by Fred Vargas
Adamsberg drank some beer and stood for a while without speaking.
‘I think it was on Monday, but I’m not sure. I might be making that up.’
‘What else is there to do, in a case like this?’
‘No, wait, I think maybe it was before that. I must have been stung in the Hollow.’
‘In what hollow? Doesn’t matter if you were stung in the armpit or the knee, that’s not important.’
‘No, no, Lucio, I mean this place called Le Creux, it’s the name of a tiny piece of territory in the Yvelines.’
‘Oh, that Le Creux!’
‘Why, do you know it?’
‘I worked for four years near there.’
‘And do you know why they call this little stretch of land the Hollow, instead of giving it a proper name?’
‘Something to do with the bombings in wartime, far as I remember. There was a lot of damage, but they’d lost the official ordnance maps. So when they came to put the road signs back up, it was by guesswork. Botched job. And afterwards they realised that there was about a kilometre between the boundary of one village and the next. So nobody knew who that bit belonged to.’
‘Why didn’t they just redraw the maps?’
‘Not so easy, hombre. Because in this bit of land there was a sort of haunted castle, which nobody wanted. Each village would rather have a bit less land than to have to deal with ghosts. Can you credit it? In the middle of a war! As if there weren’t more important things to do than fuss over an old wives’ tale.’
‘Yes, there is a haunted tower. They used to put people in there and leave them to die.’
‘Ah, so they’re the ones that howl at night, are they? Mind you, I can see why.’
‘No, the sounds you hear are hooded crows.’
‘You think so? Yes, I cycled past there one night, and the cries didn’t sound human to me.’
‘The call of a crow doesn’t sound human. It’s not a songbird. You seem to know the place pretty well, Lucio.’
‘Yes, hombre, you should add me to your list of suspects, that’d make fifteen. Now, it comes back to me, I remember the name of one of the villages. Sombrevert. Not a cheerful name.’
‘And the other’s Malvoisine. Did you know the people who lived there?’
‘Oh, I was just passing through, and I’ll tell you why. There was this inn in Le Creux. I just used to eat there sometimes. And there was this girl who worked there, Mélanie her name was, a beauty. Too tall and thin, but I was mad about her. If my wife ever finds out about it, God protect me.’
‘Forgive me, Lucio, but your wife died eighteen years ago, didn’t she?’ said Adamsberg gently.
‘Yes, I told you about that.’
‘Then how is she ever going to find out?’
‘Let’s just say I’d prefer it if she never found out, and leave it at that,’ said Lucio, scratching his bristly chin. ‘Anyway, the idea of a “hollow” between the two villages just survived. Sometimes the Sombrevert council lops the trees and mends the roads, sometimes Malvoisine. And you think it was in Le Creux that you got stung?’
‘Remember this big meeting I told you about? When I was dressed up like in the eighteenth century, in a frock coat? Look, here’s a photo.’ And Adamsberg showed Lucio his phone.
‘You look almost handsome,’ said Lucio. ‘Maybe you’re really good-looking, but nobody realises that.’
‘I was rather taken with my costume myself. So I looked in the mirror. And that very moment, I think, there was something wrong. So it must have been related to what happened earlier, in Le Creux. Not when I was walking in the woods and getting burrs on my trousers. No, after that. Céleste in her old cabin with her boar? Pelletier, who smelled of horses? I don’t know. Or when I drew on the windscreen?’
Drew what? Lucio didn’t care.
‘So how long was it between the burrs and the windscreen?’
‘About eight hours.’
‘That’s not long, you ought to be able to work it out. Try. It was a thought that came to you and you hadn’t finished thinking it. You shouldn’t lose thoughts like that, hombre. Have to be careful where you put things. And your second in command, the commandant, does he feel the itch as well? Or that one with the stripy hair?’
‘No, neither of them.’
‘That means it must be a thought peculiar to you. It’s a pity thoughts don’t have names, isn’t it? You could call them up, and they’d come and lie down at our feet, crawling on their bellies.’
