by Fred Vargas
‘Because he thinks the Frenchman and the Austrian who were murdered were from the Plogojowitz family.’
‘And you think that’s funny?’ exclaimed Danica, starting up. ‘Funny?’
‘Well, anyone would think that was funny, Danica, including the cops he works with in Paris.’
‘Vladislav Moldovan, you’ve not got the sense you were born with, just like your Dedo Slavko.’
‘So you’re just like all the others, are you? Ti to verujé? You won’t go near the place of uncertainty? You won’t go and visit the tomb of poor old Peter?’
Danica put her hand over his mouth.
‘Be quiet for the Lord’s sake, Vlad. What are you trying to do? Attract him here? It’s not just that you’ve got no manners but you’re stupid and presumptuous. And you’re a lot of things old Slavko wasn’t. Selfish, lazy and a coward. If Slavko was here, he’d go looking for your friend.’
‘What, at this time of night?’
‘And you’d let a woman go off on her own, in the dark, to look, would you?’
‘Danica, it’s dark, we can’t see a thing. Wake me in three hours’ time, then it’ll be getting light.’
By six in the morning, Danica had augmented the search party with the inn’s cook, Boško, and his son, Vukasin.
‘He knows the paths round here,’ she explained. ‘He had gone for a walk.’
‘Could have fallen in the river,’ said Boško, gloomily.
‘You go to the river,’ said Danica, ‘and Vladislav and I will take the woods.’
‘What about his mobile?’ wondered Vukasin. ‘Does Vladislav have the number?’
‘I tried,’ said Vlad, who still seemed to think it was a big joke. ‘And Danica kept on trying between three and five. Either he’s out of range or his battery’s dead.’
‘Or it’s in the river,’ said Boško. ‘There’s a dangerous bit of the path by the big rock a stranger might not know about. The planking isn’t safe. But tourists don’t think.’
‘What about the place of uncertainty?’ asked Vlad. ‘No one going there then?’
‘Just keep your jokes to yourself, young man,’ said Boško.
And for once the young man did shut up.
Danica didn’t know what to think. It was 10 a.m. now, and she was serving breakfast to the three men. She had to admit they might be right. They had found not a trace of Adamsberg. No sounds or cries had been heard. But the floor of the old mill had been trodden on – that seemed clear because the carpet of bird droppings had been disturbed. Then there were traces leading through the grass to the road, where tyre marks were clearly visible on the muddy ground.
‘You’d better relax, Danica,’ said Boško gently. He was a towering figure, his bald head balanced by a bushy grey beard. ‘He’s a policeman. He’s seen a thing or two and I expect he knows what he’s doing. He must have asked for a car and gone off to Beograd to see our policajci. You can bet on it.’
‘Just like that, without saying goodbye? He didn’t even call on Arandjel.’
‘That’s how they are, the policajci,’ Vukasin assured her.
‘Not like us,’ said Boško.
‘Plog,’ said Vlad, who was beginning to feel sorry for the good-hearted Danica.
‘Perhaps something urgent came up. He must have had to go off in a hurry.’
‘I could call Adrianus,’ Vlad suggested. ‘If Adamsberg has gone to see the Beograd cops, he’s sure to know about it.’
But no, Adrien Danglard had had no news of Adamsberg. More worrying still, Weill had been due to speak with him by phone at nine, but his mobile wasn’t answering.
‘No, his battery can’t have run down,’ Weill insisted to Danglard. ‘He didn’t have it on, it was a special phone just used between the two of us, and we’d only spoken once, yesterday.’
‘Well, he’s unreachable and unfindable,’ Danglard concluded.
‘Since when?’
‘Since he left Kisilova to go for a walk, at about five yesterday afternoon.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. I called the police in Belgrade, Novi Sad and Banja Luka. He hasn’t been in touch with any police force in the country. And they checked the local taxis – nobody has picked up a customer in Kisilova.’
