Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (24 page)

‘17.2 centimetres long, 0.8 centimetres wide,’ he muttered, writing the figures in his notebook.

He checked the pattern of wounds one more time: they were in a perfect straight line, not a millimetre out.

‘17.2 centimetres,’ he repeated to himself, underlining it. Three millimetres longer than the maximum he was used to. Even so.

‘How deep were the wounds, Laliberté?’

‘About six inches.’

‘What’s that in centimetres?’

The superintendent frowned as he tried to convert the figure.

‘About 15.2,’ the doctor said.

‘The same for all three wounds?’

‘Yes, identical.’

‘Any earth in the wounds? Dirt?’ Adamsberg asked the doctor. ‘Or was it a clean, new weapon?’

‘No, there were elements of humus, leaves and tiny stones deep inside the wounds.’

‘Ah, really?’

He gave the ruler and tape measure back to Laliberté and surprised an expression of discomfiture on the superintendent’s face. As if he had been expecting something completely different from this minute examination.

‘What is it, Aurèle? Wasn’t that what you wanted me here for? To see this?’

‘Er, yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Laliberté with some hesitation. ‘But what’s with all this measuring stuff?’

‘Do you have the murder weapon?’

‘No, it’s vanished, much as you might expect. But the technicians tell me it was probably a big screwdriver.’

‘Your technicians are better at molecules than at weaponry. No screwdriver did that. It was a trident.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You try to plunge a screwdriver into somebody three times, and get both a straight line and identical depth of all three wounds. You could try for twenty years. That was done with a trident, or at least a three-pronged fork of some kind.’

‘Christ, is that what you were checking?’

‘Yes, that and something else, much deeper. As deep as the mud in Pink Lake.’

The superintendent still seemed thrown off balance, his arms hanging down against his large frame. He had had them driven here at almost provocative speed, but the measurements had disconcerted him. Adamsberg wondered what Laliberté had really been hoping for.

‘Is there a bruise on the head?’ he asked the doctor.

‘Yes, a serious blow, back of the cranium, must have knocked the victim unconscious but not enough to kill her.’

‘How did you know about the bang on the head?’ asked Laliberté.

Adamsberg folded his arms as he turned towards the superintendent.

‘You called me over because you knew I had a file on all this, right?’

‘Er, yeah,’ the superintendent replied, still hesitating.

‘Yes or no, Aurèle? You’ve brought me across the Atlantic to haul me off at two in the morning, French time, to look at a murder victim, but what do you want from me? Do you want me to tell you you’ve got a dead woman here? If you took all this trouble to get me here, you must surely have known that I’ve got something on this. That’s what they said in Paris. And yes, I do, but you don’t seem satisfied. It’s not what you were after?’

‘Don’t take it personal. I’m surprised, that’s all.’

‘You haven’t heard it all yet, there’s more that would surprise you.’

‘Pull the sheet right up,’ Laliberté ordered the doctor. Reynald carefully rolled up the sheet, just as Menard had in Strasbourg. Adamsberg stiffened as he caught sight of four small moles in a diamond shape at the base of the throat. He had just time to prevent himself from jumping, and blessed the meticulous slowness of the pathologist.

It was indeed Noëlla, lying in the mortuary drawer. Adamsberg tried to control his breathing and examined the dead woman without flinching, he hoped. Laliberté had not taken his eyes off him.

‘Can I see the bruise?’ he asked.

The doctor lifted the head to expose the back of the skull.

‘A blow from a blunt instrument,’ Reynald explained. ‘That’s all we can say. Probably made of wood.’

‘The handle of the trident,’ Adamsberg stated. ‘He always does that.’

‘Who’s this “he”?’ asked Laliberté.

‘The murderer.’

‘You know who it is?’

‘Yes, I think so. But what I don’t know is who told you about him.’

‘And this woman, do you know her?’

‘Come on, Aurèle, think I know the names of the sixty million French people in the world?’

‘If you know the murderer, you might know the victim.’

‘I’m not a clairvoyant, as you would say yourself.’

‘Never seen her?’

‘Where, in France? Paris?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘No, never,’ said Adamsberg with a shrug.

‘She was called Noëlla Corderon. Ring any bells?’

Adamsberg turned away from the body and moved closer to the superintendent.

