by Fred Vargas
‘But in that case, why would Lina mention the names of the army’s two other hostages?’
‘To add credibility. She’s as cunning as a weasel, although she makes out she’s just a simple country girl. The Riders often seize several people, she knows all that. By naming a few others, she muddies the waters. That’s what I thought, anyway. And I was absolutely sure of it.’
‘But it’s not what happened.’
‘No.’
Émeri stubbed out his cigarette against the wall, and dropped the fag end between two stones.
‘That’s enough now,’ he said. ‘Instead of that, he topped himself.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Émeri in exasperation, and moving to address Adamsberg familiarly as ‘tu’. ‘What have you got against me? You don’t know anything about this case, you don’t know the people around here, you waltz down from your capital city without warning and start giving orders.’
‘Not my capital city. I’m from the Béarn.’
‘I don’t give a damn where you’re from.’
‘And they weren’t orders.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next, Adamsberg. You’re going to get back on the train, I’m going to file this as suicide, and it will be forgotten in a few days. Unless of course you’re determined to ruin my career with your suspicions of murder. Something you’ve conjured out of thin air.’
Thin air: his mother had always said that a current of thin air went through Adamsberg’s head, from one ear to the other. With that kind of wind blowing through, no idea can remain in place for a moment, let alone become fixed. Adamsberg knew that, and distrusted himself.
‘I have absolutely no intention of ruining your career, Émeri. All I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d get some protection for the next one on the list. The glazier.’
‘The stained-glass man.’
‘Right. Put him under protection.’
‘If I did that, Adamsberg, I’d be walking off a cliff. You still don’t understand? It would mean I didn’t believe in Herbier’s suicide. Which I do believe in. If you want my opinion, Lina had every reason to drive that guy to suicide. And maybe she did it quite deliberately. And there, yes, I could open an inquiry. Driving someone to suicide. The Vendermot kids have very good reasons for wanting Herbier to rot in hell. Their father and Herbier were such a pair of villains it was a moot point which one was worse.’
Émeri had started walking again, hands in pockets, spoiling the cut of his uniform.
‘They were friends, you said?’
‘Like that,’ Émeri replied, showing two crossed fingers. ‘They say Vendermot père had an Algerian bullet lodged in his skull and that explained his outbursts of violence. But when he was with his pal, the sadist Herbier, they egged each other on, no question. So trying to terrorise Herbier and drive him to suicide would be a sweet revenge for Lina. Like I said, she’s cunning. Her brothers are too, though they’re all damaged in some way.’
They had arrived at the highest point in Ordebec, from where one could see the little town and its fields. The capitaine pointed to the east.
‘The Vendermot house,’ he said. ‘The shutters are open, they must be up and doing. Léo’s statement can wait, I’m going over to talk to them. When Lina isn’t there, it’s easier to get the brothers to talk. Especially the one made of clay.’
‘Made of clay?’
‘You heard. Crumbly clay. Believe me, just get on the train and forget them. If there’s one thing that’s true about the Chemin de Bonneval, it’s that it can drive people nuts.’
IX
On the hill overlooking Ordebec, Adamsberg found a wall in the sun, and sat down on it cross-legged. He took his shoes and socks off, and gazed at the pale green rolling hills, the cows standing like statues in the fields as if they were landmarks. It was perfectly possible that Émeri was right, quite on the cards that Herbier had shot himself in the head, having been terrified by the arrival of the dark horsemen. True, aiming a shotgun at yourself from several centimetres away didn’t make a lot of sense. It would be more sure and more natural to put the barrel in your mouth. Unless, that is, as Émeri had suggested, Herbier wanted to make some kind of expiatory gesture. Killing himself like he did the animals, shooting himself full in the face. But was that man capable of remorse, of a guilty conscience? Above all, was he someone who could be scared by the Riders to the point of suicide? Well, yes. The black cavalcade with its mutilated and stinking corpses had been roaming the region of Ordebec for centuries. It had dug deep pits into which anyone, even the most sensible, might suddenly tumble and remain captive.