When Danglard put the phone down, he was trembling and sweat was trickling down his back. He had spoken reassuringly to Vladislav, telling him that, with Adamsberg, an unexpected disappearance was not abnormal. But that wasn’t true. Adamsberg had now been missing for seventeen hours, overnight. He hadn’t left Kisilova, or he would have let someone know. Danglard opened the drawer of his desk and took out an unopened bottle of red wine. A good Bordeaux, high pH factor, low acidity. He made a face, put the bottle back crossly, and went down the spiral staircase to the basement. There was one last bottle of white, still tucked away behind the boiler. He opened it like a beginner, breaking the cork. He sat down on the familiar tea chest which he used as a seat and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Why, by all the saints, had the commissaire left his GPS behind in Paris? The signal was unmoving, coming from his house. In the cool cellar, smelling of damp and drains, Danglard felt he was losing Adamsberg. He should have gone to Kisilova with him, he knew it, and he’d said so.
‘What are you up to?’ came Retancourt’s throaty voice.
‘Don’t put the bloody light on,’ snapped Danglard. ‘Leave me in the dark.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘No news from him now, for seventeen hours. Vanished. And if you want my opinion, dead. The Zerquetscher has got him in Kiseljevo.’
‘What’s Kiseljevo?’
‘The mouth of the tunnel.’
Danglard pointed to another tea chest as if he were inviting her to take a seat in his salon.
XXXVII
HIS ENTIRE BODY WAS NOW SWATHED IN A SHROUD OF COLD and numbness, but his head was still working after a fashion. Hours must have passed, six perhaps. He could still feel the back of his head when he had the strength to move it against the ground. Try to keep the brain warm, try to keep the eyes working, by opening and shutting them. These were the last muscles he could still exercise. And he could slightly move his lips under the tape which had become a little looser with saliva. But why bother? What use were still-seeing eyes attached to a corpse? His ears could still hear. But there was nothing to hear, except the wretched mosquito buzz of his tinnitus. Dinh, now, he could waggle his ears but Adamsberg had never been able to. He felt that his ears would be the last bit of him left alive. They could flap about in this tomb like an ugly butterfly, nowhere near as pretty as that cloud of butterflies that had fluttered around his head until the doorway of the old mill. They hadn’t wanted to go in – he should have stopped to think and followed their lead. One should always follow butterflies. His ears picked up a sound from the direct ion of the door. It was opening. He was coming back! Anxious to see if the job had been properly done. If not, he’d finish it off in his own way, axe, saw, stone. He was the nervous type, he would worry; Zerk’s hands were always in motion, clenching and unclenching.
The door opened. Adamsberg shut his eyes to protect them from the shock of the light. Zerk closed the door very cautiously, taking his time, and then took out a torch to examine him. Adamsberg sensed the light playing across his eyelids. The man knelt down and pulled the tape roughly from his mouth. Then he felt his body, touching the tape wound round it. He was breathing heavily now, and feeling inside a bag. Adamsberg opened his eyes and looked at him.
It wasn’t Zerk. His hair wasn’t the same. Short and very thick with red tufts that showed up in the torchlight. Adamsberg knew only one man in the world with hair like that, dark brown but with auburn stripes, where he had been attacked with a knife when he was a child. Veyrenc. Louis Veyrenc de Bilhc. And Veyrenc had left the squad, after a long battle with Adamsberg. He had been gone for months, back to his village of Laubazac. He was paddling his feet in the streams of the Béarn, and not a word had been heard from him.
The man had taken out a knife and was now attacking the covering of tape that was compressing Adamsberg’s chest. The knife did not cut well and progress was slow, so the man was swearing and muttering. Not like the way Zerk muttered. Yes, it was indeed Veyrenc, now sitting astride him and tearing away at the tape. Veyrenc was trying to rescue him, Veyrenc was in the tomb in Kisilova. Inside Adamsberg’s head, a great bubble of gratitude formed towards this boy whom he had known from childhood, his enemy of yesterday, Veyrenc, In the night of the tomb, Thou who consolest me. Almost a bubble of passion: Veyrenc, the man who spoke in verse, the colossus with tender lips, the pain in the neck, the one and only. He tried to move his own lips and say his name.
‘Shut up,’ said Veyrenc.
The man from Béarn had managed to make an opening in the shell of duct tape, and was pulling at it with abandon, tearing out hairs from Adamsberg’s chest and arms.
‘Don’t try to talk, don’t make a sound. If it hurts that’s good, it means you can still feel something, but don’t cry out. Can you feel any bit of your body?’