‘Why do you keep insisting that I ought to know something about her?’

‘She’d been living in Hull for six months. You could have met her.’

‘So could you. What was she doing here? Married? Student?’

‘She’d followed a boyfriend over, but he chucked her out. She worked in a bar in Ottawa, called the
Caribou
. Mean anything to you?’

‘Never set foot in it. Aurèle, you’re keeping something back. I don’t know what this famous anonymous letter said, but you’re being evasive.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘No. I’ll tell you all I know about this case tomorrow. Or at least anything that might be of help to you. But I’d like to get to bed now, I’m asleep on my feet and so’s my
lieutenant.’

Retancourt, sitting massively at the back of the room, was in fact in perfect shape.

‘We’ve got to have a word or two first,’ said Laliberté, with a slight smile. ‘Let’s go to my office.’

‘For crying out loud, Aurèle. It’s past three in the morning for us.’

‘It’s only nine o’clock local time. I won’t keep you long. We can let your
lieutenant
go if you like.’

‘No,’ said Adamsberg suddenly. ‘She stays with me.’

Laliberté had placed himself in his official chair, which was vaguely imposing, and was flanked by his two inspectors, both standing alongside. Adamsberg was familiar with this triangular scenario, intended to impress suspects. He had not had time to take in the atrocious
knowledge that Noëlla had been murdered with a trident in Quebec. He was concentrating on Laliberté’s ambiguous behaviour, which might indicate that he suspected Adamsberg’s links with the girl. But nothing seemed certain. The game was a difficult one to play, and he would have to weigh every word from the superintendent. The fact that he had slept with Noëlla had nothing to do with her murder, so he must absolutely forget it for now. And prepare himself to meet every possibility, drawing on the power of his passive forces, the safest defences of his private citadel.

‘Ask your men to sit down, Aurèle. I know the system, and it’s disagreeable. Anyone would think you’ve forgotten I’m a policeman myself.’

Laliberté waved Portelance and Philippe-Auguste to the side. They both took out notebooks, preparing to make notes.

‘Is this an interrogation?’ Adamsberg asked, pointing to them. ‘Or am I just helping you with your enquiries?’

‘Don’t bite my head off, Adamsberg. They’re just taking notes for the record that’s all.’

‘Don’t bite mine off either, Aurèle. I’ve been up twenty-two hours and you know it. That letter,’ he added. ‘Let’s see the letter.’

‘I’ll read it to you,’ said Laliberté, opening a thick green file. ‘Corderon murder. See
Commissaire
J.-B. Adamsberg, Paris Crime Squad. Has taken a personal interest in it.’

‘Tendentious,’ Adamsberg commented. ‘Is that why you’re acting like a cop? You told them in Paris that it was a case I’d been working on. Here, you seem to think I took an interest in this woman.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth.’

‘Well don’t take me for an idiot either. Let me see the letter.’

‘You want to check what it says?’

‘Precisely.’

There was not a word more on the sheet of paper, which seemed to have come from an ordinary printer.

‘You took fingerprints, of course.’

‘It was clean.’

‘When did you get it?’

‘When the body surfaced.’

‘Surfaced from where?’

‘From the water. It was frozen into the ice. Remember the cold spell last week? The body must have stayed put till it thawed. She was found Wednesday. We got the letter next day at midday.’

‘So she must have been killed before the freeze, if the murderer could throw her in the water.’

‘No, the murderer had broken the ice, pushed her under, and weighted her down with stones. The ice froze over again in the night like a lid.’

‘How can you tell that?’

‘The victim had bought herself a new belt that day. She was wearing it. We know where she ate her supper and what she ate. See, with the cold, the stomach contents stayed quite fresh. Now we know the date and time of the murder. No need to ask me more questions on that kind of stuff, we’re specialists here.’

‘Isn’t that a bit suspicious, an anonymous letter turning up next day? The moment the murder was announced in the press?’

‘No, why should it be? We get lots of anonymous letters. People don’t like contacting the cops directly.’

‘I can understand them.’

Laliberté’s expression changed slightly. He was a skilled player but Adamsberg was able to read changes in a look more quickly than the RCMP laser detector. Laliberté was moving on to the attack and Adamsberg increased his air of nonchalance, folding his arms and leaning back in the chair.

