Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (27 page)

Adamsberg could no longer move. He was stupefied, powerless under the waves that were crashing one after another over his head.

‘I’ve never seen any belt. I couldn’t have touched it. I hadn’t seen her since the Friday night.’

‘I know,’ murmured Retancourt. ‘But the only suspect you can come up with is an old man who’s dead. Your only alibi is loss of memory. They’ll say you were obsessed with the judge, that your brother had already killed someone, that you were out of control. Placed in the same circumstances as your brother, drunk, in the woods, faced with a girl who said she was pregnant, you did the same as Raphaël.’

‘The trap’s closed on me,’ said Adamsberg, shutting his eyes.

‘I’m sorry to give you all this straight, but you needed to know. They’re going to charge you on Tuesday. The warrant’s all ready.’

Retancourt threw her apple core out of the window and drove off again. She didn’t suggest that Adamsberg take the wheel and he did not offer.

‘Retancourt, I did not do this.’

‘It won’t be any good telling Laliberté that. He won’t give a damn, deny it all you like.’

‘Retancourt, Noëlla was killed with a trident. Where on earth would I have got hold of one? Did it appear on the path, by magic?’

Suddenly, he stopped and slumped back in the seat.

‘What were you going to say,
commissaire?’

‘Oh, my God, the logging site.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Half way along. There’s a site with a pick-up, and plenty of tools for guys who come and take out dead trees and plant new ones. I’d seen it, I’d been past it. I could have gone past, seen Noëlla, seen the weapon and used it. Yes, they could say that. Because there was earth in the wounds. Because it wasn’t the same trident as the judge’s.’

‘Yes, they could say that,’ Retancourt agreed, her voice serious. ‘What you told them about the judge doesn’t help you. On the contrary. They think it’s a crazy story, improbable and obsessive. They’ll use that to charge you. They have the surface motive, you’ve provided them with the deeper motive.’

‘An obsessive man, who’s had too much to drink, who’s lost his memory, and who’s being driven nuts by that girl. Me, reliving my brother’s life. Reliving the judge’s career. Crazy, off balance. I’m finished, Retancourt. Fulgence has got me. He’s got inside my skin.’

For a quarter of an hour, Retancourt drove in silence. Adamsberg’s state of collapse needed, she thought, the respite of silence. Probably days of it, driving all the way to Greenland, but she didn’t have time for that.

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked after a while.

‘My mother.’

‘I understand. But it’s not the moment.’

‘You think about your mother when you’ve come to the end of the road. And I’ve come to the end of the road.’

‘No, you haven’t. You can still make a break for it.’

‘If I make a break for it, I’ve really had it. Proof of guilt.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly had it if you turn up at the Mounties’ headquarters on Tuesday morning. You’ll sit rotting here until the trial, and there won’t be any way of getting out to try and investigate what happened. You’ll be stuck in a Canadian prison, then eventually they’ll transfer you to Paris. Twenty years minimum. No, in my view, the only thing for it is to cut and run.’

‘Do you realise what you’re saying? Do you realise that you’d be making yourself an accomplice in my escape?’

‘Yes, perfectly.’

Adamsberg turned to his
lieutenant
. ‘But what if I
did
kill her, Retancourt?’ he forced himself to say.

‘You’ve got to run,’ she said, evading the question.

‘Retancourt, what if I did kill her?’ repeated Adamsberg insisting.

‘Well, if you have any doubts on that score, we’ve both had it.’

He leaned over to examine her face.

‘And
you
haven’t any doubts?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Why not? You don’t like me, and there’s a mountain of evidence stacked up against me. But you don’t think I did it?’

‘No. You’re not the sort of man who would kill anyone.’

‘How do you know?’

Retancourt pursed her lips slightly, seeming to hesitate.

‘Well, let’s just say that it wouldn’t interest you enough.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘As sure as I can be. Your best course is to trust me, or yes, you’ve had it. You’re not defending yourself, you’re getting yourself deeper in it.’

Into the mud of the dead lake, thought Adamsberg.

‘I just can’t remember anything about that night,’ he repeated, mechanically. ‘I had my face and hands covered in blood.’

‘Yes, I know. The janitor told them that.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t my own blood?’

