by Fred Vargas
First he examined Veyrenc’s leg, on Almar’s orders, to check that the journey home had not caused any complications. In his mind’s eye, he saw once more Brestir, Eggrún, Gunnlaugur and Rögnvar waving goodbye from the harbour. While facing him were a group of colleagues looking sullen and in semi-rebellion, frustrated by this investigation that was going nowhere, exasperated by their own lack of inspiration, and unable to admit that the tangle of seaweed they were dealing with was dark and impenetrable. And in their feeling of powerlessness, they needed a scapegoat. Himself. He met the shifty gaze of Danglard and Mordent, who had given up expecting him, and went to stand behind Retancourt and Veyrenc, while Estalère slipped a cup of coffee into his hands. He looked round at the room, noting the changes of seating, the rancour, hesitations, lowered brows and the strange ambiguity in Danglard’s attitude, with one shoulder up and one down as if he were torn between revolt and distress.
Danglard, the future chief of the squad? Why not? He had a clear mind and a fund of knowledge far superior to his own. Detached, almost indifferent. Adamsberg surveyed his team without knowing quite whether it was still ‘his’ team. He chose his words carefully.
‘As Veyrenc has told you, the expedition to Iceland has blown out of the water the lies we were told by Victor and Amédée Masfauré. It points towards a killer ready to do anything to keep secret the two murders and the cannibalism.’
‘Ready to do anything?’ asked Noël. ‘But who hasn’t done anything at all in ten years? So what business is it of ours?’
‘It’s our business, because out of the twelve original travellers, six are still in mortal danger, and we should add Amédée to the list.’
‘But they’re not dead, and they haven’t been threatened.’
Noël was braver than others, such as Voisenet who was keeping his head down, or Mordent who was fiddling with his papers. It was courage that came from his naturally violent character, but courage all the same.
‘Simple information, lieutenant,’ said Adamsberg. ‘As for the Robespierre chessboard, it’s still not moving. But animals have to move. So there must be some reason for this immobility, it isn’t fate, it isn’t bad luck. I think I can sense it somewhere, but I can’t express it. Got that, Danglard?’
‘Yes,’ replied Danglard in a dull voice. ‘But it still gets us nowhere.’
‘Nowhere?’
Danglard interrupted his note-taking, alerted by a slight change in the commissaire’s voice, a new sharpness. Rare on his part, and always accompanied by a particularly penetrating gaze. He looked up and saw it, that look, boring into him, a hint of fire from Adamsberg’s usually mellow eyes. It was for him perhaps and for him alone that that brief flash had come and already gone.
‘But where then?’ asked Danglard.
‘Towards movement. We have to go to where the animals are moving. Not hang about, as Retancourt understood when the fog threatened to maroon us. I’m going out this afternoon. Danglard, you’re still in charge of the squad. I get the feeling you don’t dislike it.’
Adamsberg drank off his cold coffee, then, holding a plastic bag, went round the table to stand by his senior deputy. He took the pencil from his hands and wrote underneath his notes: ‘Nowhere, Danglard? The afturganga never summons in vain. And his offering always points out the way to go.’
Then he brought out the bottle of brennivín and put it on the table with a friendly expression.
‘Come on,’ he said to Veyrenc, as he passed behind his chair. And Retancourt, although not invited, rose to follow them. A strange conversion, Adamsberg thought. But when you’ve been lost in the fog, you’ve been lost in the fog, as Rögnvar would have explained.
XLII
‘SO WHAT IS it we want to get them to say?’ asked Retancourt.
They had eaten lunch at the Auberge du Creux, which was open despite the public holiday, and had warned the Masfauré brothers that they had arrived. But without mentioning the trip to Iceland. On the phone, Victor, although ignorant of the reason for this new visit, was already on the alert. Because Adamsberg had asked him if they could meet in one of the lodge houses at the gates, out of Céleste’s hearing.
‘Well, first, we want to be able to end this, draw a line under what happened,’ said Adamsberg, thinking of Lucio. ‘And then we want to stir something into movement.’
