Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (11 page)

‘And in other respects?’

‘Not good. Trabelmann’s taken against me. He thinks I just follow my own nose and take no notice of anyone else. He regards Judge Fulgence as a national treasure. And in fact I’m a national treasure too, but not quite the same way.’

‘What do you mean?’

Adamsberg smiled before replying.

‘Strasbourg Cathedral. He says my ego is as big as the cathedral.’

Danglard gave a low whistle.

‘One of the pinnacles of Gothic architecture,’ he remarked, ‘the spire reaches a height of 142 metres, built in 1439, the crowning achievement of Jean Hultz …’

With a gesture, Adamsberg interrupted the flow of erudition.

‘Still,’ concluded Danglard, ‘that’s quite something, isn’t it? A Gothic edifice for an ego, an e-Gothic ego trip. Trabelmann’s a bit of a joker, is he?’

‘Yes, he can be. But just then he wasn’t joking, and he kicked me out as if I was a complete time-waster. I have to say in his defence that he looked up the judge’s dates and found out he had been dead sixteen years. He didn’t like that. Some people get put off by that kind of thing.’

Adamsberg raised his hand again to ward off a comment from his deputy.

‘Did it do any good?’ he asked. ‘The massage Retancourt gave you?’

Danglard felt his irritation mounting once more.

‘Yes, I guessed,’ Adamsberg confirmed. ‘Your neck looks pink and you smell of camphor.’

‘I had a stiff neck. It’s not a crime, far as I know.’

‘On the contrary. It’s perfectly in order to get yourself treated and I admire Retancourt’s talents. But if you don’t mind, and since all that is signed off, I’m going for a walk. I’m tired.’

Danglard made no comment on the contradiction, which was typical of Adamsberg, nor did he try to have the last word. Since Adamsberg obviously wanted to have the last word, let him have it. This kind of verbal sparring wasn’t going to resolve their quarrel.

In the Chapter Room, Adamsberg beckoned Noël over.

‘Where are we with the Favre business?’

‘He’s been questioned by the
divisionnaire
, and suspended until the inquiry has concluded. You’re to be questioned tomorrow at eleven o’clock in Brézillon’s office.’

‘I saw the note.’

‘There wouldn’t be any problem, if you hadn’t smashed the bottle. Given the way he is, he couldn’t know whether you were going to attack him with it or not.’

‘Neither did I, Noël.’

‘What?’

‘Neither did I,’ Adamsberg repeated calmly. ‘At the time, I’m not sure what might have happened. I don’t think I would have attacked him, but I’m not certain. Stupid bastard that he is, he just made me furious.’

‘For Christ’s sake,
commissaire
, don’t say anything like that to Brézillon, or you’ve had it. Favre would be able to plead legitimate self-defence and as for you, who knows where it could go? You’d have lost all credibility, all authority, do you realise?’

‘Yes, Noël,’ Adamsberg replied, surprised by the level of solicitude unexpectedly being shown by his
lieutenant
. ‘At the moment, I’m all on edge. I’m dealing with a ghost and it isn’t easy.’

Noël was used to incomprehensible remarks from his superior officer, so he made no comment.

‘But not a word to Brézillon,’ he added anxiously. ‘No introspection or attacks of conscience. Just say you broke the bottle to intimidate Favre. That you were going to drop it, naturally. That’s what we all thought, and that’s what we’ll say.’

The
lieutenant
looked directly at Adamsberg, waiting for his agreement.

‘Yes, very well, Noël.’

Shaking hands, Adamsberg had the curious feeling that their positions had momentarily been reversed.

XIII

ADAMSBERG WALKED THE COLD STREETS FOR A LONG TIME, HUGGING
his coat round him, and still carrying his overnight bag. He crossed the Seine, then started walking uphill to the north, without any destination in mind, his thoughts jangling in his head. He would have liked to return to that moment of calm, three days earlier, when he had put his hand on the cold tank of the heating system. Ever since then, he seemed to have been at the centre of a series of explosions, like the toad with its cigarette. Several toads in fact, going off at short intervals. A cloud of entrails thrown in the air and raining down images of blood. The sudden appearance of the judge from the depths, the idea of the dead awakening, the three stab wounds in Schiltigheim, the hostility of his closest colleague, his brother’s features, the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral (142 metres), the prince transformed into a dragon, the bottle brandished in Favre’s face. And his outbursts of rage, against Danglard, against Favre, against Trabelmann, and insidiously, against Camille who had left him. No, that was wrong, he was the one who had left Camille. He was getting things the wrong way round, like the prince and the dragon. Getting angry with everyone. So, what you mean, Ferez would have said calmly, is that you’re angry with yourself. Oh, go fuck yourself, Ferez.