‘You see? You’re getting yourself in deeper and deeper. You’re accepting it. The idea’s wriggling into your mind like a worm, and you’re allowing it to.’

‘Maybe the idea’s always been in my mind, since the Trident came back to life. Maybe something went off in my head when I saw the fork.’

‘You’re going down into his grave,’ Retancourt insisted. ‘You’re putting your head on the block.’

‘I realise that.’

‘Commissaire
, think quickly. Who are you going to choose to trust? You or me?’

‘You,’ Adamsberg replied instinctively.

‘OK. Run for it.’

‘Can’t be done. They’re not stupid.’

‘Neither are we.’

‘But they’re already right behind us.’

‘Well, we certainly can’t run in Detroit. The arrest warrant has been issued to cover Michigan. We’re going to return to the Hotel Brébeuf on Tuesday morning as arranged.’

‘And sneak out via the basement? But when they see I haven’t turned up at the right time, they’ll look everywhere. In my room, everywhere in the building. They’ll see the car’s gone, put a watch on the airports. I’d never have time to get a flight, or even leave the hotel. They’ll eat me alive, like they did Brébeuf.’

‘But they’re not going to be chasing us,
commissaire
. We’re going to lead them where we want them.’

‘Where?’

‘Into
my
room.’

‘But your room’s as small as mine. Where are you going to hide me? On the roof? They’ll go up there.’

‘Of course.’

‘Under the bed, in the wardrobe?’

Adamsberg hunched his shoulders in a gesture of despair.

‘No, on me.’

The
commissaire
turned to the
lieutenant
.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it’ll only take two or three minutes. There’s no other way.’

‘Retancourt, I’m not a hairpin. What are you going to turn me into?’

‘Nothing, I’m going to turn myself into something. A pylon.’

XXXV

RETANCOURT HAD STOPPED FOR TWO HOURS TO SLEEP AND THEY
entered Detroit at seven in the morning. The city was as mournful as an old duchess, in the ruins of her estate, still wearing the ragged remains of her robes. Dirt and poverty had replaced the former wealth of old Detroit.

‘Here’s the block,’ said Adamsberg, consulting his street plan.

He looked up at the building, which was soot-blackened but otherwise in good condition, with a cafe on the ground floor, as if he were examining a historic monument. And in a sense he was, since behind these walls Raphaël lived, moved and slept.

‘The Mounties are parking twenty metres behind us,’ Retancourt remarked. ‘Very clever. What can they be thinking of? Do they really imagine we haven’t noticed they’ve been behind us all the way from Gatineau?’

Adamsberg was leaning forward, his arms folded tightly against his stomach.

‘You go in on your own,
commissaire,’
she said. ‘I’ll go and sit in the cafe.’

‘I can’t,’ said Adamsberg in a whisper. ‘And what’s the use anyway? I’m on the run like he is.’

‘Exactly, so you’re quits. He won’t be alone any more, nor will you. Go on, it’s the best thing to do,
commissaire.’

‘You don’t understand, Retancourt. I just can’t. My legs won’t move. They feel as if they’ve turned to iron bars.’

‘Shall I have a go?’ asked the
lieutenant
, turning sideways and putting her hands on his shoulder blades.

He nodded. After about ten minutes of the massage, he felt as if a kind of warm oil was flowing down through his thighs, making it possible to move again.

‘Is that what you did to Danglard in the plane?’

‘No, Danglard was just afraid of dying.’

‘So what am I afraid of?’

‘Exactly the opposite.’

Adamsberg nodded and got out of the car. Retancourt was about to leave him and go into the cafe when he put a hand on her arm.

‘He’s in there,’ he said. ‘With his back to us, at that table, I’m sure it’s him.’

The
lieutenant
looked at the silhouette of the man Adamsberg pointed to. That back could indeed only belong to his brother. Adamsberg’s grip tightened on her arm.

‘Go in on your own,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the car. But I’d like to see him.’

‘Raphaël?’

‘Yes, Raphaël.’

Adamsberg pushed the glass door, his legs still feeling stiff. He went over to Raphaël and put his hands on his shoulders. The man with his back turned didn’t jump. He looked at the brown hands one after the other.

‘So you found me?’ he said

‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad.’

