A Climate of Fear

by Fred Vargas

  Mordent and Voisenet, who had indicated disapproval of their boss the day before, kept their heads down, in embarrassment.

  ‘Bullseye,’ Mordent admitted, stretching his long neck.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Justin, ‘it throws a different light on those murders in Iceland.’

  ‘Murders whose statute of limitations ran out four months ago under French law,’ Veyrenc pointed out. ‘If Victor Grenier-Masfauré did knock off the legionnaire and his own mother, it can’t come to trial.’

  ‘So we’re still wasting our time with the Icelandic business after all,’ Voisenet concluded.

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got more information now,’ said Danglard.

  ‘Pity we don’t know how many ducks got their heads chopped off,’ said Mordent. ‘Seven, ten? It would make a good folk tale: “The Seven Ducks of Le Thost”.’

  Mordent did in fact depart from conventional procedures himself, from time to time, but only in relation to myths and legends, and not for long. His gaze never became vague like Adamsberg’s. He always maintained the fixed and accurate expression of a bird watching for prey. So his moments of fantasy were just temporary lapses, whereas the commissaire’s often entailed long marches without a compass through a mist.

  ‘One,’ said Retancourt, sticking up her thumb, ‘Victor is perfectly capable of committing murder. Two,’ and her index finger went up, ‘he is a man who acts on his desires. Three, Victor accompanied Masfauré to the Robespierre assembly. Four, we can’t rule him out from the murders of these revolutionary play-actors.’

  ‘No, no,’ Danglard objected, ‘Victor’s murders – if they happened at all – would only have been prompted by the shipwreck of his childhood. You don’t just go killing people left and right, for want of anything better to do.’

  ‘The Icelandic murders are a closed file,’ said Voisenet, ‘but the Robespierre series is still going on, and our investigation is still stuck. We’ve hit the buffers, and we can’t see which way to move now.’

  ‘On Monday night,’ Mordent reminded them, ‘we’ll be able to follow and identify the two other “descendants”. The ones from the families of the executioner and that other man that was guillotined.’

  ‘Sanson and Desmoulins,’ said Veyrenc.

  ‘Yeah, but for now,’ said Voisenet, ‘we’re going round in circles, guarding Château and his henchmen, and we’re no nearer identifying the other members of the “occasionals” group.’

  Voisenet was someone who liked action: waiting, standing by and getting nowhere got on his nerves. He was hasty by nature, something apparently incompatible with his interest in freshwater fish. Adamsberg guessed in fact that his fixation on fish provided Voisenet with a vital counterweight. Which was why he always let his lieutenant read his specialist periodicals in the office.

  Mercadet, who had interrupted his sleep cycle too early, so as not to miss the meeting, asked Estalère for another coffee.

  ‘They’ll all get knocked off, while we spend our time riding round in police cars and hanging about in doorways,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s still alive?’ Estalère asked.

  Veyrenc chose to take on the peacekeeping role that was normally Adamsberg’s.

  ‘From the “occasionals” group, at least four, Estalère.’

  ‘Four, OK, so who are they?’

  ‘A woman, someone Lebrun and Leblond call “the actress”.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And a sporty type they call “the cyclist”.’

  ‘Right,’ said Estalère again, concentrating hard.

  Even when he was concentrating, Estalère’s eyebrows remained raised and his eyes even wider open, if that was possible.

  ‘There’s one man who seems observant or watchful, Lebrun–Leblond think he’s a dentist. There’s a slight whiff of antiseptic about him. And lastly a man with no particular distinguishing features.’

  ‘That’s all then,’ said Estalère, as he went out to fetch another – extra-strong – coffee for Mercadet.

  ‘If there’s some miracle, we might get to see them at the session on Monday night. We’ll need extra people if we have to keep tabs on the two descendants and the four infiltrators.’

  ‘Yes, we could,’ Mordent agreed. ‘But now, since four people from their group have been killed, I doubt whether they’ll turn up. What’s Robespierre up to?’

