by Fred Vargas
‘Where do you want to eat?’
Adamsberg explained that they had to be up early in the morning to listen in to another interrogation at eight o’clock, while their flight for Grimsey would be taking off at eleven.
‘You can listen to an interrogation from here? Cool,’ Almar whistled. ‘I’ll take you to a hotel south of town near the airport. No hassle. The pad’s friendly, the grub’s good – if you like fish? The rooms aren’t the Ritz though. OK with you?’
It was OK with them.
‘Wrap up warm before we go out. It’s not that cold today, just a bit nippy, minus 3, that’s 20 degrees colder than in France, but nothing dramatic. The cold in Iceland is fine, it’s bracing, you’ll see. Not all cold places are the same.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Adamsberg.
They put on sweaters and anoraks, and Almar took them to a small hotel with a red-painted facade, south of the centre of Akureyri. There were still traces of snow on the roofs around.
‘Well, at least we can say we got to see a red house,’ remarked Veyrenc.
‘And sightseeing was the main point of this trip, wasn’t it?’ said Retancourt.
‘Precisely, lieutenant,’ said Adamsberg.
‘It’s called the Bear Inn,’ said Almar, pointing to a flashing pink sign. ‘Mind you, bears? Haven’t seen them in Iceland in years. And with the melting of the ice cap, they’d never get this far.’
‘Why is everything painted in such bright colours?’
‘Because Iceland’s all black and white: volcanic rock and ice and snow. So we need some colour. Everything goes with black, don’t you French say that? But wait till you see how blue the sky is. You’ll never in your life have seen a blue like it!’
‘How much daylight is there, this time of year?’ asked Retancourt.
‘About the same as France. Not that we see the sun a lot. It rains quite a bit.’
Almar saw them settled in their rather chilly rooms, ordered their dinner and arranged for their early breakfast. He was not going to spend the evening with them, as he was taking the chance to meet up with some friends in Akureyri whom he had not seen for seven years.
‘It’ll be a gas,’ he said again. ‘I’ve ordered beer for you – whatever you do don’t ask for wine, it’ll cost you an arm and a leg. Meet up at ten tomorrow morning. That’ll be plenty of time to get the little plane – this time of year there aren’t many tourists wanting to go to the Arctic Circle. Who do you want to question on Grimsey, anyway? There are only about a hundred people there.’
‘No one,’ said Adamsberg. ‘We want to visit another island offshore, where there’s a warm rock.’
Almar’s good humour seemed suddenly to melt away.
‘Fox Island you mean?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think that’s what it’s called – it has two pointed rocks that look like ears.’
‘Ba-ad idea,’ said Almar. ‘You know there was this scandal ten years ago? Bunch of idiots went over there and two of them died of exposure.’
‘That’s exactly why we’re going’, said Veyrenc. ‘That’s what the investigation’s about.’
‘There’ll be nothing left now,’ Almar insisted. ‘Looking for clues? Don’t fool yourselves. There’ve been hundreds of blizzards since then, snow and ice. There’s nothing left on Fox Island.’
‘Well, we have to go and look,’ said Adamsberg, ‘we’re under orders.’
‘Respect to your chiefs, but your orders are bloody silly. What’s more, you won’t find anyone willing to take you over there. They all think there’s a monster on the island.’
‘Who do?’
‘Some people believe it hundred per cent, others don’t but they’d rather not tempt providence. They’re not hotheads like you French. That’s what they say round here – a Frenchman will go chasing off at the drop of a hat. Not us, no sirree.’
‘Well, we’ll have to hire our own boat then, and take ourselves over there. It’s only a stone’s throw from the harbour.’
‘A stone’s throw here, commissaire, can last for ever. Blow your nose and the weather changes here. Call your chiefs, don’t go.’
‘But you’ll know we’re there, Almar. If you don’t see us coming back, you’ll launch a rescue party.’
