by Fred Vargas
‘Sounds beautiful.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I’ve learned how to say “goodbye” and “thank you”, ’ said Adamsberg, taking a little card out of his trouser pocket. ‘“Bless” and “takk”. ’
‘Why didn’t you learn to say “hello”?’
‘Too difficult.’
‘We won’t get very far then.’
‘We’ll have our interpreter from the embassy. He should be waiting for us when we get to Akureyri, holding up a notice.’
‘We can get a bite to eat in Reykjavik airport first.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think they’ll have?’
‘Smoked fish.’
‘Or just international food.’
Nothing. Not a twitch. The laborious efforts of the two men to make conversation and draw Retancourt out of her silence were completely in vain.
Landing at Reykjavik and eating from the international menu was quickly accomplished. Retancourt swallowed her meal, still without a word.
‘This is going to be fun, isn’t it?’ whispered Veyrenc. ‘We’ll be dragging her round like a statue for days.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘We could leave her behind. Sneak away.’
‘Too late, Veyrenc.’
Adamsberg consulted his phone.
‘The interrogation of Sanson’s descendant is due to start at 1900 hours,’ he said. ‘The time difference is two hours, it’s nearly five now, we should go online.’
Something seemed to have changed in Retancourt’s expression. Looking a little less sullen, she followed the two officers to a table, where Adamsberg set up the connection.
‘We’ve only got sound,’ he warned them. ‘And the volume on this tölva isn’t that great. So we should try not to make any comments during the interview.’
‘I don’t think Lieutenant Retancourt will make any difficulty about that,’ Veyrenc dared to say.
‘No indeed,’ Adamsberg followed suit. ‘Violette is on a pilgrimage through the Stations of the Cross. But Iceland’s very beautiful.’
‘Very beautiful.’
‘Great trip.’
‘Great.’
‘And unusual.’
‘Very unusual.’
The interview of the executioner’s descendant was late starting. The man, whose name was René Levallet, was facing a trio of interrogators, Danglard, Mordent and Justin.
‘So are you going to tell me why the fuck you’ve called me in?’
A gruff voice with a working-class Parisian accent.
‘As you were informed,’ Danglard told him, ‘you are here as a witness.’
‘A witness to what?’
‘We’ll get to that. What’s your occupation, Monsieur Levallet?’
‘I’m a slaughterman, Meursin Abattoir, Yvelines département.’
‘And what kind of animals are slaughtered there?’
‘Cattle, what do you think? And it’s humane killing, don’t get any wrong ideas, it’s all done legal.’
‘And that means?’
‘First you got to stun them with an electric shock, so they’re unconscious when we slit their throats. Doesn’t always work, though, got to say.’
‘And you like your work?’
‘Got to make a living, haven’t you? Someone has to do it. People like to have a nice steak to eat, they don’t ask where it comes from. So you get on with it.’
‘The way some people used to get on with the job of executioner.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s got to do with your ancestry: you are descended from the illustrious Sanson family of executioners during the French Revolution.’
‘And what the fuck is that to you?’ Levallet retorted. ‘Some poor devil had to make the guillotine work properly too. We’d be more professional these days. Stun ’em first, like the animals.’
‘The death penalty’s been abolished now, Monsieur Levallet.’
‘So what am I supposed to be a witness of?’
‘The re-enactments of the revolutionary assemblies by the Association for the Study of the Writings of Maximilien Robespierre.’
‘So what? It’s legal, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed it is.’
‘Yeah, right, well, that’s me out of here then.’
‘Not yet. Why do you go along every Monday?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? Some people go to the theatre, don’t they? Same thing then.’
‘It’s like going to the theatre for you, is it?’
‘You want to put it that way, go ahead. I don’t care.’
‘Your theatre, or rather a theatre in which there are actors who gave your ancestor Charles-Henri Sanson a nasty reputation in days gone by.’
‘Well, so what?’
‘Four members of this assembly have been murdered, Monsieur Levallet. Here, take a look.’
