by Fred Vargas
The line was engaged. He sat on the edge of the bed, chewing the rest of his bread, and tried again ten minutes later. Still engaged. Chatting to Veyrenc, no doubt. The transmitter with its regularly flashing red light offered a last temptation. He switched it on with a brusque gesture.
Nothing, except the sound of the television and a vacuum cleaner. Adamsberg turned up the sound. Veyrenc was listening to a discussion about jealousy, by some irony of fate, while vacuuming his room. To be listening to this programme in his house through Veyrenc’s set, and indirectly in his company, seemed somewhat pernicious. A psychiatrist was explaining the causes and effects of compulsive possessiveness and Adamsberg, stretching out drowsily on his bed, was relieved to find that in spite of his recent attack of jealousy he displayed none of the symptoms described.
A shout awoke him suddenly. He jumped up to turn off the television in his room, which was now blaring out.
‘Don’t move, motherfucker!’
Adamsberg took three paces into the room, having already realised his mistake. It wasn’t his own television but the transmitter which was sending him a gangster film directly from Veyrenc’s flat. Sleepily, he reached out to turn it off, but halted when he heard Veyrenc reply to the previous speaker. And Veyrenc’s voice was too distinctive to be that of a television actor. Adamsberg looked at his watches. Two in the morning. Veyrenc had a nocturnal visitor.
‘You gotta gun?’
‘My service revolver.’
‘Where?’
‘On the chair.’
‘We’re taking that, right?’
‘Is that what you want? Weapons?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think anything.’
Adamsberg hurriedly rang the squad.
‘Maurel, who’s there with you?’
‘Mordent.’
‘Get over to Veyrenc’s flat this instant – he’s had a break-in, there are two of them, they’re armed. Quick as you can, Maurel, they’re threatening him.’
He rang off and called Danglard, while trying to do up his shoelaces with the other hand.
‘Well, think a bit, then, mate.’
‘Can’t remember, eh?’
‘Sorry, am I supposed to know you?’
‘Well, we’ll soon get your memory back for you. Put your clothes on, it’ll look better.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re going for a little ride. You’re going to drive, and we’ll tell you where to go.’
‘Danglard? Two guys are threatening Veyrenc in his flat. Get over to the squad and take over the phone tap. Don’t leave it on any account. I’m on my way.’
‘What phone tap?’
‘Bloody hell, the one on Veyrenc!’
‘I don’t have his mobile number – how can I put a tap on him?’
‘I’m not asking you to do it but to take it over. The gear’s in Froissy’s cupboard, the one on the left. Get a move on, for Christ’s sake, and call Retancourt.’
‘Froissy’s cupboard’s locked, commissaire.’
‘Get the spare key from my drawer, for God’s sake,’ cried Adamsberg, as he ran downstairs.
‘Right,’ said Danglard.
There was a phone tap, there was a hold-up, and as he hurriedly pulled on his shirt Danglard trembled, as he understood why. Twenty minutes later, he was switching on the receiver, kneeling in front of Froissy’s cupboard. He heard running footsteps as Adamsberg arrived behind him.
‘Where are they now?’ the commissaire asked. ‘Have they left the house?’
‘No, not yet. Veyrenc’s deliberately taking his time getting dressed and finding his car keys.’
‘They’re taking his car?’
‘Yes. He’s found the keys now, the men were getting –’
‘Shut up, Danglard.’
The two men knelt down and leaned to listen to the transmitter.
‘No, sonny, just leave your mobile here. Think we’re stupid?’
‘They’ve ditched the mobile,’ said Danglard. ‘We’ll lose their signal now.’
‘Switch on that other mike.’
‘What other mike?’
‘The one for the car, dammit! And switch on the screen – we’ll be able to follow them with the GPS.’
‘Nothing showing. They must be between the flat and the car.’
‘Mordent?’ Adamsberg was calling. ‘They’re down in the street outside his house.’
‘We’re only just getting to the corner of the street, sir.’
‘Shit.’
‘There was an accident at Bastille and a big tailback. We put on the siren but it was chaos.’
‘Mordent, they’re going to take him in his car. You’re going to follow them via the GPS.’
‘But I don’t have his wavelength.’
‘No, but I do. I’ll guide you. Keep the line open. Which car are you in?’
‘The BEN 99.’
‘I’ll send you the sound through your radio.’
