A Climate of Fear

by Fred Vargas

  Victor stopped speaking suddenly, his knife suspended in mid-air. His terror was so obvious that they all froze along with him. Adamsberg and Danglard turned round, following the direction of his gaze. There was nothing to see but a wall and two glass-panelled doors. Between them was a clumsy painting of the Chevreuse valley. Another by Céleste, a copy of the one in Masfauré’s study. Victor remained in the same position, hardly breathing. Adamsberg motioned to his colleagues to start acting naturally again, without comment. He removed the knife from the young man’s hand and gently brought his arm down on to the table, as if manipulating a puppet. Taking hold of his chin, he turned it to face him.

  ‘It’s him,’ Victor whispered.

  ‘The man behind us, that you can see reflected in the glass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Victor shook himself, like one of the horses, drank off his wine and wiped his face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think telling this story would make me panic. I’ve never told anyone before. It can’t be him. It was the reflection that confused me. That man looks younger than he was ten years ago.’

  Adamsberg examined the man who had come into the inn soon after them. He was dining alone and looked absent-minded, the local paper spread out on his table, as he glanced wearily round the room. He seemed tired out by his day and was simply ready to go home to bed.

  ‘Victor,’ said Adamsberg, ‘this man doesn’t have a small beard or white hair, except some greying at his temples. Think. What was it made you imagine it was him?’

  Victor frowned, twisting one of his curls in his fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘Think,’ said Adamsberg quietly.

  ‘His eyes perhaps,’ said Victor hesitantly, as if suggesting a hypothesis. ‘Eyes that look quite ordinary, watch everything and then get fixed when you’re least expecting it.’

  ‘And he fixed them on us?’

  ‘On you, yes.’

  Adamsberg stood up and shambled over with his aimless gait towards the proprietress. After a few moments, she came to sit at their table.

  ‘You’re not the first,’ said the large woman with a laugh, ‘and you won’t be the last, even if you are a commissaire. The big restaurants, they’ve all been out here to try and find out. No,’ she said, waving a tea towel, ‘it belongs to us and that’s where it’s going to stay. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

  Adamsberg poured her a glass of wine.

  ‘Oh, try as hard as you like that way,’ she went on, taking a sip, ‘I’ll only tell anyone when I’m on my last legs, and then I’ll only tell my daughter!’

  ‘A deathbed confession,’ murmured Danglard. ‘Come on, madame, we won’t tell anyone else, gentleman’s honour.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of any gentleman’s honour that was worth a bean, for this or anything else. This woman I know in Brittany was tortured to get her to reveal the secret of her pancakes. In the end, she said she put beer in the mixture. And they let her go. But it wasn’t beer.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Bourlin in a drowsy voice (whereas Danglard, by contrast, became more lively the more he drank – alcohol seemed to do him good).

  ‘The recipe for pommes paillasson,’ said Danglard.

  ‘But we also want to know who that customer is, sitting on his own near the door,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Just three words about him and we’ll let you go.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know him. And I don’t know if I’ve got any right to talk about my customers. And talking to the police is something else again, isn’t that true, Victor?’

  ‘Too right, Mélanie.’

  ‘We can agree about that,’ said Adamsberg, smiling, with his head on one side.

  Danglard was observing the commissaire at work, as he unconsciously transformed his bony face with its irregular features into a trap as charming as it was unexpected.

  ‘You don’t know him, but you don’t want to say anything about him? So you do know a little something about him, all the same?’ said Adamsberg.

  ‘Well, just three words,’ said Mélanie, pretending to pout.

  ‘Five,’ Adamsberg negotiated.

  ‘I just thought he was odd, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he asked me if I knew the shoemaker.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I knew the shoemaker, in Sombrevert village. I didn’t understand. I said yes of course, here everyone knows everyone else, so what? I don’t like this kind of thing. Then he brought out his business cards, and I saw “Inspector of Taxes”. So I said, “Well, what about it? Do you think he’s hiding something, our shoemaker? Shoelaces perhaps?”’

  ‘Well said,’ remarked Victor.