‘A rescue party?’ said Almar, getting worked up, and waving his arms around more than ever. ‘A rescue? In the fog? How’s the chopper going to spot you? How’s the pilot going to land if he can’t see anything? Skit!’ he said, heading abruptly for the door.
‘I think he said “Shit!”’ suggested Veyrenc, as they watched their interpreter walk off, still gesticulating in the air.
‘I think he has every reason,’ said Retancourt.
The hotel proprietor, who was satisfyingly blond, with an austere face carved out of material to face any weather, brought them their food without speaking: thin slices of salt herring on rye bread, followed by smoked lamb (according to Veyrenc) with a dish of vegetables.
‘It’s a bit like sauerkraut,’ said Adamsberg, sampling it.
‘Yes, but it’s red.’
‘ Well, it’s red sauerkraut, they like bright colours here.’
‘You heard what Almar said?’ asked Retancourt, who ate twice as fast as the others.
‘We’ll hire a boat.’
‘We’ll hire nothing of the sort and we’re not going anywhere. You heard him, he knows the country. Ten years of storms will have swept everything away. What are you expecting to find? A knife with fingerprints? A scrap of paper under a stone, with a confession?’
‘Retancourt, I want to take a look. I want to see if it fits what Victor told us. I want to see if they lit a fire. Even ten years later, that would leave traces on the rocks. I want to see if they really did get timbers from the old rack for drying fish. I want to get an idea, imagine it. See if the warm rock actually exists, or if it’s all been invented to stop us going anywhere near it.’
Retancourt shrugged her heavy shoulders and twisted round her finger the blonde curls at her neck, her sole delicate feature.
‘The lamb was very tender,’ said Veyrenc, trying to create a diversion. ‘Will you have some more?’
‘You can stay behind, if you want, Retancourt,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I’m not going to force anyone to do anything.’
‘You’re going off the rails, commissaire. And all for what?’
‘Because I’ve got this itch, as Lucio says. Tonight, Violette, look out of your window at the lights of the town with the mountains around and the brightness of the ice. It’s fantastic. It’s soothing.’
‘So that’s why we’re here, right?’ said Retancourt.
XXXV
THE PROPRIETOR HAD served them a breakfast of which it was apparently obligatory to sample every item: unlimited coffee, sour milk, pâté, ham, cheeses, rye crackers. They made their way to Veyrenc’s room, feeling somewhat full, and carrying refills of coffee. His was the only bedroom with a little table, and where Adamsberg could get a signal. He opened the window and looked out at the black and white mountains. Almar was right, the sky was a dazzling blue, outlining the relief so clearly that it trembled.
‘It’s starting,’ muttered Retancourt, ‘and Danglard’s in charge.’
‘Perfect weather,’ remarked Adamsberg, shutting the window.
They heard the four photographs of the murder victms being put down on the table once more.
‘Yes, there was a rumour going round at the buffet that there had been murders,’ admitted Desmoulins’s distant descendant. ‘But no, I don’t recognise any of those people.’
Jacques Mallemort’s voice was calm and confident, no sign of irritation.
‘But that one there, now I come to think of it . . .’
‘He was an occasional visitor, who became a participant. His name was Angelino Gonzalez.’
‘He got hooked, did he?’
‘Here’s a picture of him in costume,’ said Danglard.
‘It’s a good drawing,’ said Mall
emort. ‘Ah, now I see who you mean. He played Hébert, he was unbelievable, cursing and swearing like a trooper. And when Robespierre looked shocked in reply, that was very convincing too.’
‘Do you have any information about him?’
‘We’ve never exchanged a word. When we’re there, you know, we tend not to talk about ourselves, that’s not the point.’
‘What we want to know is why you have been attending these assemblies.’