‘What sound?’
‘Their conversation inside the car.’
‘Right.’
‘There they are,’ whispered Danglard, ‘They’re moving off now, east towards the rue de Belleville.’
‘I can hear them,’ said Mordent.
‘And not a peep out of you, you little shit. Put your seat belt on, and keep both hands on the wheel. Go to the ring road. We’re going out to the suburbs – you’ll like that, won’t you?’
‘Not a peep out of you, you little shit.’ Adamsberg recognised this sentence. From a long time ago, in a high meadow. He clenched his teeth and gripped Danglard’s shoulder.
‘Sweet Jesus, capitaine, they’re going to kill him.’
‘Who is?’
‘Them. The Caldhez gang.’
‘Step on it, Veyrenc, faster’n that! It’s a cop car isn’t it, motherfucker? You can go fast as you like! Put the lights and siren on so they get out of our fucking way.’
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘Don’t try to be smart, motherfucker, we’re not going to fuck about all night.’
‘Motherfucker, fucking, that’s all they can say,’ groaned Danglard, sweating profusely.
‘Shut up, Danglard. Mordent, they’re on the ring road, heading north. They’ve got the lights flashing, you should be able to spot them.’
‘I can hear the siren, yeah.’
‘ … Fernand and Big Georges. Remember now? Or did you forget you bumped them off?’
‘I’m just remembering.’
‘Took your time, didn’t you? Need us to remind you who we are now?’
‘No. You’ve got to be the other little bastards from Caldhez. Roland and Pierrot. But anyway, I didn’t kill those other pieces of shit. Your Fernand and Big Georges.’
‘You won’t get out of it like that, Veyrenc. We told you we weren’t going to fuck about. Straight on, we’re going to Saint-Denis. You bumped them off, and Roland and me, we’re not going to twiddle our fucking thumbs waiting for you to come after us.’
‘I told you, I did not kill them.’
‘Shut your face. We’ve got ways of knowing, don’t try and tell me different. Turn right here and shut the fuck up.’
‘Mordent, they’re going past the cathedral in Saint-Denis.’
‘We’re just reaching it now.’
‘Keep north, Mordent, north.’
Adamsberg, still on his knees in front of the receiver, was pressing his fist against his lips, pushing at his teeth.
‘We’ll get them,’ said Danglard mechanically.
‘They’re fast workers, capitaine. They can kill without even noticing it. Shit, now due west, Mordent. They’re going towards those big building sites.’
‘OK, commissaire, I can see their lights. They’re about two hundred and fifty metres ahead.’
‘Get ready – they’re probably going to drag him on to some building site. Once they’re out of the car I won’t be able to hear them.’
Ad
amsberg pressed his fist against his mouth again.
‘Danglard, where’s Retancourt?’
‘Don’t know, she wasn’t at home.’
‘I’m going to Saint-Denis. Keep track of the GPS and switch it to my car.’
Adamsberg ran out of the building, while Danglard tried to stretch his aching knees. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he limped to a chair and pulled it over towards the little cupboard. A pulse was beating in his temples, giving him a piercing headache. He was going to be responsible for Veyrenc’s death, just as surely as if he had pulled the trigger. It was he who had taken the decision, on his own initiative, to warn Roland and Pierrot to be on guard, telling them that their two friends had been killed. He hadn’t mentioned Veyrenc’s name, but even people of their limited intelligence wouldn’t take long to put two and two together. Not for a moment had Danglard imagined that they would take the risk of going for Veyrenc. The real idiot was him, Danglard. And he was the real bastard, too. Contemptible jealousy at being ousted had driven him to a lethal decision, taken without foreseeing the consequences. Danglard jumped as he saw the luminous dot on the screen come to a stop.
‘Mordent, they’ve stopped. Rue des Ecrouelles, about halfway along. They’re still in the car. Don’t show yourself.’
‘We’re forty metres behind. We’ll do the rest on foot.’
‘It’s not going to hurt you one little bit. Pierrot, wipe the prints off the car. Nobody’ll know what the fuck you were doing out at Saint-Denis, nobody’ll know why you died on a building site. And that’ll be the last we hear of you, Veyrenc, and your fucking hair. And if you make a sound, it’s quite simple – you’re dead sooner.’