A message from Zerk told him that Hellebaud was now drinking water without help. Adamsberg took a few seconds to recall that that was the name of the pigeon. There were also several messages from the squad: analysis had confirmed the presence of breadcrumbs in the throat of the victim, Tuilot, Lucette, but none in her stomach. It was a clear-cut case of murder. The little girl with the gerbil was recovering in the hospital in Versailles, and the so-called great-uncle had regained consciousness and was now under guard. Retancourt had sent a more alarming text message, in capital letters: MOMO QUESTIONED, CHARGES IMMINENT, WE HAVE ID OLD MAN IN CAR, BIG SCANDAL, CALL BACK SOONEST.
Adamsberg felt a prickling at the back of his neck, a feeling of irritation, perhaps one of the little bubbles of electricity Émeri had talked about. He rubbed his neck as he called Danglard’s number. It was 11 a.m. and the commandant ought to be at his desk. A bit early for him to be operational, but he ought to be there.
‘What are you still doing out in the sticks?’ Danglard asked in his usual grumpy morning voice.
‘They found the hunter’s body yesterday.’
‘Yes, I saw about that. And it’s none of our business. Get out of that goddam grimweld before it swallows you up. There’s trouble here. Émeri can manage perfectly well without us.’
‘He’d certainly like to. He’s OK, not uncooperative, but he wants me back on the next train. He thinks it’s suicide.’
‘That would be good news for him. Best outcome really.’
‘Yes. But this old woman Léo, whose house I stayed in, was convinced it was murder. She is to the town of Ordebec what a sponge is to water. She’s been absorbing everything for eighty-eight years.’
‘And when you squeeze her, she tells you?’
‘Squeeze her?’
‘Like a sponge.’
‘No, she’s careful, not a gossip, Danglard. She takes seriously the butterfly wing that moves in New York and causes an explosion in Bangkok.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘No, that was Émeri.’
‘Well, he’s wrong. It’s in Brazil that the butterfly moves its wing, and it causes a hurricane in Texas.’
‘Does that make any difference, Danglard?’
‘Yes. Because once you get away from the original words, the purest of theories just become rumours. Then we don’t know anything. From one approximation to another inaccuracy, the truth unravels and obscurantism takes over.’
Danglard’s mood was improving, as it did every time he had a chance to give a lecture, or better still to contradict someone with his knowledge. The commandant wasn’t a chatterbox, but silence wasn’t good for him either, because it offered too much room for his melancholy to take over. Sometimes it just took a few exchanges to hoist Danglard out of his despondency. Adamsberg was putting off the moment of mentioning Momo the local fire-raiser, and so was Danglard, which was not a good sign.
‘There must be several versions of the butterfly story.’
‘No,’ said Danglard firmly. ‘It’s not a fable, it’s a scientific theory about predictability. It was formulated by Edward Lorenz in 1972 in the version I gave you. The butterfly’s in Brazil and the hurricane’s in Texas, you can’t go altering that.’
‘All right, Danglard, let’s leave it alone. So what the heck is Momo being questioned for?’
‘He was picked up this morning. The petrol corresponds to the kind he uses.’
‘Exactly?’
‘No, not as much oil. But it certainly was two-stroke, the kind you put in a moped. And Momo has no alibi for the night of the fire, nobody saw him. He claims some guy arranged to meet him in some park to talk to him about his brother. Momo says he waited two hours and when no one turned up he went home.’
‘That’s not enough grounds to arrest him, Danglard. Who took the decision?’
‘Retancourt.’
‘Without your permission?’
‘With. There were footprints all round the car from trainers with petrol on the soles. And this morning we found the shoes showing traces of petrol in a plastic bag at Momo’s place. No arguing with that, commissaire. Momo just keeps stupidly saying they’re not his. His defence is completely hopeless.’
‘Are his prints on the bag and the shoes?’