  ‘Ah, but they get on my nerves these people, always poking about in the shit – oh pardon me, commissaire.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Making poor folk sweat blood, when the big money’s being made somewhere else. I thought, what he really wants is just to show me his card. To impress me. And that’s the worst of it, they do, even if you’ve got nothing to hide. In the kitchen, you pay extra attention to how you cook the meat. See what I mean? Sooner he goes away, the happier I shall be.’

  ‘Mélanie,’ said Victor, ‘your little back room, could you open it up for us? It’s just that these gentlemen and me, we need a quiet corner, you understand?’

  ‘I understand, but it hasn’t been heated, I’ll have to put a match to the fire. Is it about poor Monsieur Henri’s death?’

  ‘That’s it, Mélanie.’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘A good man,’ she said. ‘And where’s the ceremony tomorrow, Victor? In Malvoisine or Sombrevert?

  ‘Neither – the Mass is going to be in Le Creux, in the little chapel. Well, you know, he wasn’t a believer, it’s so as not to give offence.’

  ‘Here, in Le Creux? Not sure if that would be proper,’ said Mélanie, her jowls quivering. ‘Well, I suppose we’re all right in Le Creux, so long as they don’t go near the tower.’

  Danglard restrained himself, it wasn’t the moment to have a chat about the superstitions of Le Creux, the hollow place. Mélanie lit the fire in the next room, and the men sat down close to the warmth, on a blue-painted school bench. Except for Adamsberg, who paced up and down behind them.

  ‘I dream about it often, you know,’ said Victor. ‘Funny thing, not about the stabbing, or about her. I dream about the way we managed to light a fire, thanks to the legionnaire, that’s what we called him, the guy with the shaved head. The first day we just stayed as if stunned on the bank, waiting for the fog to lift. But he gave orders: fetch wood for the fire, see if you can find any edible wildlife. He ordered us about like an officer, and we obeyed like soldiers. “Where are we going to find wood?” the civil servant moaned. “There’s nothing growing on the island!” And the legionnaire was on it at once: “Look over there, you dope! Didn’t any of you notice anything? There are remains of a shed, about thirty metres long, must have been for drying fish. Take it apart plank by plank. And some of you pack snow together in blocks. Work in threes, and hold hands if you move away. And hurry, before it gets dark!” He was a real dynamo, the legionnaire. You had to wonder if lying on the warm stone had worked some magic for him.’

  Victor held out his hands to the fireplace.

  ‘My God, I’m telling you, if we hadn’t had a fire, what would have become of us? And that was thanks to this character. He was a brute, but an efficient one. At night, it burnt up well, we’d built our snow-block walls a little distance from the heat and stuffed the entrance with our bags.’

  Bourlin lit a cigarette, thinking of the frozen wastes of Iceland and warming himself by the fire. Here, they were in a private room, and Mélanie had brought them ashtrays and coffee, plus a glass of something stronger for Monsieur Danglard.

  ‘So that was our shelter,’ Victor went on. ‘It was about zero inside, but at least six or seven below
outside, with the wind. We were still very cold, and the legionnaire made us get up every hour, day and night, with a slap if need be, we had to move around and talk, say the alphabet out loud, for instance, so that our limbs or faces didn’t get frostbite. There was nothing to eat, and sitting down, we tended to get sleepy. Shaved-head didn’t want us to lie down in the snow. He was a bastard, that man, but he saved our lives, those first days. Until the monster with the beard got rid of him. You see, he couldn’t stand the legionnaire giving orders. There was a quarrel, we hadn’t eaten for three days, and suddenly the monster exploded with anger, he pulled his knife, just one blow, and that was it, he killed the legionnaire. His blood was all over the snow, it was horrible. All the man said was: “He was a pain in the ass.” That was his epitaph.’

  Victor looked up at Adamsberg.

  ‘I’d like to go quicker through the next bit now. Or else I’ll have a glass of pick-me-up, like the commandant.’

  ‘You can do both,’ decreed Adamsberg, as he leaned on the mantelpiece. ‘Does this sign mean anything to you?’ he asked, opening his notebook.

  ‘No, nothing. Why? What is it?’

  Victor was expressing the same perplexity as Amédée.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Carry on, we’re listening, Victor.’