‘Victor won’t tell us about the killer,’ said Veyrenc.
‘You don’t knock a door in with the first blow from your shoulder. Today we’re just going to shake it.’
Retancourt refrained from asking what all this was for.
And now, in Amédée’s pavilion, the two brothers were eyeing them in silence, very much on their guard.
‘The three of us got back from Iceland last night,’ Adamsberg said. ‘More precisely from the island of Grimsey, and more precisely still from the island of warm rock, Fox Island. We had a bit of trouble,’ he went on, pointing to Veyrenc’s leg, ‘which matched the troubling information we gathered there. Information which – unlike the last time – won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.’
‘I don’t see . . .’ Victor began in a low voice, ‘I don’t see what you could have “gathered”. There’s nothing left on that Fox Island.’
‘There are some holes in the rock, which once held wooden posts. On the site of your camp. You did pitch it at the top of the beach, sheltered a bit by the fox’s ears?’
Victor nodded.
‘You wouldn’t have been able to see the holes when you were there, they were buried under snow. And then, Victor, the snow melted. And any debris lying on top of them fell down inside. Sheltered from the icy winds.’
‘That doesn’t make sense!’ said Victor. ‘You went all that way, to dig around in some post holes? That you didn’t even know existed?’
‘True.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Seal blubber, why not?’
‘And you found some?’
‘No. We found charcoal but no blubber. I’m sorry, I’m really desperately sorry. Can you come outside with me, Victor.’
Adamsberg leaned against the wall of the house, protecting himself from the rain that had started to fall. He brought out of his pocket the little tin for cough sweets and slipped the five small bones into the palm of his hand.
‘Lie after lie, but we’ve almost reached the end of the road. These are human bones, wrist bones. Belonging to one adult male and one adult female. Cut up, cooked and eaten. You can see the traces of the fire and the cuts from a knife.’
Adamsberg returned the bones to the tin and slipped it back in his pocket.
‘DNA analysis from both you and Amédée will prove that three of these bones belonged to Adélaïde Masfauré. And Eric Courtelin’s sister’s DNA will prove that the others came from the legionnaire, as you called him. That’s what Alice Gauthier told Amédée, wasn’t it? That they had been eaten? He already knows?’
‘Yes,’ said Victor in a hoarse voice. ‘That Gauthier bitch. He wasn’t supposed ever to find out.’
‘How has he taken it?’
‘Very badly. He’s on medication for it. I’ve been sleeping in the same room, ever since he got back from seeing that woman. He cries out in his dreams, and I wake him and calm him down.’
Adamsberg went back into the room and sat down facing Amédée.
‘So Alice Gauthier told you the whole story, did she?’ he asked.
‘For the sake of her immortal soul, yes,’ said Amédée through his teeth.
‘What else did she say? That they died of exposure or that they were killed?’
‘That that man had killed them.’
‘By accident, during a struggle? Or deliberately, in order to . . . consume them?’
‘Deliberately, to consume them,’ Amédée whispered. ‘That’s what they all understood afterwards.’
‘Understood, what do you mean?’
‘The one they called “Doc”. He spat out a small bone. Belonging to the legionnaire. After
their third meal. And the doctor told them. What it was. Too late, they’d already . . .’
‘Consumed him,’ Adamsberg supplied.
‘And one morning they found my mother dead.’
‘Stabbed?’
‘No, probably smothered in the snow, before dawn, was what Gauthier said.’
‘So when, a few days later, the killer brought in some more meat to help them survive, a so-called young seal, everyone understood. That he intended them to do the same again.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s enough now,’ Victor intervened. ‘Yes, we understood. All of us.’
‘And you did it again? Consciously this time?’
‘Yes. All except me. Because I knew she was my mother.’
True or false? Adamsberg wondered.
‘That’s the truth,’ said Amédée. ‘Alice Gauthier said “the young man didn’t eat it”.’
‘So how did you survive, Victor?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I was the youngest.’
‘And why didn’t you stand up to him?’