‘I think we have ten thousand thoughts a day, or millions we don’t know about.’
‘Yeah, agreed,’ said Lucio, opening his second beer, ‘it would be chaos.’
Adamsberg went inside to the kitchen, finding there his son, who was eating bread and cheese, as he worked on the jewellery he had started making to sell.
‘Are you going to bed already?’
‘I need to look for thoughts I’ve had and that I’ve forgotten to think.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Zerk, with perfect sincerity.
Lying on his bed, Adamsberg kept his eyes open in the darkness. Lucio’s beer had given him a crick in his neck. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. ‘Try,’ Lucio had said, ‘think back, you can do it.’
And he fell asleep without thinking at all.
Two hours later, he was woken by the creaking of the stairs as Zerk came up to bed. You haven’t thought back. Adamsberg forced himself to sit up. He still had in his head the nagging memory of the perfect twosome, Leblond–Lebrun, and he was sure that while that bothered him somewhat, it wasn’t the itch. Feeling out of sorts, he went down to the kitchen and warmed up the remains of a cooked dish: pasta and tuna, the only thing Zerk had been able to cook when he first arrived.
Adamsberg added some cold tomato sauce, to cheer it up. It was past two in the morning. The Leblond–Lebrun twosome. And what else had he called them? The double act. Their improbable statements, the way their utterances fitted one on top of the other. No, not one on top of the other, they complemented each other. The ones that fitted closely were those of Amédée and Victor. Those two had given accounts of what happened in Iceland separately, but their versions had tallied almost to the point of being identical. Even the detail of the aggressor getting his trousers on fire and beating out the flames, even Adélaïde insulting him, and the other man who said they should heat up the stones. And they had both used the term ‘a monster’. Did that mean Alice Gauthier had told the story to Amédée in exactly the same way as Victor had told it to the police? Using the same words? But if you take ten witnesses of the same event, no two of them will describe it in quite the same way, pick up on just the same details and pronounce exactly the same words. Yet they had.
Adamsberg put his fork down with care, acting cautiously as he did whenever a barely formed idea, the embryo of an idea, a tadpole of an idea, began slowly swimming up to the surface of his consciousness. At moments like this, he knew, you should not make a sound, because the tadpole will take fright and dive down to disappear for ever. But it wasn’t for nothing that the tadpole was poking its shapeless head above the water. If it was just amusing itself, well, he’d throw it back in the pond. As he sat, not moving an inch, Adamsberg waited for the tadpole to come a little nearer and to start turning into a frog. Amédée–Victor, the same story, like the smooth accounts given by Leblond–Lebrun. As if, like the secretary and treasurer of the association, they had agreed between themselves how to present things.
But that was impossible, because when the three police officers had arrived at Le Creux, the two young men would not have been able to predict that they would be questioned, or have had time to concoct their story.
Yes they had! Still watching the ripples on the water, Adamsberg considered the tadpole idea which now seemed to have grown two back legs. Not enough for him to be able to grab it. Yes, of course they had, they’d been able to talk about Alice Gauthier when they were outside. Céleste had been told about Gauthier, and she had pass
ed the message to Amédée. And Victor had overheard them. Neither Adamsberg nor Danglard had been able to find a plausible reason why Amédée had bolted, riding off bareback on Dionysos, who was a dangerous horse. And why Victor had followed immediately on Hecate. And there, in the forest, they had had a short time in which to compose an agreed story. Then they had acted out the scene of the return: Victor having been unable to catch up with Amédée, Pelletier’s whistle to get the frisky stallion back, and a crestfallen Amédée. And, of course, those two understood each other perfectly, they had much closer relations than would be usual between a rich man’s son and his secretary. Of course, the pair of them would know of some clearing in the woods. And their parallel accounts of the events in Iceland were the result of an unusual and deep complicity. And if they had felt the need to do that, it must mean that part of the account was untrue, and the truth needed to be hidden.
The double act Amédée–Victor had worked perfectly. And both of them had lied.
