,
lieutenant.'

‘Yes, I know. Can you get me Dr Roman's phone number?'

‘Yeah, coming up. One of us was going to come and see you tomorrow. Do you need anything?'

‘Something to eat,
brigadier.'

‘You're in luck. It's Froissy who'll be coming.'

At least that's one bit of good news, thought Veyrenc, as he called the doctor. A very distant voice answered. Veyrenc had never met Roman, but he was obviously in some kind of fog of absent-mindedness.

‘Commissaire
Adamsberg will be round to see you at about nine o'clock, doctor. He asked me to warn you.'

‘Er, yes, if you say so,' said Roman, who seemed supremely indifferent to the news.

Adamsberg opened his eyes a little after eight.

‘Oh shit,' he said. ‘Why didn't you wake me, Veyrenc?'

‘Even Retancourt would have let you sleep.
Victory comes only to the man who has slept.'

D
R
R
OMAN SHUFFLED OVER TO OPEN THE DOOR, THEN SHUFFLED BACK TO
his armchair, as if he were on skis.

‘Don't ask how I am, Adamsberg, it annoys me. Do you want a drink?'

‘I wouldn't mind a coffee.'

‘Can you get it yourself? I'm just not up to it.'