‘We’re waiting for the analysis. Momo says they will be, because he’d handled them. Because he found the bag in his cupboard and looked to see what was in it. Or so he says.’
‘Right size?’
‘Yes, 43.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything, average size.’
Adamsberg rubbed the back of his neck again to try and catch the bubble of electricity wandering about there.
‘It gets worse,’ Danglard went on. ‘The old man hadn’t slipped down in the seat, he wasn’t asleep. He was sitting upright in the passenger seat when the fire began. So the arsonist must have seen him. We’re moving away from a manslaughter charge.’
‘Were they brand new?’ Adamsberg asked.
‘Were what brand new?’
‘The shoes.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘Tell me, commandant, why would Momo have set fire to a car and at the same time made a mess of his new shoes, and if he did, why didn’t he get rid of them? Did you look at his hands? Were there traces of petrol on them?’
‘Forensics are expected any minute now. We’ve had instructions to move fast. Look, when you hear the name you’ll know why we had to get a move on. The old man who died was Antoine Clermont-Brasseur.’
‘No less,’ said Adamsberg after a silence.
‘You’ve got it,’ said Danglard gravely.
‘And Momo just came across him by chance?’
‘What kind of chance would that be? If he killed Clermont-Brasseur, he’d be striking a blow at the heart of capitalism. Perhaps that’s what he wanted.’
Adamsberg let Danglard go on talking for a few moments, while putting his socks and shoes back on with his other hand.
‘Has the examining magistrate been informed?’
‘We’re just waiting for the results of the tests on Momo’s hands.’
‘Danglard, whatever the result, don’t ask for the charges to be lodged yet. Wait for me.’
‘I don’t see how we can. If the judge finds out we’ve dragged our feet, with a name like Clermont-Brasseur, the minister will be down on us within the hour. The prefect’s chief of staff has already called for information. He wants the murderer under lock and key within twenty-four hours.’
‘Who’s in charge of the Clermont industrial group now?’
‘The father was still holding two-thirds of the shares. His two sons have the rest between them. That’s putting it simply. In fact the father had two-thirds of the building and metal industry. One of the sons has the majority in the IT sector and the other handles the property development. But overall, the old man was in charge, and he didn’t want his sons running it on their own. There’d been rumours over the last year that Antoine had started to make some blunders, and that the older son, Christian, was thinking of getting power of attorney in order to protect the group. The old man was furious and had made up his mind to marry his housekeeper next month: she’s from Ivory Coast, forty years younger than him, and she’s been looking after him and sharing his bed for the last ten years. She’s got two children, a son and daughter, and old Antoine was planning to adopt them. It may have been pure provocation perhaps, but the determination of an old man can be a hundred times more implacable than the passion of a young one.’
‘And you checked the alibis of the sons?’
‘Total veto,’ said Danglard between clenched teeth. ‘They’re too shocked to talk to the police, we’ve been asked to wait.’
‘Danglard, which technician is the lab sending us?’
‘Enzo Lalonde. He’s good. Don’t go there, commissaire. The ground under our feet is already starting to smoulder.’
‘Don’t go where?’
‘Anywhere.’
Adamsberg ended the call, rubbed his neck, and flung out his arm towards the hills to throw the bubble of electricity into the landscape. It seemed to work. He walked quite quickly through the little streets of Ordebec, his laces trailing, heading straight for a telephone box he had noticed on the way from Léo’s house to the town centre. A cabin that was not overlooked at all, surrounded by giant hogweed plants. He called the lab and asked to speak to Enzo Lalonde.
‘Don’t worry, commissaire,’ said Lalonde at once, apologetically. ‘I’ll be over there in forty-five minutes. I’m on my way now.’
‘No, that’s just it, I don’t want you to be on your way. You’ve been held up at the lab, then your car won’t start, you’ve got stuck in traffic, if possible an accident, something like a headlight against a lamp post would be ideal. Or a bumper. I’ll let you improvise, I gather you’re a bright lad.’
‘Something wrong, commissaire?’