*
At last, Adamsberg could pick up his fork and finish the rest of his now-cooled supper. The idea had emerged from the waves, he could see it clearly now, with two front legs as well, sitting beside him at the table, having climbed out of its aquatic sphere to arrive on dry land. There was a complete veil over the Icelandic events, as there was over Amédée’s childhood. Where had the boy been before the age of five? Some story about an institution? Or of some disability which hadn’t even got a name? And which did not appear to have affected Amédée thereafter at all?
Where the devil had the boy been? A boy without memories? And for that matter, where did the orphaned Victor come from?
He no longer believed the story of the accidental coincidence of surnames. An abandoned child taken in by social services does not come equipped with a surname. Victor had made the choice to call himself Masfauré, which was indeed an unusual name, so as to have an excellent excuse to contact the family. Not only to contact it, but to insert himself inside it, like a cuckoo in the nest of a smaller bird. But with what aim? And to whom did he wish to be close? The great scientist and clean-air hero? The millionaire? Or indeed Amédée?
What was it that Danglard had said about the names of the two young men? Some historical allusion. Yes, the names had been in the family of some duke or other. Adamsberg dismissed this detail, which did not connect with the idea that had made him itch. There’d been two spider bites in fact: the excessively close correspondence between the witness statements provided by Masfauré’s son and by his secretary; and Amédée’s childhood, lost in the mists of time. Masfauré, the bankroller of the Robespierre association.
Zerk found his father next morning, fast asleep on his chair, legs stretched out and resting on the firedog, having left the remains of a dish of cold pasta and tuna on the table. Indicating that he must have come downstairs to search for some idea and, having found it, dropped off to sleep, content with his success.
He started to prepare coffee quietly, put the bowls on the table without clattering them, moved over to the staircase to start cutting the bread, all so as not to disturb his father’s sleep. At the end of the day, he did love him. And he was above all aware that he was not yet capable of leaving this house. Adamsberg, awakened by the smell of coffee, was rubbing his eyes as Zerk came back with the sliced bread.
‘Feeling better?’ Zerk asked.
‘Yes. But it doesn’t have anything to do with the investigation.’
‘Never mind,’ said Zerk. And once more Adamsberg realised that this son was dangerously like himself, and perhaps even worse.
XXVI
SHOWERED, SHAVED, BUT having done no more than run his fingers through his hair, Adamsberg shut himself up in his office as soon as he arrived at work. After twenty minutes, he finally managed to get through to the central services of the Social Assistance Board.
‘This is Commissaire Adamsberg, Serious Crimes Squad in Paris.’
‘Very well, sir,’ a conscientious voice answered. ‘I must call your switchboard back for verification. You will understand, I’m sure, that we have to check all callers.’
‘Good morning again,’ she said, after a few minutes. ‘So what can I do for you, commissaire?’
‘I need information about a certain Victor Masfauré, who was abandoned at birth and fostered thirty-seven years ago. It’s urgent.’
‘Please hang on, commissaire.’
Adamsberg could hear her keyboard clicking away for quite a long time.
‘Sorry,’ the woman said after a wait of six minutes. ‘I don’t have any record of a baby of that name. I’ve got a couple called Masfauré, who came to adopt a child who had been fostered. But that was twenty-two years ago, and the boy’s name isn’t Victor.’
‘But it’s Amédée?’ asked Adamsberg picking up a pen.
‘That’s right. He was five years old when these people offered to adopt him. They completed all the necessary formalities.’
‘He was fostered, you say? For what reason? Neglect by the parents? Abuse?’
‘Not at all, he was abandoned at birth without a father’s name being registered. The mother gave him his first name.’
‘So can you tell me the name of the foster-family, and their address?’