From the other side of the narrow street, Retancourt watched as Raphaël got up, and the two brothers embraced, looking at each other with their arms intertwined, holding each other tightly. She took a small pair of binoculars from her bag and focussed on Raphaël Adamsberg, whose forehead was now touching his brother’s. Same
body, same face. But whereas Adamsberg’s elusive beauty was a miraculous combination emerging from his chaotic features, his brother’s was altogether more regular and obvious. They were like twins who had grown from the same root, one into a shapely plant, the other into an engaging disorder. Retancourt refocussed on Adamsberg whose three-quarters profile was towards her. But she quickly dropped the binoculars, mortified at having trespassed too far on to another’s emotion. Once they had sat down, the two Adamsbergs still did not let go of each other’s arms, but clasped them, forming a closed circle. Retancourt sat down in the car again with a slight shiver. She put the binoculars away and closed her eyes.

By ten o’clock, Raphaël had found them something to eat and settled them on a sofa in his flat, with some coffee, Adamsberg having fetched his
lieutenant
in from the car by rapping on the window. The two brothers did not move more than a few inches away from each other, Retancourt noted.

‘Will Jean-Baptiste be found guilty? Are you sure?’ Raphaël asked her.

‘Sure as I can be,’ Retancourt stated. ‘The only way out is to make a run for it.’

‘With about a dozen cops watching the hotel,’ added Adamsberg.

‘It’s do-able,’ Retancourt said.

‘So what’s your plan, Violette?’ asked Raphaël.

Raphaël had argued that since he was neither a
flic
nor a soldier he was not going to call the
lieutenant
by her surname.

‘We go back to Gatineau tonight,’ she explained. ‘We get to the Hotel Brébeuf in the morning at about seven, and walk in quite openly, for them to see us. You, Raphaël, will follow us three and a half hours later. Can you do that?’

Raphaël nodded.

‘You get to the hotel at about ten-thirty. What do the cops see? Just another guest arriving at the hotel. They’re not bothered about you, they’re looking for someone leaving, and there’s plenty of toing and
froing at about that time. The two who followed us last night won’t be on duty again in the morning, so none of the police on duty will recognise you. You check in under your own name and go to your room.’

‘OK.’

‘Have you got a suit? A smart business suit with shirt and tie?’

‘Three, two grey, one blue.’

‘Perfect. Wear one and bring the other, both the grey ones. And bring two coats and two ties.’

‘Retancourt, don’t get my brother in the shit over this,’ pleaded Adamsberg.

‘No, it’s just the Gatineau cops who will be. You,
commissaire
, as soon as we arrive, clear your room with signs of haste, as if you were going to make a break for it. We’ll get rid of your stuff. You haven’t got much, so that’s handy.’

‘What do we do, cut it up and eat it?’

‘No, just dump it in the waste bin on the landing.’

‘Everything, clothes, books, razor?’

‘Yes, everything, including your service revolver. We chuck your clothes, and we save your skin. Keep your wallet and keys.’

‘The holdall won’t go in the bin.’

‘We’ll leave it in my wardrobe, empty, as if it was mine. Women have lots of luggage as a rule.’

‘Can I keep my watches?’

‘Yes.’

The brothers were both looking intently at Retancourt, one with a mild and gentle expression, the other mobile and alert. Raphaël Adamsberg had the same peaceful suppleness as his brother, but his movements were more lively, his reactions sharper.

‘The cops will be expecting us at the RCMP headquarters at nine,’ Retancourt went on, looking from one to the other. ‘When we still haven’t turned up after about twenty minutes, no longer, I guess, Laliberté will try to phone the
commissaire
at the hotel. No reply. Alarm raised. The cops downstairs will rush up to your room. Empty, the bird has flown.
That’s the impression we have to give. That their suspect has disappeared, he’s already slipped between their fingers. At about nine twenty-five, they’ll come to my room, in case I’m hiding you.’

‘Where could you have hidden me?’ Adamsberg asked anxiously.

Retancourt raised her hand.

‘The Québécois are more prudish than the French,’ she said, ‘they don’t have naked women all over their magazine covers or hanging about on the lake shores. We’re going to bank on this shyness. On the other hand,’ she said, turning towards Adamsberg, ‘you and I are going to have to abandon any embarrassment, because this is not the moment for it. And if it bothers you, just remember that it really is a matter of life and death.’