  ‘So then he dragged the corpse away on to the ice, so that seabirds wouldn’t peck out its eyes or eat it in front of us while it was warm. And then three days later, he said, looking at Madame Masfauré, if he was going to die, he’d like to screw someone first – his words. Henri Masfauré and me, we stood up. And there was another fight.’

  Victor touched his nose.

  ‘He punched me so hard he broke my nose. It used to look normal, now it’s like this. He pushed Henri over backwards, no bother. He seemed to be made of iron, this man. And then, waving his knife, he made us all sit down. Cowards? Yes. But we hadn’t eaten anything for six days, we were freezing cold, we had no strength left in our bodies. He must have got his energy from that damn stone too. But in the night, we heard cries. It was Madame Masfauré screaming, because this monster was assaulting her, he had his hands inside her anorak and trousers, I’ll skip this bit, commissaire, it’s painful. Henri and I got up again, we were like frozen zombies. The others did too, and then Madame Masfauré pushed the guy over backwards and he fell in the fire.’

  At this point, Victor actually smiled, as Amédée had.

  ‘So his trousers were on fire, he had to try and beat out the flames from his backside, you could see through to the skin, by the firelight! And someone, I think it was Jean, the civil servant, he shouted out, “You murderer, your arse is on fire, go burn in hell!” and at the same time Madame Masfauré was yelling, calling him everything under the sun. And the guy pulled the knife out, and he stabbed her, just like that. Madame Masfauré. Right in the heart.’

  Victor took the brandy Mélanie had brought for him.

  ‘So that night we were all terrorised. While the guy went away with the body, Henri was sobbing. And we said we’d kill the guy. But at dawn, he wasn’t back. Every day, he used to go off round the island, he never gave up. He was looking for something to eat, so we all kept quiet. He reappeared one night, soon after that, and ordered us to put stones in the fire, then chucked this meat on to it. Kilos of fish – we were stunned. He said, “If any of you know how to set seal traps, put up your hand. Five days, I’ve been setting traps. And if you want to eat, there it is. But if you eat, you bloody well keep your mouths shut after that. Open your mouth, and you’re dead.” So we ate. This seal was a large male, but there were ten of us, so it wouldn’t last that long. In the morning he went off again to set his traps and walk round the island with his stick. I have to say, there were the rest of us, huddled round the fire, like a lot of losers, chanting the alphabet to keep awake, but he kept going. He kept on hunting, searching. And later, he brought in another seal, a young one this time.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Danglard, ‘Amédée mentioned just one seal. Perhaps Alice Gauthier got it wrong.’

  ‘No, that’s impossible. Amédée has never paid much attention, least of all just now. Two seals, a big male and a young one. That guy saved our lives, you have to admit that. After all, he could have eaten it all himself without telling us. But he shared it. I discussed it later with Henri. Here was a guy brutal enough to kill at the drop of a hat, but humane enough to share his food. After all, if he had killed the lot of us with his knife, which he could have, and eaten his seals himself, he could have survived, waiting for the fog to lift. Well, in the end, that fucking mist did lift, in the space of ten minutes. We held each other’s shoulders, and we set out across the ice. We could see the roofs of the village again. They took us in, fed us, washed us – we smelled of seal blubber and rotten fish from head to foot – but all of us kept our mouths shut. Well, not quite. We all told exactly the same story, how we had lost two of our companions out there, frozen to death, that was the official version, imposed on us. Or else we’d be for it too, or so he said. Ourselves, or our friends, children, parents, anyone close to us. I didn’t have a child, or parents, or friends. But because of his son, Henri begged me to button my lip. So we left the murderer alone, and I promise you he was a dangerous man, and still is.’

  ‘Names?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘The surnames of the other people in the group?’

  ‘No one knows them. Except him.’

  ‘That’s impossible, Victor. Two deaths, there must have been an inquest of some kind, on your return to the village. They must have taken notes of your IDs, as well as witness statements.’