And there was the sound of photographs of the victims being put down on the table.
‘Never seen any of ’em,’ said Levallet.
‘Our concern is,’ Mordent told him, ‘that there’s a killer out there. He’s started to pick off members of the association, but he’s working up to strike at its head: Robespierre, or rather the actor who plays Robespierre.’
‘Yeah, well, he thinks he is Robespierre. Bit sick if you ask me.’
‘And on that account, we’re interviewing a lot of your members,’ Mordent went on, untruthfully. ‘That’s why we need to know what your motive is for going to the sessions.’
‘Just to watch, what do you think? Anyway, I’m not the only descendant turns up there.’
‘That’s true,’ said Danglard, ‘and we have reason to believe you are friendly with the descendant of Camille Desmoulins.’
‘Yeah, nice fellow he is.’
‘Nice’, the kind of thing children say, Adamsberg thought. Divide the world into two, nice and nasty.
‘But he’s not a friend, more a kind of acquaintance.’
‘And what do you talk about, or do with this acquaintance?’
‘We have a bit of a moan, right? We tell each other our troubles. Because of that lot. We’re on the same side, see.’
‘What kind of troubles does Desmoulins have?’
‘That’s not his name, for starters. And I don’t have to tell you anyway. But what gets his goat is that they guillotined old Camille, who was decent enough, and then his wife too, afterwards. Because they had this little boy, only two years old, and he was an orphan after that.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Danglard.
‘So that wasn’t humane, no way, was it?’
‘No, agreed. But what are your troubles? Nobody in your family was guillotined, were they?’
‘So now we’re supposed to tell the cops all about our troubles, are we?’
‘On this occasion, Monsieur Levallet, I’m sorry but yes, you do need to.’
‘You’re sorry, are you? Then I can go after that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you then, my troubles are a lot worse than Desmoulins’s. As I’ve told him. And all because of those guys down there, poncing about in their fancy clothes. I wouldn’t mind seeing them all dead, the lot of them.’
‘You’d kill them, would you?’
‘No need. Don’t you cops ever think? Cos at the end of the show, they’re all dead anyway. Heads taken off by Charles-Henri, and then by Great-Uncle Henri. And good riddance. Good to see them all get their comeuppance, and it’s us, the Sanson family, giving it to them. So next in line, Danton and all those other bastards are going to cop it.’
‘Including that “decent” Camille Desmoulins?’
‘Yeah, but look, he wasn’t as white as the driven snow either, let me tell you, that’s what I tell his descendant. There was others got taken off before it was his turn, did he stand up and protest? No, he did not. And, from what Desmoulins tells me, he did something very stupid, Camille. His pal Ro
bespierre had lodgings in a house where there was a lot of young girls. Right? And he liked them. Not what you’re thinking, he looked out for them, he helped them to get an education. Right? And Camille went round there a lot too, welcomed in. And one day he gave this book to one of the girls, very young she was. And Robespierre twigged right away that this book wasn’t proper. Adult pictures, know what I mean?’
‘Pornography?’
‘That’s right. And Robespierre saw red, he snatched it away. After that, Camille was never in his good books. And Robespierre wasn’t someone you wanted to be on the wrong side of, know what I mean?’
‘So,’ said Danglard, after a brief silence, ‘you were saying that now “Danton and all those other bastards are going to cop it”?’
‘Do you think Danglard knew that story about the book?’ Veyrenc whispered.
‘Can’t have, or he’d have said something.’
‘That’ll have rattled him then!’
‘Sure to have.’
‘Exactly,’ Levallet was saying. ‘And it’s Great-Uncle Henri that’s going to do it. Because the old man, Charles-Henri, his strength was failing, or something. And the time’s coming – only nine more sessions to go – when Henri gets the order to cut Robespierre’s head off too. And he hurt him an’ all, pulling off the bandages. Mind you, there, I don’t hold with that. He was out of order that day. But they didn’t know about humane killing, back in the olden days. I promise you, the beasts I slaughter, they don’t suffer. Still makes you feel really bad sometimes, though.’