‘Noëlla Corderon died on the evening of 26 October,’ the superintendent said simply. ‘Some time between 22.30 and 23.30.’

Perfect, if that was the right choice of word. The last time he had seen Noëlla alive was when he had jumped out of the sash window on Friday 24 October. He had been afraid that Laliberté was going to bring that sash down on his neck by saying she had been killed on the 24th.

‘Can you be any more precise about the time?’

‘No, she had supper about seven-thirty, and digestion was quite advanced.’

‘Which lake did you find her in? Was it far from here?’

Pink Lake, it has to be, Adamsberg thought. Where else?

‘Look, we’ll leave this till tomorrow,’ announced Laliberté suddenly, standing up. ‘Otherwise you’re going to go round saying the Québécois cops are bastards. I just wanted to tell you about it, that’s all. We’ve reserved you two rooms in the Hotel Brébeuf in Gatineau Park, OK?’

‘Brébeuf’s the name of someone?’

‘Yeah, a Frenchie, stubborn as a mule, who got eaten by the Iroquois because he preached them a pack of lies. We’ll pick you up about 2 p.m. so you can get over the jet-lag.’

Looking amiable once more, the superintendent held out his hand.

‘Then you can tell me all about this trident.’

‘If you’ll listen, Aurèle.’

In spite of all his resolutions, Adamsberg could not think calmly about the ghastly connection which had brought him face to face with the Trident half way across the world. The dead can travel fast, like lightning. He had felt the danger in the little church in Montreal, when Vivaldi had whispered to him that Fulgence knew he was on his trail and he’d better watch out. Vivaldi, the judge, the quintet, that was all he had time to think about before he fell asleep.

Retancourt knocked at his door towards midday, local time. His hair was still wet, he had just finished dressing and the prospect of starting the day by a conversation with his steely
lieutenant
did not cheer him up. He would have preferred to lie down and think, that is, wander through the million particles of his mind, which were now completely mixed up in the damned process wells. But Retancourt sat down calmly on the bed, placing on the low table a thermos of real coffee – how had she managed that? – two cups and some fresh rolls.

‘I went downstairs to get these,’ she explained. ‘Then if those two guys turn up early, we can talk in private here. Mitch Portelance’s face would ruin my appetite.’

XXXII

RETANCOURT SWALLOWED HER FIRST CUP OF COFFEE AND A ROLL
, without saying a word. Adamsberg made no attempt to engage her in conversation, but his silence did not seem to bother her.

‘I’d like to understand something,’ said Retancourt, after finishing her first roll. ‘This murderer with the trident, we’ve never heard anything about him back in Paris. It’s a long-standing business, I suppose. And going by your expression when you saw the body, there’s some personal connection, am I right?’

‘Retancourt, you’ve been sent out here because Brézillon won’t let any of his staff go abroad alone. But you haven’t been asked to explore my private affairs. I don’t have to take you into my confidence.’

‘Forgive me,’ objected the
lieutenant
, ‘but I’m here to protect you, that’s what you told me. And if I don’t know anything, I’m not going to be able to provide any defence.’

‘But I don’t need any. Today, I’ll give Laliberté the information I have, and that’s it.’

‘What information?’

‘You’ll hear it the same time he does. He may accept it or not, that’s up to him. And tomorrow we’re out of here.’

‘Oh really? You think so?’

‘Why not, Retancourt?’

‘Commissaire
, you’re a sensitive man. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed anything.’

Adamsberg looked at her questioningly.

‘Laliberté isn’t the same man any more,’ she continued. ‘Nor are Portelance and Philippe-Auguste. The superintendent was taken aback when you took those measurements. He was expecting something else.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

‘He was expecting you to crack. When you saw the wounds, and again when you saw the face of the victim, which he took good care to uncover in two stages. But it didn’t happen, and that shook him. It shook him, but it didn’t deflect him. The inspectors are in on it too. I watched them the whole time.’

‘You didn’t seem to be taking any notice, just sitting in a corner, looking bored.’

‘That was an act.’ said Retancourt, pouring out two more cups of coffee. ‘Men pay no attention to a fat, plain woman.’

‘That’s not at all what I meant,
lieutenant.’