He stopped walking when he realised that as he had zigzagged through the chaos of his thoughts, he had reached the point of wondering whether if you stuffed a dragon into the doors of Strasbourg Cathedral, the whole thing would explode, puff, puff, bang. He leaned against a lamp post,
looked around to make sure no posters of Neptune were lying in wait for him, and passed his hand across his eyes. He was worn out and the injured arm was making him feverish. He swallowed two painkillers without water and looking around, saw that he had arrived at Clignancourt.

His way ahead was clear. Turning right, he set off for the tumbledown house of Clémentine Courbet, tucked away in a little sidestreet near the fleamarket. He had not seen the old woman for a year, since the case of the painted door signs. And he had not known if he would ever see her again.

He knocked at the wooden door, suddenly feeling happy, hoping the grandmotherly figure would be at home, bustling about in her kitchen or her attic. And that she would recognise him again.

The door opened to reveal a large woman in a flower-print dress covered with a faded blue overall.

‘Oh,
commissaire
, I’m sorry, I can’t shake hands,’ Clémentine said holding out her forearm. ‘I’m in the middle of cooking.’

Adamsberg shook the old woman’s arm, and she wiped her floury hands on her apron before returning to the stove. He followed her in, feeling reassured. Nothing seemed to surprise Clémentine.

‘Now come on in, put your bag down, and make yourself comfortable.’

Adamsberg sat on a kitchen chair and watched her at work. A sheet of pastry was rolled flat on the wooden table and Clémentine was cutting out rounds with a glass.

‘Cookies for tomorrow, m’dear,’ she explained, ‘because I’m fresh out of them. Help yourself from the tin, there’s a few left. And then can you pour us out two little glasses of port, that won’t do you any harm.’

‘You think I need it, Clémentine?’

‘You’re in trouble. Did you know, I’ve got the boy married now?’

‘To Lizbeth?’ asked Adamsberg, pouring out the port and helping himself to a biscuit.

‘Yes, just a while back. What about you?’

‘Ah well, I’m afraid it’s the opposite for me.’

‘Oh, now surely she wasn’t giving you the run around, a nice man like you?’

‘On the contrary.’

‘Your fault then, was it?’

‘Yes, my fault.’

‘Well, it’s very wrong of you,’ announced the old woman, absorbing a third of her port. ‘A lovely girl like that.’

‘How do you know she’s lovely, Clémentine?’

‘I spent some time in your police station, m’dear. And in there, my word, they do gossip, they talk, you find things out.’

Clémentine put the biscuits in the oven of her old gas cooker, shut the creaking door, and watched them anxiously through the smoke-stained glass window.

‘You know what it is, don’t you, with men who run after girls, they cause trouble when they think they’re in danger of being hooked, don’t they? And then they blame their poor sweetheart.’

‘What do you mean, Clémentine?’

‘Well, now, if they’ve really fallen for someone, it makes it more difficult to run around. So the poor sweetheart, they take it out on her.’

‘And how do they do that?’

‘What do you think, m’dear? They let her know good and proper that they’re cheating on her, right and left. And it’s not going to stop. So then the wee girl, she starts crying, and oh no, he doesn’t like that a bit. Of course not, nobody likes making people cry. So then, he walks out.’

‘And what happens next?’ asked Adamsberg, hanging on her words as if the old woman were recounting him some fantastic epic.

‘Well, then he’s in trouble, isn’t he? Now he’s lost his true love. Because running around’s one thing, and loving someone’s another. Not the same at all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because running around doesn’t make a man happy. But being in love stops him running. So the man, he goes first one way then the other, and never really happy either. And the poor girl pays for it, but then after that, so does he.’

Clémentine opened the oven door, glanced in and shut it again.

‘You’re quite right, Clémentine.’

‘Takes no magician to tell you that,’ remarked Clémentine, wiping the table. ‘I’m going to start the pork now.’

‘But Clémentine, why does he still keep running after other girls?’

The old woman stopped, resting her large fists on the table.