  ‘He’s working late,’ Justin replied. ‘Probably preparing his speech for Monday’.

  ‘Which will be?’ asked Veyrenc.

  ‘The sessions of 11 and 16 Germinal, year II, edited and cut down,’ said Danglard, who had found this out. ‘Or in other words, the speeches Robespierre made on 31 March and 5 April 1794.’

  ‘The ones in which he called for the arrest of Danton, Desmoulins and their friends,’ Veyrenc added.

  ‘Precisely so.’

  This information went over the heads of all the other members of the squad. At that moment, Adamsberg entered the room, his head bent as he consulted the screen of his phone, and he greeted his colleagues with a brief wave. Estalère leapt up on his coffee mission.

  ‘Froissy has completed her research,’ Adamsberg told them, without sitting down. ‘She’s traced the entire line of descent from village to village, as far as Montargis. Our François Château is indeed a descendant of the innkeeper François Didier Château, the presumed son of Robespierre. Which makes him more suspicious to us. Danglard, fill them in about this strange innkeeper from 1840. And remind me to ask you later what Robespierre’s “painful death” was. It was Lebrun who mentioned it. Meanwhile, Retancourt, I’d be glad if you could come to my office.’

  Adamsberg closed his door carefully, while Retancourt sat down on the chair for visitors, one manifestly not meant for someone of her size, and which disappeared under her. But then, no chair was built with Retancourt in mind.

  ‘You can call off the guard duty on François Château.’

  ‘Good,’ said Retancourt warily.

  Because that vague look in Adamsberg’s eyes, noticed the previous day by Danglard, had not disappeared. And everyone in the squad knew what that meant: meandering, mist, cloud-shovelling, in three words.

  ‘As you will have gathered,’ said Adamsberg, accepting the cigarette Retancourt offered him, ‘what happened in Iceland was different from what the brothers Amédée and Victor told us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something much more serious.’

  ‘Matricide.’

  ‘Even more serious, Retancourt. Do you remember, Victor told us that the killer reduced all the members of the group to total silence, on pain of death? And indeed they all kept quiet for ten years. Can you imagine Victor terrorising nine men and women, all older and more experienced than himself? At the age of twenty-seven? That’s how old he was at the time.’

  ‘Old or young, what does that matter? It’s nothing to do with age.’

  ‘According to Victor, the killer told them that his “network” or whatever he called it, would pursue them, even if one of them got him put in prison. How could Victor have a “network”? Brought up on the farm, self-taught? Where would he get such power and such strength of conviction?’

  ‘It’s beyond prosecution now, commissaire, in any case,’ said Retancourt, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘“More serious” than what? What’s this all about?’

  ‘I don’t know, Retancourt. How can I? We need to find out.’

  Retancourt pushed her chair back noisily, her suspicion growing with every second.

  ‘And where will we do that?’ she asked.

  ‘In Iceland. I’m going to the warm rock.’

  ‘That is illogical, commissaire, it makes no sense.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Adamsberg repeated. ‘But it all depends on an interview today. I’m going back to Le Creux to talk to Victor and Amédée.’

  ‘What for? To tell them they’re brothers? Just like that, without taking any precautions? It’ll
be a big shock, they’ll react, they’ll be devastated.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And I don’t like the idea.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  ‘To find out. One of them may tell the truth perhaps.’

  ‘And then what?

  ‘And then nothing, I’ll know, that’s all.’

  ‘And what about the Robespierre murders?’ asked Retancourt, by now indignant. ‘The four infiltrators who are under threat? Are you going to abandon them just to “know” what Victor got up to on the warm island?’

  ‘I’m not abandoning anything. The Robespierre chessboard is frozen at the moment. But things will move eventually. Nothing ever stays the same, fixed. Sooner or later something budges. Someone once said “Animals move”, I don’t remember who. Anyway, it’ll shift of its own accord, trust me.’

  ‘Yeah, right, with another four people getting themselves murdered!’

