by Fred Vargas
As for Bourlin, any other preoccupation went to the back of his mind when he was driven by hunger. They had to make an end of this quickly.
‘Any problem, Adamsberg?’ he asked.
‘No, none.’
‘Dramatic consequences of Alice Gauthier’s confession,’ Bourlin summed up. ‘Amédée yells at his father, and when next morning he goes back to tone down his words, it’s too late. Henri Masfauré, in despair at being abandoned by his son, kills himself.’
‘Keep on straight ahead,’ said Adamsberg, as the others were preparing to turn left. ‘We need Victor’s account of what happened in Iceland, before he has a chance to communicate with Amédée. Céleste says he’s in his lodge, he doesn’t dine up at the house.’
‘What more could Victor add?’ said Bourlin, shrugging his massive shoulders.
‘And what about the sign?’ asked Danglard.
‘It must be a sign known to the Iceland group,’ said Bourlin, getting more grumpy with every minute that passed. ‘We’ll never know.’
‘Yes, we will,’ said Adamsberg treading deliberately on another tuft of dried burdock.
Burdock! That was it! He’d remembered the name of the plant that clung to you: burdock, and the little balls were burrs.
‘Two suicides,’ said Bourlin. ‘We close the files and we go and eat.’
‘You’re hungry,’ said Adamsberg with a smile, ‘and that’s blinding you. What would you say to Amédée coming back next day to the Gauthier woman, and drowning her in her bath because he’s furious with her? He said himself he spent two days in Paris. Remember what he called her? “That bloody woman.” Who hadn’t had the guts to try and save his mother, or the courage to speak up afterwards. No more than his father. And what did he say about his father?’
‘His contemptible father,’ said Danglard.
‘And as soon as he’s back, he confronts the father and kills him. Why not two false suicides, Bourlin?’
‘Because Choiseul knows his job. No powder on Amédée, hands or sweater.’
‘You’re hungry, that’s why you’re not thinking. Amédée puts on gloves and an overall, and comes out of the study clean as a whistle. Or if you don’t like that idea, what about the Icelandic monster, the “abominable” one? He first kills Alice Gauthier, then Henri Masfauré.’
‘But how would this killer know that Gauthier had talked?’
‘He might be capable of guessing who might talk, Bourlin. Which one would crack first. There could be several triggers. For instance, having a terminal illness – the Gauthier woman’s case – and he knew it. So many people confess something on their deathbed. As for Henri Masfauré, remorse, his son rejecting him after he heard Gauthier’s revelations. The killer said he’d keep an eye on them, didn’t he? Perhaps he was particularly vigilant with those who were ill or depressed, or heavy drinkers repenting their sins.’
‘Or believers,’ added Danglard. ‘What if there was a priest in the group? It happens, priests going on trips to the pure expanses of the north.’
‘Well, there’s been no mention of a priest so far,’ said Bourlin, patting his stomach. ‘It’s night-time now,’ he insisted.
Adamsberg had hurried ahead and was knocking at the door of Victor’s lodge. The clock was striking quarter past nine, echoed by another in a nearby village.
‘I understand about police procedure,’ Victor said, ‘but I can’t come to Paris now, the burial is tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Remember? You can sleep in your cars in front of my door if you’re afraid of me speaking to Amédée, lock me in till nine, and we can meet at ten thirty tomorrow. No, wait, I’ve got a better idea,’ he said, looking at Bourlin. ‘If I’m not mistaken, the commissaire is hungry. Since I’m not a suspect – and I take it I’m not, is that right?’
‘No, just a witness,’ said Adamsberg. ‘All we want is for you to tell us what happened in Iceland. Whatever it was, it has now caused four deaths, two there ten years ago and two this week.’
‘You don’t believe they were suicides?’ asked Victor, looking somewhat anxious.
And if the Iceland killer was on the prowl, there was some cause for anxiety, thought Adamsberg.
‘We don’t know,’ he said.