They heard a familiar sound, the creak of a chair-back which they all knew well, from among the little ritual noises in the station, such as the cat jumping off the photocopier when its desire to play with papers in the wastebin got the better of its natural laziness. So Mallemort/ Desmoulins was leaning back in the chair.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘It’s a criminal investigation. Someone’s attacking members of the assembly. And since I’m a descendant of Camille Desmoulins – though I don’t know how you found that out – perhaps I’m a likely suspect. I’m supposed to be consumed with bitterness, two hundred years later, at the atrocity of my ancestors being executed, I’m out to avenge the honour of the inoffensive Camille by going round killing people. Do you know how many of us there are? Almost seven hundred. It would be a monstrous programme, it would be a better plan to block the exits and set fire to the hall, wouldn’t you think?’
His voice was still perfectly calm, no trace of panic. This man seemed simply to be thinking aloud, rather than defending himself from any accusation.
‘It would be more likely,’ he went on, ‘from the police point of view, that is, if the target was Robespierre. I say Robespierre, because the man who takes this role is spectacular. Bordering on disturbing. But before getting to him, perhaps the murderer is aiming at unsettling him, with a few other murders, showing him that death is creeping up on him. I presume you have managed to meet him? The actor?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Danglard, reluctantly.
‘He’s less at ease with this one than with Sanson,’ whispered Adamsberg. ‘He’s not sure how to proceed with this man with his girlish looks.’
‘And is Robespierre afraid for his life?’ asked Mallemort.
‘We don’t think so. He’s worried about the membership above all. Can you please answer my question, Monsieur Mallemort?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ They could hear a smile in this reply. ‘This is my second cycle of assembly meetings. Four years already.’
‘You’re attending all the sessions twice over?’
‘Yes. But my motives have changed over time. So I have two answers to the question of why I go.’
‘Two?’
‘That’s right. The first one, why I joined the association in the first place, is simple. I’m a historian.’
‘Yes, we know, you’re professor of modern history at the University of Nanterre.’
‘Correct. I wanted to find out how it was that Robespierre came to order the beheading of Camille, who venerated him, who’d been his faithful and affectionate companion. I was thinking of writing a little article on the question. I know Desmoulins might have been a good husband and father on the whole, but he wasn’t as perfect as all that. It’s said he gave a licentious book to a young girl, Robespierre found out and snatched it away. And that was when Camille’s death warrant was signed.’
‘We heard that story,’ said Danglard, without elaborating.
‘So after all those years, as you said,’ Mordent asked, ‘does the beheading of Desmoulins and his young wife still revolt you?’
‘In the dark depths of my soul?’ asked Mallemort, and this time, they could clearly hear amusement in his voice. ‘At first perhaps. Family tradition, you’ll understand. But it faded somewhat. The sessions I attended gave me a clue, I think.’
‘And that was?’
‘Robespierre’s total abstraction from murder. You see, the executions were always out of his sight, they were dematerialised as far as he was concerned. As if he wasn’t guillotining men, but concepts: vice, treason, hypocrisy, vanity, lies, money, sex. Did Camille, who could love a woman, and be an affectionate friend, but possibly also had perverse tastes, represent the “vice” Robespierre couldn’t allow himself to indulge? Sorry, I’m going on rather.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Danglard. ‘But what about the second reason? Why did you go back? Why did you attend a second cycle?’
There was silence, and once more they heard the chair creak.
‘Ought to do something about that chair,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Well, much as the first reason is simple – a historian’s curiosity doubled up with the family history, pretty classic – the second reason is all the more embarrassing. Let’s say that the first time round, I think I was guessing what had happened to Robespierre. And the second time, I understood what Camille had experienced.’
‘Do you mean,’ asked Danglard hesitantly, ‘that you fell under Robespierre’s spell?’
‘Thank you for saying it instead of me, commandant. I suppose we’re not allowed to smoke in here, are we?’
There was a rustle, the sound of a glass ashtray being put down, the click of a lighter.