‘A couple called Grenier, Antoine and Bernadette. They were living at a farm called Le Thost, I’ll spell that: T H O S T, route du Vieux-Marché, in Santeuil, postcode 28790, Eure-et-Loir département. ’
Adamsberg consulted his unhelpful watches. Amédée’s childhood was within easy reach, an hour and half’s drive out of Paris to the west. Nothing to do with the Robespierre investigation, but the commissaire was already on his feet, car keys in his pocket. He wasn’t going to go on scratching this itch all his life.
With his jacket already on, he called in Mordent, Danglard and Voisenet.
‘I’m going out,’ he announced, ‘I’ll be back later on today. Danglard and Mordent, can you hold the fort here? Voisenet, where are we with the tail on François Château?’
‘The report’s on your desk.’
‘Haven’t had time to read it yet, lieutenant, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, there’s nothing new, no one seems to be following him. He goes home every night at the same time, seems to lead a very orderly life. But he takes precautions. He leaves the hotel, or his office, in a pre-ordered taxi.’
‘And you’ve checked out all the other residents in his building?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If anyone else enters the building, ask for ID. And as usual keep an eye open for anyone acting suspiciously, or looking too casual. Watch out for disguises, spectacles, caps, wigs and beards. If you suspect anyone, follow them into the lift.’
‘Right.’
‘Where are you off to, commissaire?’ asked Danglard, in tight-lipped mode.
‘I’m going to explore Amédée’s childhood. He wasn’t in any “institution”. He was an abandoned baby, fostered out in Eure-et-Loir. The Masfaurés only adopted him when he was five years old.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Mordent, rather disapprovingly, ‘but are you going back to that business? You’re abandoning Robespierre?’
‘I’m not abandoning anything. We can’t do anything about the “guillotined”, well, their descendants, until next Monday, when the assembly meets again, and Lebrun will point them out to us. We’ve got all we can for the moment out of those three, the Château–Leblond–Lebrun trio. And Froissy is still working on the descendants of the eighteenth-century innkeeper Château. She’s looking at the Montargis records at the moment. So yes, I’m going out for a few hours.’
‘For a family secret that’s nothing to do with us?’
‘That’s right, Mordent. But we let too many things escape us out at Le Creux.’
‘So what, though? These people aren’t in the frame any more.’
Adamsberg looked at his three colleagues without replying, and gently pushed past Mordent to the door.
‘I’m off no
w,’ he said, followed by the disapproving expressions of all three men.
He was still caught in traffic on the Paris ring road when he took a call from an unknown number, in a hurried and panicky voice.
‘Commissaire Adamsberg, this is Lebrun. I’m calling from a phone booth.’
‘OK, I can hear you.’
‘When I was coming out this morning, I saw Danton walking up and down my street on the opposite pavement.’
‘You mean the descendant of Danton?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lebrun, in exasperation, but above all sounding frightened. ‘I went back inside and looked out of my window. Two hours, commissaire, he stayed there for two hours solid. He went off in the end, presumably thinking he’d missed me and that I’d gone out earlier.’
‘Did you follow him?’
‘What would be the point? I know where he lives. Do you realise what this means?’ the man continued, his voice rising in panic. ‘He knows my name and where I live, he knows what my real face looks like. How did he find that out? No idea. But he’s keeping tabs on me now and he could have a knife or God knows what in his pocket.’
‘What do you expect me to do, since you refuse to tell me anything at all, either about him, or about yourself?’
‘I want protection, commissaire. Four deaths already, and I think I’m in the firing line now.’
‘Well, I can’t help you without the information, sorry,’ said Adamsberg, exiting the ring road and heading back for Paris.
‘All right, I agree,’ said Lebrun. ‘Where, when?’
‘About half an hour, in my office.’
‘Can’t it be earlier?’
‘I’m out on call, Lebrun, I’m driving on the ring road. Don’t stay in the phone booth, go to our offices at once. In a taxi. And without the false beard please.’
Adamsberg sped up, and was back in his own office twenty-five minutes later. He almost failed to recognise the man who turned round to greet him: short white hair, glasses, a darker complexion than when he was being ‘Lebrun’, and a more shapely nose. He looked more respectable too, in an immaculate grey suit.