Nothing, Adamsberg managed to mouth slightly moving his head.
‘Oh God, can’t you speak?’
No, Adamsberg managed the same way. Veyrenc was now working on the lower end of his mummified body, and gradually freeing his legs and feet. Then he impatiently chucked the mass of tape behind him and began slapping Adamsberg all over his body like a drummer embarking on a frantic improvisation. After about five minutes of this, he paused and stretched his arms to loosen them. Under his well-padded body, with its round contours, Veyrenc was actually very strong and Adamsberg could hear, without really feeling them, the slapping of his hands. Then Veyrenc changed his approach: he took hold of Adamsberg’s arms, bending and unbending them, did the same with his legs, then slapped him all over again, massaged his scalp and started back on the feet. Adamsberg moved his gelid lips with the feeling that he might begin to utter a few words.
Veyrenc cursed himself for not bringing any alcohol. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He felt without much hope in Adamsberg’s trouser pocket, and brought out two mobile phones and a mass of useless bus tickets. He picked up the shreds that remained of the jacket on the floor and felt in those pockets too: keys, contraceptives, ID card; then his fingers found some small bottles. Adamsberg had three miniature shots of brandy on him.
‘Froiss-y,’ Adamsberg whispered. Veyrenc didn’t seem to understand, as he put his ear to his lips.
‘Froi-ssy.’
Veyrenc had not known Froissy for long, but he got the message. Good old Froissy, what a woman, the goddess of plenty. He opened the first bottle, raised Adamsberg’s head and poured it in.
‘Can you swallow?’
‘Yes.’
Veyrenc poured in the rest of the bottle, unscrewed a second and put it to Adamsberg’s mouth, like an alchemist pouring a miracle cure into a large container. He emptied all three bottles and looked at Adamsberg.
‘Feel anything?’
‘In-side.’
‘Good.’
Veyrenc felt in his rucksack and pulled out his stiff hairbrush, carried because no comb would ever get through his thick hair. He rolled it in a strip of the torn shirt, and rubbed it over Adamsberg’s skin, as if he were curry-combing a horse.
‘That hurt?’
‘Just star-ting.’
For another half-hour, Veyrenc went on with his massaging, bending of limbs and curry-combing, asking all the time, which bit of him was coming back to life? Calves, hands, neck? The brandy had warmed his throat, and speech was returning.
‘I’m going to try and stand you up in a minute. You’ll never get your feet back otherwise.’
Bracing himself against a tomb, the solidly built Veyrenc pulled him upright with ease, and set him on his feet.
‘Can’t – feel – the ground.’
‘Stay standing, so the blood goes down to your feet.’
‘Not feet – horse’s hooves.’
As he helped Adamsberg to stay upright, Veyrenc flashed the torch around the vault for the first time.
‘How many corpses are there in here?’
‘Nine. One – undead. Vesna. Vampire. But – if you’re here – you must – know that.’
‘Me, I don’t know anything. No idea even who put you in this fucking tomb.’
‘Zerk.’
‘Never heard of him. Five days ago I was still in Laubazac. Keep the blood circulating.’
‘How – did you – get – here? Flew off – the mountain?’
‘Something like that. How are the hooves?’
‘One’s – coming – back. Think I can walk – a bit.’
‘You got a gun anywhere in this place?’
‘Kruchema. Inn. You?’
‘No, don’t have my service revolver any more. We’re going to need some reinforcements to get out of here. That guy came back four times in the night to check and listen at the door. I had to wait for him to go away for good, and I waited some more to be sure he wasn’t coming back again.’
‘Who will come out with us then? Ves-na?’
‘There’s light showing under the door, a gap of about half a centimetre. Should be able to get a signal. Stay here, I’m leaving you.’
‘Only – one foot. Bit – tipsy – brandy.’
‘You should be blessing that brandy.’
‘Oh – I am. Bless – you too.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry to bless me, you might regret it.’
Veyrenc lay down on the floor, pushed his phone against the door and checked it with the torch.
‘Yeah, I think I’m getting a signal. Have you got someone’s number in the village?’
‘Vlad-is-lav. On my – mobile. Speaks French.’
‘Good. What’s this place we’re in called?’