‘All right. If I’m only a witness, in fact simply telling you what I know, is it legally permissible for us to have a meal together?’
‘No objection,’ said Bourlin impatiently.
Victor put on a corduroy jacket and ran his hands through his fair hair.
‘About eight hundred metres from the gates,’ he said, ‘there’s a family-run inn. Parents, son and daughter. I often eat there. But there’s only one menu in the evening, no choice, and only two sorts of wine, a white and a red.’
Victor locked his door and pulled a folded newspaper from his inside pocket.
‘Come close to the gate so I can read under the street light. The menus for the week are in the local paper. Tuesday – it’s Tuesday today, isn’t it? Tuesday. Starter: chicken gizzard salad.’
‘I won’t eat gizzards.’ said Danglard.
‘I’ll eat yours,’ said Bourlin.
‘Main course: Steak au poivre and pommes paillasson. Know what they are?’
‘You bet I do!’ said Bourlin. ‘Straw potato cakes. Let’s stop wasting time, Victor, I’m with you.’
The four men walked quickly through the darkness, three on the asphalt, Adamsberg on the grassy verge.
‘You’re not a townie?’ asked Victor.
‘From the Pyrenees.’
‘And you haven’t got used to Paris?’
‘I can get used to anything. Perhaps I misheard earlier, when some one mentioned your surname.’
‘Misheard? I don’t believe you. Yes, it’s Masfauré, Victor Masfauré, and no, I’m not Henri’s son, or cousin or anything else like that.’
Victor was smiling broadly in the night. A generous smile, showing regular white teeth which briefly transformed his plain features.
‘And it isn’t a coincidence,’ he went on, almost laughing. ‘Because it was precisely because of my name that I met this Masfauré family. It’s such a rare surname that Henri wanted to prove I was related to them. He had a very full family tree. But he had to give up, I’m not from the same branch.’
‘Masfauré,’ Dangard reflected, irresistibly attracted by the slightest intellectual puzzle. ‘“Mas” means a little farm in Provençal. And “fauré”, probably from Faurest, Forest, Forestier: the farm in the forest. Were your ancestors from Provence?’
‘Henri’s were, yes, but I don’t have any.’
Victor spread his hands, obviously used to explaining this.
‘I was abandoned at birth and fostered,’ he said. ‘Here we are at the Auberge du Creux,’ he went on, pointing to the light at the roadside. ‘Will this do?’
‘Let’s just get a move on,’ said Bourlin.
‘The Inn in the Hollow,’ mused Danglard, ‘an odd name.’
‘You do put your finger on things, commandant,’ Victor said, smiling once more. ‘I’ll tell you about it. After Iceland,’ he went on, pushing open the door with its small panes of glass. ‘Once we’ve finished with fucking Iceland.’
There were still customers sitting at three tables, even at this late hour by village standards, and Victor asked the proprietress – after greeting her with a kiss – for the most isolated table, near a window at the back.
‘There are always more people in when it’s straw potato cakes,’ he explained for Bourlin’s benefit.
VIII
THE CHICKEN GIZZARDS passed from Danglard’s plate to Bourlin’s, and the commandant filled the glasses. Adamsberg put his hand over his own glass.
‘We’re going to hear a witness statement, so one of us should keep a clear head.’
‘I always have a clear head,’ Danglard declared, ‘and in any case, we’re recording it, if Victor Masfauré agrees.’
Delighted to have a double helping, Bourlin passed the recorder t
o Adamsberg, with a gesture signifying that he was handing over responsibility as well, just let him get on with his dinner.
‘Victor, how many people were there in this group?’ Adamsberg asked.
‘Twelve.’
‘Was it an organised tour?’