‘Because it’s easier, that’s why. You love someone, you’ve got to give something, haven’t you now, but if all you want’s a good time, you don’t have to. Would you like beans with your pork chop, I’ve topped and tailed them myself?’

‘You’re asking me to supper?’

‘It’s supper time, isn’t it? Man’s got to eat, you’re all skin and bone.’

‘But I can’t take the pork chop you were going to eat yourself.’

‘Ah, but I’ve got two.’

‘You knew I was coming?’

‘I’m not a fortune teller, m’dear. But I’ve got a friend staying just now. Only she won’t be in till late. And I was a bit bothered, tell you the truth, about the chops. I would have eaten the other one tomorrow, but I don’t care to eat pork twice running. Don’t know why, I just don’t. I’ll put a bit more wood on the stove, can you watch my oven?’

The sitting room, which was small and crowded with armchairs covered in faded fabric, was heated only by a fireplace. For the rest of the house there were two woodburning stoves. The temperature in the sitting room, when he went in was not more than 15 degrees. Adamsberg laid the table while Clémentine banked up the fire.

‘We won’t eat in the kitchen,’ Clémentine forestalled him, bringing in the plates. ‘For once when I’ve got fancy company, we’re going to be nice and comfy in the sitting room. Drink your port, it’ll buck you up.’

Adamsberg obeyed unquestioningly and indeed soon found himself perfectly comfortable at the table in the sitting room, his back to a blazing fire. Clémentine filled his plate and poured, without asking, a full glass of wine for him. She tucked a flowery napkin under her chin and gave one to Adamsberg who did the same.

‘I’m going to cut up your meat, m’dear,’ she said. ‘With that arm, you can’t do it. Is that what you’re thinking about?’

‘No, Clémentine. I’m not thinking much at all at the moment.’

‘Ah, not thinking, that can get you into trouble. You must try and put your thinking cap on, my little Adamsberg. You don’t mind if I call you that, my dear?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘Now then, that’s enough of my fussing. What’s been happening to you? Apart from your sweetheart.’

‘I’ve just been going for everybody at the moment.’

‘That’s how you hurt your arm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not that I’m against a good fight now and then, it calms things down sometimes. But if it’s not your usual way, you must put your thinking cap on. Maybe you’re unhappy on account of the girlfriend, or maybe it’s something else, or maybe it’s everything at once. Not going to leave that pork, are you? You just clear that plate, please. You don’t eat and then you’re surprised you’re all skin and bone. I’m going to fetch the rice pudding.’

She put a dessert bowl in front of Adamsberg.

‘If I had hold of you a week or two, I’d soon fatten you up. Is it something else that’s bothering you?’

‘A dead man come to life, Clémentine.’

‘Ha. If that’s all it is, it’s easier than love affairs. So what’s he done?’

‘He killed eight people in the past, and now he’s started again. With a trident.’

‘And when did he die?’

‘Sixteen years ago.’

‘And where did he start again?’

‘Near Strasbourg, last Saturday night. A young girl.’

‘She hadn’t done him any harm, the young girl?’

‘She didn’t know him at all. He’s a monster, Clémentine, a handsome but very frightening monster.’

‘You’ll be right about that. Killing nine people you don’t know? No, that’s no way to carry on.’

‘But nobody will believe me. Nobody at all.’

‘Sometimes people don’t want to listen, and you can’t make ’em. And if you try, you’ll end up with your nerves all frazzled.’

‘Yes, Clémentine, you’re right.’

‘So we won’t bother with all those other people, who won’t believe it,’ said Clémentine, lighting her roll-up cigarette. ‘And you’re going to tell me all about it. Let’s pull our chairs up closer to the fire. We weren’t expecting it to be so cold, were we? It’s from the North Pole, they do say.’

Adamsberg took over an hour to explain all the facts carefully to Clémentine, without knowing quite why he was doing it. They were interrupted only by the arrival of Clémentine’s friend, a woman almost as old as she was, about eighty. Unlike Clémentine, she was thin, fragile and vulnerable-looking, her face a network of fine wrinkles.

‘Josette, this is the
commissaire
I told you about before. Don’t be afraid, he’s not the nasty one.’

Adamsberg noted Josette’s dyed ash-blonde hair, her tailored suit and pearl earrings, the remnants of a long-lost bourgeois existence. By contrast, on her large feet she wore a pair of tennis shoes. Josette made a timid greeting and scuttled away into the so-called office, which was littered with computers belonging to Clémentine’s grandson.