  ‘Well, the police meant to do it, the ones in Akureyri, that’s across on the mainland. But that man forestalled them. He gave us no time to recover, made us get the ferry for this small town called Dalvík. Avoiding Akureyri. I thought Henri was going to die during the six hours the crossing took, then we went on to Reykjavik, and then to Paris. The Akureyri authorities hadn’t dreamt for a moment that we would just run away. Why would anyone run away, after all that? So they took their time. And we slipped through their fingers.’

  ‘But Masfauré must surely have had to declare his wife’s death?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But the killer didn’t mind if the names of the dead were known, the two “frozen to death” tourists. But he didn’t want anyone to know his name or ours. The legionnaire was identified because his sister gave evidence. He was called Eric, Eric Courtelin I think. You can check that in the news reports of the time. Hush!’ he said, suddenly standing up.

  ‘We weren’t saying anything,’ objected Danglard, as Bourlin raised half-shut eyes.

  This time it wasn’t so much fear on Victor’s face as an anxious kind of animation. Adamsberg heard coming from outside a kind of howl and a plaintive, sad cry.

  ‘It’s Marc!’ said Victor, opening the window with a swift movement.

  Adamsberg started to walk over, wondering what kind of person would produce such an inhuman and blood-curdling whine. Without a word of explanation, Victor put his leg over the windowsill and jumped on to the road, as if driven by great urgency.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Adamsberg said to Mélanie. ‘Would you have somewhere, an armchair, a sofa, anything, so that the commissaire can lie down? I’ll be back.’

  I’ll be back. These three words, which Adamsberg repeated a thousand times, as if he were constantly reassuring those around him, since he was himself afraid he might never come back. You take the path into the forest, you look at the trees and then who knows?

  IX

  ADAMSBERG WAS ALREADY in pursuit of Victor, who in turn was chasing after the mysterious Marc, following the whining anxious cries, when he heard Danglard’s characteristic footsteps behind him.

  To see Commandant Danglard run was a surprising experience, the first time one witnessed it. Mélanie watched from the doorway, as his figure moved in the strangest fashion, the unshapely torso bent forward, followed, far behind it seemed, by two long but uncoordinated le
gs that reminded her of melting candles in the church at Sombrevert. Heaven protect him!

  ‘What kind of animal is he after?’ puffed Danglard, as he caught up with Adamsberg.

  ‘It’s not an animal, it’s a person.’

  ‘Making a noise like that? I’d say an animal!’

  Adamsberg had now reached Victor’s side, and grabbed him by the collar.

  ‘Dammit, let me go!’ Victor yelled. ‘It’s Céleste! Marc came to fetch me!’

  ‘Who the hell is Marc?’

  ‘Her wild boar of course, for chrissake!’

  Adamsberg turned to Danglard, who was lagging several metres behind by now.

  ‘You were right. It is an animal. Taking us to Céleste, but don’t ask me how or why.’

  Instead of taking the path towards the house, Victor had headed off westwards into the woods, evidently knowing the trail by heart. Adamsberg was close behind, while Danglard, puffing and panting, doggedly brought up the rear, holding a torch, and trying to protect his shoes. They had gone a good kilometre into the forest, Adamsberg calculated, as he came to a halt with Victor, in front of a ramshackle wooden hut, where a very powerful-looking wild boar was indeed standing facing the door and grunting.

  ‘Watch out,’ said Victor. ‘Marc doesn’t like strangers, especially if they get near Céleste’s place. Take my hand, I’ll guide you, we have to mix our scents together. Pat his head. You’ll see, his muzzle is as silky as a duckling’s back. That’s special about him, his snout is still a baby one.’

  Victor took Adamsberg’s hand and put it on the so-called baby snout of the impressive long-haired beast, one metre sixty in length, Adamsberg guessed, with a massive head, much larger than its girth.

  ‘Friends, Marc, these are friends!’ Victor was saying, as he fondled the animal’s neck, while banging with his other hand at the heavy door made of logs.

  ‘Céleste! It’s me, open up.’

  ‘It’s not locked!’ called a piping voice from inside, sounding annoyed.

  Victor pushed the door and bent double to enter this cramped and miserable hut. The boar rushed inside and over to Céleste, then turned round and stood defending her with its white tusks. As large and white as Victor’s teeth.