‘There were nine of them, nine against me.’
‘Henri Masfauré too?’
‘Yes.’ Victor breathed in deeply. ‘He was sitting next to me. He was very weak, and shivering with cold. I begged him not to. But he said this way she would always be in him. So he did it.’
‘And now,’ Adamsberg said, ‘we can truly understand the seriousness of the silence that has been imposed on you. The threat hanging over you. And why you have all been so obedient. It was unspeakable. But not when death is approaching. That’s what Alice Gauthier did, egotistically, she spoke out at the end. And any one of you might do the same, in a moment of great weakness, or remorse, depression, religious conversion, illness, despair . . . And I believe,’ said Adamsberg, standing up and walking to and fro in the little dining room, ‘in fact I’m certain, that he is watching you, he is observing you, and that he calls you together. You all see each other, and he regularly quizzes you about it.’
‘No!’ cried Victor. ‘We keep our mouths shut and he knows that. He doesn’t need to see us and “observe” us.’
‘You do meet,’ insisted Adamsberg, raising his voice. ‘And you know who he is. You may not know his name, but you surely know his face. Describe him, help me to find him.’
‘No, I don’t know what he looks like.’
‘You’re not the only one in danger, Victor. Amédée is too. Because he knows. Like the others.’
‘I’m protecting him. Amédée won’t say anything.’
‘No, I won’t,’ agreed Amédée, who was looking both feverish and exhausted.
‘What about the others, then? You don’t care about them?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why, because they consumed your mother?’
‘Yes.’
Adamsberg made signs to his officers, and they prepared to leave.
‘Victor, think about the consequences of your refusal to talk.’
‘I’ve thought about them.’
They left the two brothers sitting in silence, Amédée with his head in his hands, Victor rigid and resolute.
‘He won’t crack,’ said Veyrenc, as they got back in the car.
‘Amédée might,’ said Retancourt.
‘But Amédée doesn’t know what the killer looks like.’
They returned to Paris in the rain, now beating hard against the windscreen.
‘Just as well you didn’t show the bones to Amédée,’ said Veyrenc.
‘The least I could do,’ said Adamsberg with a shiver – either the effect of his wet clothes or of a fleeting image of someone showing you the bones of your mother who had been eaten.
‘I’ll drop you off at headquarters,’ he said, ‘but I won’t come in.’
‘Are you leaving the field free then?’ said Retancourt with a snort.
‘Why provoke them? They’re all exhausted because of our failure to resolve this case, they feel defeated and they’re retreating into their shells. What do you think about Danglard?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Think he’d like the position for good?’
‘Danglard’s behaving oddly,’ said Veyrenc. ‘Something’s worrying him.’
‘I think it’s Robespierre,’ said Adamsberg.
Zerk moved about quietly. His father had dropped off to sleep before supper, his feet on the fender. Zerk knew what had happened in Iceland and he was watching over Adamsberg as he slept. The fact that Violette had saved him from the afturganga, as she had once saved a pigeon whom they had rescued, had increased even more his admiration for her. When the phone rang at ten past ten, he was infuriated. Adamsberg opened his eyes and answered it.
‘Commissaire,’ Froissy announced, ‘there’s been another one.’
XLIII
ADAMSBERG JUMPED TO his feet and woke up properly.
‘Where? When?’ he asked, picking up his notebook.
‘Place called Vallon-de-Courcelles, about eight kilometres from Dijon. He isn’t dead, he escaped by some miracle.’
‘Who reported it?’
‘The Dijon gendarmerie. The man took himself to hospital for emergency treatment. The killer tried to hang him, but the victim managed to undo the knot.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He can’t speak yet. His trachea is damaged, he’s on a respirator until the swelling goes down. But he’s OK, he’ll survive. He can communicate by signs and he can write, but not much yet. The gendarmes examined the scene. It was in a garage, where our killer had forcibly dragged his victim.’
‘Why is he our killer? Why didn’t they think it was a suicide?’
‘Because they found the sign, in felt pen, on a petrol can. Red this time.’