‘I need time. Do the analysis as late as you can, then say that some accidental contamination has ruined it and you’ll have to start again tomorrow.’
‘Commissaire,’ said Lalonde after a silence, ‘do you realise what you’re asking me to do?’
‘Just a few hours, no more. On the orders of your superior and in the interests of the investigation. The man under arrest is going to prison in any case. But you can just give him an extra day.’
‘I don’t know, commissaire.’
‘Never mind, Lalonde, no offence taken. Put Dr Roman on and forget this conversation. Roman will do it.’
‘Look, all right, commissaire,’ said Lalonde after another silence. ‘But to ask a favour in return, I was the one who picked up this business with the string round the pigeon’s feet. Can you give me some extra time too? I’ve got a lot on my plate.’
‘As much as you like. Just find some way.’
‘There are scraps of skin on the string. The kid must have scraped his fingers on it, maybe even grazed them. So you need to find someone with a barely visible lesion in the fold of the index finger. But the string might tell you more. It’s unusual.’
‘Good, good,’ Adamsberg congratulated him, sensing that the young Enzo Lalonde was trying to make him forget his earlier reluctance. ‘Now, whatever you do, don’t call me on my mobile or at the squad HQ.’
‘Understood, sir. But one more thing. I can hold back the results till tomorrow. But I will never falsify the results of an analysis. Please don’t ask me to do that. If the guy’s had his chips, I can’t help it.’
‘No, no. No question of falsifying anything. You’re sure to find traces of petrol on his fingers, whatever happens. And it’ll be the same as on the shoes, because he’s handled them and the same too as was found at the scene of the fire. He’s going to be banged up, no matter what.’
And then everyone will be happy, thought Adamsberg, hanging up and wiping his prints off the receiver with his shirt tail. And young Momo will see his destiny ahead of him, signed, sealed and delivered.
* * *
Léone’s farmhouse was now visible in the distance and Adamsberg suddenly stood still, listening. The clear air carried to his ears a long whining sound, the cry of a dog in distress. Adamsberg started running down the road.
X
The dining-room door was wide open. Sweating, Adamsberg stepped into the dark
little room, then stopped short. Léone’s long thin body was stretched out on the stone flags, her head in a pool of blood. At her side, Fleg was lying down, whining, one large paw on the old woman’s waist. Adamsberg felt as if a wall was falling inside him from his head to his stomach and crumbling into his legs.
Kneeling by Léone, he put his hand to her neck and wrists, but couldn’t feel the slightest pulse. It wasn’t a simple fall, someone had killed her, having banged her head savagely against the stone floor. Pounding his fist on the ground, he felt himself groan aloud with the dog. The body was warm, the attack could have been carried out only a few minutes before. Perhaps he had even disturbed the killer with the sound of his steps on the pebbles in the path. He opened the back door, looked quickly over the deserted surroundings and ran to the neighbours to get the number of the gendarmerie.
Adamsberg waited for the cops to arrive, sitting cross-legged alongside Léo. Like the dog, he put one hand on her body.
‘Where’s Émeri?’ he asked the officer who came in, accompanied by a woman who had to be the police doctor.
‘He’d gone to see the crazies. He’s on his way.’
‘Ambulance,’ the doctor ordered urgently into her phone. ‘She’s still alive. But maybe only for a few minutes. She’s in a coma.’
Adamsberg looked up. ‘I couldn’t feel a pulse,’ he said.
‘It’s very weak,’ said the doctor, a woman of about forty, attractive and brisk in manner.
‘When did it happen?’ asked the gendarme, waiting for his boss to arrive.
‘Only a few minutes before you reported it,’ said the doctor. ‘No more than five perhaps. She must have hit her head when she fell.’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg, ‘someone banged her head on the floor.’
‘Did you move her?’ asked the woman. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘No, I didn’t move her, I’m a cop myself. Look at the dog, doctor, he can’t stand up. He was defending Léo and the killer must have hit him.’