‘No, not at all. People had come individually. We three had chosen our itinerary, stage by stage, from Reykjavik to the north coast. We arrived one evening at the little island of Grimsey, the most northerly in Iceland, and we were having dinner in the inn at Sandvík. It smelled of herring, it was warm inside. Sandvík is the village with a harbour, the only one. Madame Masfauré absolutely wanted to go to Grimsey, because the Arctic Circle runs through the island. She wanted to set foot on it. The restaurant was full. And the three of us, Henri, his wife, and I, had a few glasses of brennivín after dinner – that’s the hooch they have there. We were certainly making a lot of noise, especially Madame Masfauré who was delighted at the idea of treading on the Arctic Circle and her enthusiasm was infectious. Gradually various other French tourists who happened to be there gravitated towards us and sat at our table. You know what people are like. They go off to the ends of the earth to get away from home, but the minute they hear a compatriot’s voice, they’re on to it like a camel heading for an oasis. And of all the women who were dining there that night, Madame Masfauré was by far the most beautiful. She was incredibly attractive – I think it was because of her that people clustered around us, women included.’
‘She was irresistible, according to Amédée.’
‘Yes, that’s the word for it. So there were nine other French people at our table, in the end, very varied, a bit of everything. We didn’t know anything about each other, some people mentioned their professions. There was the ever-present ornithologist, a specialist on little auks, I remember his big red face. Well, that’s how he looked that night. Once we got stuck on that little island across the strait, nobody’s face had any colour. There was someone in business too, he didn’t say what, he seemed to have forgotten it. A woman who worked on environmental issues, and her companion, also a woman.’
Bourlin moved his hand to one side, without dropping his fork, and pulled a photo out of his leather briefcase.
‘On this photo, she’s ten years older – and she’s dead,’ he said. ‘Was this the companion?’
Victor examined the macabre photograph and nodded.
‘Yes, no question. She had very large ears, that wouldn’t change after death. Yes, it’s her all right.’
‘This is Alice Gauthier.’
‘So she’s the one who wrote to Amédée? I didn’t know her name, back then. She seemed like a domineering character, bold, an astonishing woman. And yet she kept her mouth shut, like all the others, she was afraid, like all the others.’
‘So who were the others?’ Adamsberg asked.
‘There was one big man with a shaved head; there was a doctor – his wife had stayed back in Reykjavik. There was a vulcanologist too, and he was essential.’
Bourlin had pressed his index finger on the straw potato cakes to appreciate the texture. Satisfied, he now looked at Victor, who was counting on his fingers, thinking, while his meal got cold.
‘There was a sporty character,’ said Victor, ‘a ski instructor or something. And then there was the mad guy. But that first night, there was no sign of anything alarming about him.’
‘Eat up,’ Bourlin almost commanded. ‘So what was there a sign of?’
‘Nothing. He seemed ordinary, neither antisocial nor particularly friendly. Medium height, ordinary face, about fifty, small goatee beard, round glasses, no particular expression. He had a lot of hair, thick pepper-and-salt hair. He was well off, perhaps in business, or a professor, we never found that out. He had a stick with a metal point, like people have in Iceland, it’s normal, to test the ground. He would bounce it up and down on the ground. And then the vulcanologist, whose name was Sylvain, told us about this local legend. From the way the doctor shook hands with him, showing great respect, Sylvain must have been someone at the top of his profession. But he was very straightforward, not pretentious. And that’s when it all started. Unless it was the brennivín. But anyway, that’s when it all went wrong.’
The daughter of the house now brought them a second bottle of wine. She had a lovely face, plump, but clear-skinned. Adamsberg eyed her. She reminded him of a younger version of Danica, and the night he had spent in her room at Kiseljevo.
Danglard had adopted as his mission, among many others, responsibility for bringing Adamsberg back to earth when he sensed him wandering off to distant places. He laid a finger on his wrist and Adamsberg blinked.
‘Where were you?’ whispered Danglard.
‘In Serbia.’
The commandant glanced at the girl who was now back by the bar.
‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Apparently that was not to everyone’s liking, you may remember.’
Adamsberg agreed with a nod, smiling vaguely.
‘Sorry,’ he said, turning back to Victor. ‘Why did it go wrong?’
‘Because of the story the vulcanologist told us.’