‘I understand what you’re saying,’ said Mordent, who from his tone of voice really meant it.
‘And what are your troubles?’ Dangard insisted, almost gently. ‘The ones you tell Desmoulins about.’
‘That’s not his name.’
‘We know his name. He’s called Jacques Mallemort.’
‘Bad enough having a moniker like that, eh?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it hasn’t helped him. But we’re talking about you right now.’
‘Shit, do I have to tell you my whole life story?’
‘Sometimes we need it. But for now, tell us just whatever it is that they’ve done to you.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos it makes me blub, that’s why not, and I’m not going to start crying in front of some cops.’
A long silence followed. Retancourt had forgotten to maintain her closed expression, and had been attentively following the story of the man who executed cattle.
‘Well,’ broke in Justin finally, ‘I’m a cop, and I cry sometimes.’
‘What, in front of the others, kid?’
‘It did happen once, when this girl walked out on me.’
‘Women, eh? Nothing but trouble.’
‘Agreed,’ said Justin.
‘And what about you others, you captains or whatever you are? You ever blubbed in front of the men?’
‘It happened to me once too,’ said Mordent.
‘So you won’t tell anyone, if it happens to me?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Danglard. ‘Look, what about a glass of wine, would that help? I’ve got a very good bottle of white, 2004.’
‘You have a high old time, don’t you, in the cop shop? This isn’t a trap, is it?’
‘No, I’ll have a glass with you.’
‘What, on duty?’
‘It’s aperitif time. And look, see the recorder? If it should, er, happen . . . well, I’ll switch it off.’
Another silence.
‘It was six years back. I wasn’t so big then and I was a lot better-looking, though you might find that hard to believe.’
They heard the sound of glasses on the table and a bottle being opened.
‘Danglard’s taking advantage,’ said Retancourt suddenly, with the ghost of a smile.
‘No, Violette. I think he’s really doing it to help.’
‘His case of 2004 is pretty good,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Correct,’ said Retancourt.
‘Hey, this wine’s a cracker,’ said Levallet, as if echoing the views of the listeners-in at Reykjavik airport.
‘I go and fetch it myself from Sancerre. It’s not expensive, I get it from this little vineyard.’
‘Give me the address?’
‘All right, why not?’
‘Bucks a man up, it does. So, right, there was a time, I didn’t look too bad, I had a girlfriend, three years we were together, and she was expecting, so we were going to get married.’
‘She was pregnant?’
‘Yeah, five months. And I was really pleased. This kid wasn’t going to work in abattoirs, no way. Specially since we knew it was going to be a girl, know what I mean? Anyway, my girlfriend, she had an auntie, horrible old bigot, come visit and she came right out with it, told her I was a Sanson, and it was in my blood, because I was working at the slaughterhouse. As if that had anything to do with it, like I said, you got to earn a living, haven’t you? But see, the thing was, I hadn’t told her, I hadn’t told Ariane.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, she’s a girl, girls don’t like it, do they? They get upset, she’d be put off by an executioner, and by a guy that spends all day slaughtering animals, normal, yes? So I told her I worked for a firm making shoes, only way out in the same suburb in the Yvelines, because I didn’t want her trying to come and see me at work. I found out all this stuff about shoes. Leather, fake leather, soles, laces, Velcro, whatever. Specially Italian ones. Told her I worked in the slipper department. More reassuring, like.’
‘Yes, you’re right, I’d have done the same thing.’
‘So of course then the sky fell in. Specially the bit about the executioner. Ariane said because of all the lies I’d told her, she was going to have this baby who’d be an executioner’s daughter. And she’d never live with a man who had it in his blood.’
There was a short silence.
‘It’s OK, it’ll pass,’ said the man, after Danglard had interrupted the recording. ‘If you press hard on your eyes, it pushes the tears back in. I begged her, I said everything under the sun, but no, she left me. When she looked at me, her face, it was full of disgust. And she went as far away as she could – to relations in Poland – so I’d never get to see my daughter.’