‘Blue, white, red. The tricolour flag, the Revolution. This bastard’s playing games.’
‘Yes. According to the gendarmes, the victim, who’s a strong man, managed to reach a chain hanging from the ceiling. They found traces of it on his skin. By hauling himself up a bit, he succeeded in loosening the rope, then he was able to get his foot on a shelf, and undo the slipknot.’
‘His name?’
‘Vincent Bérieux. Forty-four, married, two children, works in computers. I’m sending you a photo. He’s got tubes everywhere, he’s lying in a hospital bed, not necessarily his usual appearance. But it gives a general idea.’
Adamsberg received the photo on his mobile. The man might correspond vaguely to the person Leblond had called ‘the cyclist’. Square head, regular features, quite good-looking, no particular expression, brown eyes looking blank, as well they might after such a shock. He called the number that François Château had given him for emergencies – ‘but don’t try to trace the number, commissaire, it’s not in my name’ – and forwarded the photo to him, telling him to send it on to Lebrun and Leblond, whether they were asleep or not.
Meanwhile, Zerk had warmed up the supper and poured out two glasses of wine. Adamsberg signalled his thanks as he next called the Dijon gendarmerie. He was put through to Brigadier-chef Oblat, who was handling the case.
‘I was expecting your call, commissaire. I’ve just been questioning the victim,’ said Oblat in a strong Burgundian accent. ‘We’re trying to understand what he says in sign language, and he can write a little. He was certainly attacked at about 7 p.m., and taken to the garage, where the rope and a chair had been prepared.’
‘Was the garage forced?
‘It wasn’t locked. It just has ordinary tools inside, DIY stuff.’
‘And does he know his attacker?’
‘He swears not. He said the attacker was a fat man, bordering on obese. Something like one metre eighty, or maybe less. That’s all we’ve got. He was wearing a mask and a white wig.’
‘White?’
‘Yes, and on the floor, under the rope, we found a lock of artificial white hair.’
‘Straight or curly?’ Adamsberg asked, at the same time obeying Zerk’s sign to start eating his potato ome
lette, before it got cold.
‘I didn’t ask. But the man was fat, that’s all we have really. Oh, another thing, under the mask he was wearing glasses. So a fat man with glasses. In a grey suit, totally nondescript.’
‘And nobody has noticed an unfamiliar car in –’ Adamsberg glanced at his notebook – ‘Vallon-de-Courcelles?’
‘We asked any residents who were still up. In these villages, if you haul people out of bed they won’t be very cooperative. We’ll see if we can get any witness statements in the morning. But of the thirteen people who weren’t asleep, nobody had noticed a strange car. I don’t think the attacker would have been so stupid as to park in front of the church, would he? He could just have left it somewhere out of the way and walked into the village. Here they all eat supper early and go to bed early, there isn’t a cat in the streets.’
‘A fat man with glasses, who’s prepared to walk a bit.’
‘Not much to go on, eh? We did look for fingerprints, but some guy who wears a mask and false wig is surely not going to forget to put gloves on. Shall we do the preliminaries or do you want to take it yourself?’
‘You have my full confidence, chief.’
‘Thanks, commissaire. Because, not meaning to criticise, but Paris tends to grab all our cases. Still, this is you, not Paris, right? Shall we get the felt pen analysed?’
‘Don’t bother. But do send me a photo of the sign, and some pictures of the crime scene.’
‘They’ve already gone off to your HQ, because we’d received your circular, so that’s why we were on the lookout. Disguised as a suicide, I thought, better look and see if there’s a sign. That’s when we found it on the petrol can. Not really hidden, but not that obvious either.’
‘Excellent work, chief. But send all that to me as well, on my personal email. I’ll spell it out for you. Is the victim under guard?’
‘Twenty-four/seven, yes, commissaire, for now. His best protection is if we can keep it out of the press. That way the killer won’t know that his attempt failed, and he won’t be back.’
‘It’ll give us a bit of breathing space, yes.’
‘But what does the sign mean? It looks like a sort of capital H.’