  ‘Do we know that?’

  ‘And if the interview today gets you nowhere?’

  ‘Well then, I’ll go to the warm rock, there are twenty-three officers here, all perfectly well informed, and all capable of sticking to the Robespierre affair.’

  ‘Twenty-three you say? So you’re not going alone?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s not that I’m afraid of the icy wastes, but it’s the way I operate. Watching other people allows me to stay – how would you put it? – on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘From which you’ve totally departed, commissaire,’ said Retancourt, standing up and signifying that she was about to leave. ‘You’re off on a wild goose chase. If the divisionnaire finds out you’re dashing off on a closed case, and leaving the current investigation behind, you’ll be disciplined.’

  ‘Would you do that, Retancourt? Inform on me?’

  Adamsberg lit another cigarette and walked over to the window, turning his back on his colleague.

  ‘You can’t do that, Violette,’ he said – he liked every now and then to address her by her first name. ‘Because you’re coming with me. Unless, as I say, the truth emerges this afternoon, which I very much doubt.’

  ‘No way,’ said Retancourt, moving to the door. ‘No way am I leaving the team in the middle of a mess.’

  Now they were both standing, two obstinate creatures facing each other, the two most dissimilar animals one could imagine.

  ‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, still facing the window, and letting his ash fall to the ground. ‘I’ll take Justin.’

  ‘Justin? Are you mad? He can’t even lift five kilos.’

  ‘And how much can you lift, Violette?’

  ‘From the ground or shoulder?’

  ‘Which is the hardest?’

  ‘From the ground.’

  ‘OK, how much from the ground?’

  ‘Seventy-two kilos,’ said Retancourt, blushing slightly.

  Adamsberg whistled in admiration.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ Retancourt said, ‘the world record for a woman in my category is 148 kilos.’

  ‘I don’t need the world record holder. You will be quite capable of hauling me out of icy water if I fall in.’

  ‘It’s April. Not the same conditions as when those twelve cretins went off in November.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. At this time of year, there are five short hours of sunlight if you’re lucky, the temperature’s between 2 and 9 degrees, risk of snow or Arctic storms, plenty of mist and icebergs floating round on the frozen water.’

  ‘Well, not Justin,’ Retancourt insisted. ‘He can stay here. He’s good at tailing people, he’s as shifty as a cat.’

  ‘You and Veyrenc. Not Danglard of course. Even the plane trip would destabilise him for a couple of months, remember Quebec? Danglard can stay here to coordinate things with Mordent. Danglard has the knowledge and Mordent the judgement.’

  By now, Adamsberg was walking up one side of the long desk in his office, while Retancourt was pacing about on the other. Trying not to get her feet entangled in the huge pair of stag’s antlers lying in a corner, a souvenir from a dark forest in Normandy which Adamsberg hadn’t thought to move anywhere else. Two creatures prowling up and down, two metres from one another, separated by the symbolic burladero of the wooden desk. Unaware that behind the closed door, Estalère was standing transfixed, carrying the coffee he had made for the commissaire, which was now cold. He could hear the sound of quarrelling, and this argument between the two people he admired the most left him distraught.

  ‘If you won’t get this idea out of your head, commissaire,’ Retancourt said, in a conciliatory move, ‘at least postpone it. Let’s finish with this Robespierre business and go after that. You can enjoy the warm rock to your heart’s content then.’

  ‘I’ve already booked three tickets for Tuesday. Open tickets, in case the animals move.’

  ‘Are they booked in our names?’

  ‘For me, yes. For you and Veyrenc, no. Or else I’ll take Voisenet – he might like to see some northern fish. Mercadet would be good but we can’t let him drop off to sleep for three hours in the snow. Voisenet and Kernorkian. Or Noël.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to stand three days with Noël.’

  ‘Of course I could. What he says goes in one ear and out the other for me. He’s strong, and he’d be good at life-saving. You haven’t forgotten that, Retancourt?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘And the cat. Snowball. He’d be better than a hot-water bottle.’