‘It happened so gradually. I wasn’t coming for Camille any more, I was coming for him. It really disturbed me. Why was I so fascinated? What was behind this virtual hypnotism? Then I watched the other members. And all of them, or near enough, were spellbound too. I’ve been told the association’s secretary is writing a study on this, the psychological slope Robespierre is making us all slide down, an addictive whirlwind that swallowed up my ancestor.’
At this point Danglard and Mallemort started to leave the parameters of the investigation, and to discuss historical points about the Revolution: the infamous law of 22 Prairial, paranoia, the Feast of the Supreme Being, Robespierre’s childhood, Desmoulins’s amorous ambiguity, and the reaction against Robespierre on 9 Thermidor.
Adamsberg shook his head.
‘You see, Retancourt, I’m not the only one who goes off-piste,’ he said.
‘Danglard’s thrown in the towel,’ Veyrenc concluded. ‘A few more minutes and they’ll be strolling arm in arm over to the Brasserie des Philosophes.’
‘So,’ said Retancourt gloomily, ‘these three descendants haven’t led us anywhere at all?’
‘It’s a knot of tangled seaweed, I’ve said so since the start,’ said Adamsberg. ‘It’s not moving. But the descendants ought to be kept under observation, they’ve had plenty of training in role-playing and lying.’
‘But if we’re off-piste, the piste we ought to be following isn’t clear at all,’ said Veyrenc.
‘No, very opaque,’ Adamsberg agreed. ‘In this association, everyone goes round in period costume, masked, made up, no names, no identities, individuals yet not individuals, pretending not to know each other. Images, appearances, deceptions, illusions, fantasies, and not an ounce of solid truth you can count on. They can say anything they like: that there’s a group of “infiltrators”, so-called occasionals, and descendants of those who were guillotined. So what? They can serve us up any number like that. Who are we to believe and what’s our next move? There could be seven hundred of them with a wish to kill seven hundred.’
‘Hush,’ said Veyrenc. ‘They’re starting again. Maybe Danglard was just creating a diversion.’
‘Creating the complicity of scholars,’ agreed Adamsberg.
Danglard’s voice was now good-humoured, curious, ceasing to be inquisitorial.
‘But your surname, Mallemort, is very rare, isn’t it? And it means “evil death”. There’s actually a place called that in the south of France, near Marseille. How does it come to be a surname?’
They heard the historian give a little chuckle.
‘Ah, now you’re putting your finger on the intimate wounds of history, commandant. In 1847, one of my ancestors, who was obsessed with Camille Desmoulins’s fate, and who had the very ordinary name of Moutier, applied to the mayor of Mallemort, the place you mentioned, for permi
ssion to bear the name. It was, he said, so that the “evil death” of his ancestor would never be forgotten by his descendants. And in the atmosphere of ’47, just before the Revolution of 1848, it was granted.’
‘Charming idea.’
‘And if that was all – ’
‘But you have his first name as well, don’t you? Your name is Jacques Horace.’
‘Ah no, Camille wasn’t called Horace.’
‘I don’t mean Camille, I mean the child who was left an orphan, little Horace Camille.’
The laugh this time was a little more strained.
‘I can see I have nothing to teach you, commandant.’
‘And in spite of the weight of this name – Horace Mallemort – you are not haunted, you have no phobia, no desire for vengeance?’
‘I’ve already explained. What about you, commandant, what family secrets do you have?’
‘Half my ancestors died from silicosis in the mines of northern France.’
‘So do you feel a great desire to kill all the coal owners?’
‘Not necessarily. Shall we go and have some lunch?’
Adamsberg stood up.
‘It’s going to end with a glass of white wine,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s meet downstairs, fifteen minutes. The blue sky will do us good.’
‘Just a sneeze and the weather can change,’ Retancourt reminded him.
XXXVI
THE SMALL PLANE, half empty, was circling above the runway of the little island of Grimsey. Adamsberg looked down at the tiny area of land, with its dark cliffs and patches of snow, and the stretches of yellowed grass, not yet renewed after the thaw. Toy houses, painted white and red, lined the edge of the harbour and the only road.