‘Would that be Sylvain Dutrémont, by any chance?’ asked Danglard thoughtfully. ‘Very dark hair, beard, very blue eyes. A burn scar on one cheek.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Victor hesitantly, ‘we didn’t exchange surnames, only first names. But yes, he had a scar on his cheek, where the beard didn’t grow.’
‘Well, if it was Dutrémont, he died a few years ago, during the eruption of Eyjafjallajökull, the one that caused all that ash over Iceland.’
‘Well, that makes five gone, out of twelve,’ said Victor quietly. ‘But that was an accident, I presume?’
‘There was some talk about it,’ Danglard explained. ‘Because his body was found quite a distance from the erupting crater, with bruises. Possibly from a fall, as he tried to escape the lava flow. But the inquest recorded an open verdict.’
Bourlin broke the thoughtful silence that followed.
‘So what did Sylvain say?’
‘That off the coast of Grimsey, among the many uninhabited islets there, just a stone’s throw away, one was very special, both feared and fascinating. It was said that on this islet, there was a rock that was still warm, about the size of a gravestone, covered with ancient inscriptions. And if you lay down on the warm stone, you became invulnerable, you’d live for ever, or some such. Because you would be penetrated by waves coming from the centre of the earth. That kind of stuff. Well, it seems there are quite a few people on Grimsey who’ve lived to be a hundred and that’s how they explain it. Sylvain said he was going to go there the next day, to examine it from a scientific point of view, but on no account should we tell the locals he was going, because they don’t want anyone to set foot on it. They say it is inhabited by a demon, an “afturganga”, a sort of zombie. The doctor laughed, we all laughed. But within an hour, everyone in the group had decided to accompany the vulcanologist, even the doctor. Everyone made out they were sceptical, but in the end you might be tempted by a stone that promises you eternal life. Although everyone pretended it was just to challenge the tradition, or a bet made when we’d all been drinking. It was only three kilometres away, about an hour on foot across the pack ice, we’d get back in time for lunch. Well. As for getting back . . .’
Bourlin ordered another batch of pommes paillasson and everyone watched him indulgently. The Rabelaisian appetite of the commissaire helped to lighten the atmosphere somewhat as they approached the epicentre of the story.
‘So we set off at nine in the morning, from the pier in the harbour. Sylvain had warned us again, not a word to the locals, because as well as the afturganga, they would be horrified if some ignorant tourists defiled their stone by putting their irreverent backsides on it. The sky was blue, it was freezing cold, but a perfect day, not a cloud in sight. Still, in Iceland, they say the weather changes all the time, in five minutes if it’s in the mood. From the harbour, Sylv
ain discreetly pointed out the rock: it was black, and had a distinctive shape, like the head of a fox, with two little cones like ears and a long dark stretch like a muzzle. Well, we got there without any problem, dodging the cracks in the ice. It was a tiny island, we had quickly explored it, and it was the civil servant, Jean his name was, I think? Not sure. Anyway, he soon found the stone.’
‘I thought you were supposed to have a phenomenal memory,’ Danglard observed.
‘Oh, I only remember things I’m asked to remember, then I wipe them to make room, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely not. Anyway, this Jean?’
‘He lay flat out on the stone, laughing, he was quite uninhibited. And as each of us took our little turn on the stone – it was warm, that was true – time was passing. The guy with the shaved head had lain down on it very seriously and without a word, closing his eyes. Then suddenly, Sylvain called out: “Time to go, we’ve got to move!” and he pointed to a mountain of fog moving towards us. It came on so quickly that we had hardly gone twenty metres across the ice before Sylvain decided we should turn back. You couldn’t see six metres ahead, then four then two. He told us to hold hands, and guided us back to the island. He reassured us, saying that it could move away in ten minutes, or an hour. But it didn’t. We ended up staying there for two weeks. Fourteen days in the freezing cold, with nothing to eat. The island was quite deserted, a place of death, just this afturganga living there. Black rocks covered in snow, not a tree, not an insect, not a –’