  Retancourt stopped in her tracks. Adamsberg did too, and smiled at her.

  ‘Have a think, Retancourt. Answer by tomorrow afternoon at latest.’

  XXX

  ADAMSBERG HAD POCKETED his phone and car keys and caught up with Danglard in the corridor.

  ‘Coming with me, commandant?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To Le Creux. To find out what these two brothers have been concealing from us.’

  ‘They don’t know they’re brothers, well, Amédée doesn’t. You’ll trigger a trauma, a catastrophe perhaps.’

  ‘Or something good, a necessity.’

  ‘It’s past two o’clock and we haven’t had lunch.’

  ‘We can eat a sandwich in the car.’

  Danglard pulled a face, and hesitated. But since the previous day in the cafe, the story of the farm at Le Thost and its consequences had, despite himself, begun to preoccupy him.

  ‘We’ll have dinner tonight at the Auberge du Creux,’ Adamsberg added. ‘That’ll make up for it.’

  ‘Maybe we can order a menu ahead. Even get some of those potato cakes?’

  ‘We can try.’

  As they crossed the main office, the commissaire stopped at the desk where Veyrenc was working.

  ‘Questioning session out at Le Creux, followed by dinner at the inn, that suit you?’

  ‘Count me in,’ said Veyrenc. ‘There’s something about those two . . .’

  ‘Have you done something to your hair?’

  ‘I tried to dye it last night.’

  ‘Didn’t really work, did it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Looks worse. Kind of purple.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  From her office, Retancourt, holding herself as tight as a clenched fist, watched the three men walk out.

  Adamsberg glanced at his stopped watches when Céleste came to open the large wooden gates to them.

  ‘It’s four o’clock,’ Veyrenc told him.

  Céleste seemed quite glad to see them, and smiled as she shook hands, her eyes fixed on Veyrenc.

  ‘She’s taken a shine to you,’ Adamsberg whispered to his childhood playmate. ‘What was it Château said about you? Why you wouldn’t be appropriate for the revolutionary assembly? Oh yes, something about looking like an ancient statue.’

  ‘Alas, Roman rather than Greek,’ said Veyrenc.

  Adamsberg took a step to the side, so that he could walk in the grass and find the dried-up burdock from before. Céleste had gone in search of Amédée and Victor, who
both arrived from the stables. Smelling of horses and looking concerned. If the cops had caught Henri’s killer, surely they would have telephoned before this? So what the hell were they doing coming out in person again?

  ‘Sorry to turn up without warning,’ said Adamsberg.

  ‘No, you’re not sorry,’ said Victor. ‘That’s what the police always do, turn up without warning. Take people by surprise.’

  ‘True. Can we sit down somewhere?’

  ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘It might.’

  Amédée pointed to a wooden garden table and chairs in the middle of the lawn.

  ‘It’s still sunny,’ he said. ‘If you’re not too cold, we can stay outdoors.’

  Adamsberg was aware that people being questioned always felt happier outside than in a confined space. His intention wasn’t to crush them, so he headed for the table.

  ‘This is a delicate matter,’ he began, once they were all seated. ‘It’s tricky to tell you why we’ve come.’

  ‘Why have you?’ asked Amédée.

  ‘Because both of you have lied to us. Sorry, but there’s no other way to put it.’

  ‘Does this have to do with my father?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘What’s it about then?’

  ‘Your private lives.’

  ‘Which we have no obligation to tell you about,’ said Victor, standing up. ‘If you arrest someone for poaching, you don’t have the right to know who he’s sleeping with.’

  ‘Well, sometimes we do. Anyway, this is nothing to do with who you sleep with. Sit down, Victor, you’re going to alarm Céleste unnecessarily.’

  Céleste was hurrying towards them, holding in shaky hands a tray laden with every possible kind of drink and biscuits. Veyrenc got up at once to help her and distributed the bottles and glasses on the table, while Victor took his seat again, not without a heavy frown on his face.