‘Tomb of the – victims. Of Plog-o-jo-witz.’
‘Charming,’ said Veyrenc, tapping in the number. ‘A serial killer or what?’
‘Chief vam-pire.’
‘Your pal isn’t answering.’
‘Keep – trying. What – time is it?’
‘Nearly ten.’
‘May – be – still – a bit high. Try – again.’
‘You trust him?’
One hand holding on to a tomb, Adamsberg was standing on one leg like a suspicious bird.
‘Yeah,’ he said in the end. ‘I – dunno. He laughs – a lot.’
XXXVIII
ADAMSBERG DROPPED HIS HEAD AS HE CAME OUT INTO THE sunlight, leaning on Veyrenc’s shoulder. As they emerged from the vault, Danica, Boško, Vukasin and Vlad watched, the first three dumbstruck with terror, and having crossed their fingers against any evil exhalations that might have accompanied the two men out. Danica was staring petrified at Adamsberg, seeing the green shadows under his eyes, the blue lips, pallid cheeks and the naked torso striped with red marks from the tape and bleeding in places from the hairbrush.
‘Come on,’ cried Vlad angrily, ‘just because they’ve been in there, they’re not the living dead. Help them, for God’s sake!’
‘No manners, you have,’ muttered Danica mechanically.
As she gradually saw signs of life in Adamsberg, she got her breath back. But who was the stranger, and what was he doing in the cursed tomb?
Veyrenc’s striped hair seemed to worry her even more than Adamsberg’s deathly aspect. Boško moved forward cautiously and took the commissaire’s other arm.
‘Jack-et,’ said Adamsberg, pointing to the door.
‘OK, I’ll get it,’ said Vladislav.
‘Vlad!’ shouted Boško, as Vlad made to move. ‘No son of the village goes in there. Send the foreigner.’
It was such a peremptory order that Vlad stopped in his tracks and explained the situation to Veyrenc. Veyrenc left Adamsberg to Boško and went back down the steps.
‘He’ll never get out alive,’ predicted Danica in her direst tones.
‘Why is his hair like that, all stripy like a wild boar?’ a
sked Vukasin.
Veyrenc was out in two minutes, carrying the torch and what remained of the tattered jacket and shirt. He pushed the door closed with his foot.
‘We ought to lock it,’ said Vukasin.
‘Arandjel’s the only person with a key,’ said Boško.
In the following silence, Vlad translated the exchange between father and son.
‘The key’ll be no use,’ said Veyrenc. ‘I broke the lock when I picked it.’
‘I’ll come back and block it up with rocks,’ muttered Boško. ‘I don’t know how this man spent a night there without getting eaten alive by Vesna.’
‘Boško is wondering if Vesna touched you,’ Vlad explained. ‘Some people think she comes out of her coffin, but others think she’s just munching and sighing in the night to frighten the living.’
‘Maybe – she sighed,’ said Adamsberg. ‘The sighs – of the – saint and the – cries of the siren. She didn’t – wish me – harm, Vlad.’
* * *
Danica brought out some bowls and filled them with fritters.
‘If his foot doesn’t wake up, it will get gangrene and have to be cut off,’ said Boško bluntly. ‘Light the fire, Danica, and get him to warm it up. And some hot coffee with rakija. And for heaven’s sake let’s get a shirt on his back.’
They moved Adamsberg’s foot closer to the fire, and brought him coffee laced with rakija. His brush with death had put unprecedented thoughts into Adamsberg’s head, which did not in any way lessen his warm feeling for this little village lost in the mists of the Danube. On the contrary, he was ready to leave his own country, leave his beloved mountains even, leave for good, and end up here in the mists, if perhaps Veyrenc would stay too, and a few other people: Danglard, Tom, Camille, Lucio and Retancourt. The fat office cat would have to be transported to Kisilova, along with the photocopiers. And Émile too – why not? But the thought of the Zerquetscher propelled him back into the centre of Paris, Zerk in his grisly death’s head T-shirt, and all the blood in the villa at Garches. Danica was rubbing his numb foot with alcohol in which she had been steeping herbs, and he wondered quite what she was expecting to happen. He hoped that her affection ate gestures were going unnoticed.