Another silence.
‘He’s pressing his fists into his eyes,’ said Adamsberg.
The recorder sprang back to life.
‘After that, I put on weight, I got fat as a pig, my hair started falling out, everything went wrong, see what I mean? I could have murdered that old aunt, but the fact is, she died in a car crash and good riddance. And whose fault was it that people know about the Sansons, eh? Those revolutionaries in Paris, that’s who. Isn’t that the truth? Because there was plenty of executioners in the provinces, but nobody knows their names, do they? I could have murdered them, see, those guys, I wanted to kill everyone anyway. So this doctor, cos I had to go to the doctor for my heart, kept getting these palpitations, it was him told me about this club, where you could see them acting out the Revolution, and in the end, he said, they all get their chips. And I thought it would do me good to see that. But when we get through to July, I’m quitting, I’m going on a diet. Find another woman, like Desmoulins tells me to. I hadn’t even thought about that.’
The flight for Akureyri was being called in Icelandic and in English. The travellers picked up their bags and Veyrenc led the way to the right gate.
‘It’s not him,’ said Adamsberg.
‘No, I don’t think so either,’ said Veyrenc.
They waited to hear what Retancourt would say, not being sure whether, after the pause, she would come back to life or revert to being a statue.
‘Sad,’ she said. ‘Sad, but harmless.’
‘When do we get there?’ asked Veyrenc.
‘Seven fifty p.m. local time.’
Adamsberg took his phone out of his pocket.
‘It’s Danglard,’ he expl
ained. ‘He wants to know what we think. He’s being very distant.’
‘Sad case, no danger to anyone. Let him go,’ said Adamsberg into the phone.
‘Already done,’ said Danglard.
‘When are you seeing Dumoulin?’
‘Desmoulins,’ said Danglard. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow. That’ll be 8 a.m. on your fucking island.’
Adamsberg spent the short flight to Akureyri pondering the sad story of the descendant of Sanson, and his strange presence in the assembly. Lebrun had told them that there were a number of doctors of all kinds among their members. Perhaps Levallet had told him the story too. The association’s secretary was a good listener – maybe he had even given him some professional advice.
The Icelandic interpreter was waiting for them, energetically waving a notice above his head. Small, plump and dark-haired, unlike Adamsberg’s expectations, he was quite elderly, about sixty, and seemed restless. But good-humoured with it. He was acting like someone who has been waiting impatiently for some dear friends to arrive, and he greeted them volubly, speaking French with a strong accent.
‘Can we call you Almar?’ asked Adamsberg, as they shook hands. ‘I can’t pronounce your last name.’
‘Hey, man, no problem,’ said Almar, throwing up his short arms. ‘Here we don’t use surnames, we’re all “son of X”, or “daughter of Y”, see?’
Veyrenc guessed that Almar had picked up his colloquial French in some rather informal milieu. That might explain why Adamsberg had been able to get hold of him so easily at the last moment. Almar did not seem like the sort of interpreter who would be chosen for international conferences or university work.
‘So my son’s called Almarson, son of Almar. Cool, eh? Where are we going? I wouldn’t want to hang out here, Akureyri’s pretty rubbish. Well, for anyone who’s seen the world a bit. I’m from Kirkjubæjarklaustur, so you can see where I’m coming from.’
‘Not really.’
‘Never been here before?’
‘No, we’re here for a police investigation.’
‘Yeah, that’s what they said. It’ll be a gas.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Retancourt.
And the little man suddenly seemed to become aware of the enormous lieutenant looming over him: he scrutinised her carefully. Adamsberg meanwhile was thinking about the descendant of Desmoulins. Bad luck for him having a name like Mallemort, Evil–Death, when you think what his ancestors had gone through. A little boy left an orphan after his parents’ ‘evil death’. Was this man too coming to the sessions as a kind of therapy, to watch while those responsible were sentenced to death as well? Or indeed to avenge the evil death?