Adamsberg was driving at top speed, sirens screaming, along the almost empty ring road. Oh God, please let him … For pity’s sake. He didn’t believe in God. OK, the third virgin, then, the one he did believe in. Please get Veyrenc out of this alive. Please, please. It must have been Danglard, Christ Almighty, there couldn’t be any other explanation. Danglard, who had thought he had to go and warn the other two in the Caldhez gang, to protect them. Without telling him. Without knowing what they were capable of. He, Adamsberg, would have been able to tell him that Roland and Pierrot were not the sort to sit and wait for someone to threaten them. They were bound to react immediately and blindly.
‘Mordent?’
‘They’re into the site. We’re going in. Bit of a struggle. Veyrenc’s elbowed one of them in the belly, he’s down. No, he’s up, again, still got the gun. The other’s grabbed Veyrenc.’
‘Shoot, Mordent.’
‘Too far away. Fire in the air?’
‘No – if they hear that they’ll shoot too. Get closer. Roland likes talking, he likes showing off, it’ll slow them down a bit. At twelve metres, shine a torch and fire.’
Adamsberg came off the ring road. If only he hadn’t told this damned story to Danglard. But he had done the same as everyone else. He had revealed his secret to one person. One too many.
‘What I’d really like, I’d like to get you back on the High Meadow. But I’m not that fucking stupid, Veyrenc, I’m not going to help the cops to work it out. And what about your boss, eh? Did you ask him what he was doing there? Wouldn’t you like to know, eh? You make me laugh, Veyrenc, you’ve always made me laugh.’
‘Thirteen metres,’ whispered Mordent.
‘Go for their legs.’
Adamsberg heard three shots over his car radio. He hurtled into Saint-Denis at a hundred and thirty kilometres an hour.
Roland had collapsed, hit in the back of the knee, and Pierrot had wheeled round. The gamekeeper was facing them, brandishing his gun. Roland let off a clumsy shot, hitting Veyrenc in the thigh. Maurel aimed at the gamekeeper and hit his shoulder.
‘The two men are down and held, sir. One hit in the arm, the other in the knee, Veyrenc’s taken a hit in the leg. Situation under control.’
‘Danglard, send two ambulances.’
‘They’re already on their way,’ said Danglard in a hollow voice. ‘Bichat Hospital.’
Five minutes later, Adamsberg raced on to the muddy building site. Mordent and Maurel had dragged the three wounded men on to dry ground, and laid them on sheets of corrugated iron.
‘That’s a nasty wound,’ said Adamsberg, leaning over Veyrenc. ‘Bleeding like hell. Give me your shirt, Mordent, I’ll try and tourniquet it. Maurel, you take Roland, he’s the bigger one, immobilise his knee.’
Adamsberg tore Veyrenc’s trouser leg and tied the shirt tightly round his thigh above the wound.
‘That’ll probably wake him up at least,’ said Maurel.
‘Yeah, he always faints, but he’ll come out of it, he’s like that. Veyrenc, can you hear me? Grip my hand if you can.’
Adamsberg repeated it three times, before at last feeling Veyrenc’s fingers tighten.
‘OK, Veyrenc, now open your eyes,’ Adamsberg said, tapping his cheeks. ‘Come on, open your eyes. Tell me if you can hear me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Say something.’
Veyrenc opened his eyes wide. His gaze fell on Maurel, then on Adamsberg, uncomprehendingly, as if he was expecting his father to take him to hospital in Pau.
‘They came for me,’ he said, ‘the Caldhez gang.’
‘Yes, Roland and Pierrot.’
‘They came over the rocks by the chapel in Camalès, they came to the High Meadow.’
‘We’re in Saint-Denis,’ Maurel broke in anxiously. ‘We’re in the rue des Ecrouelles.’
‘Don’t worry, Maurel,’ said Adamsberg. ‘It’s a childhood memory. Come on, Veyrenc,’ he went on, shaking him. ‘High Meadow, is it? Remember now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Four boys. What about the fifth, where is he?’
‘Up by the tree, he’s their leader.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Pierrot, with a cackle. ‘Their leader. Ha!’
Adamsberg left Veyrenc and approached the two men, who were lying down handcuffed a few feet away.
‘Well, well, look who’s here,’ said Roland.
‘Glad to see me, are you?’
‘You bet. Always in the fucking way.’
‘Tell him the truth about the High Meadow. Tell Veyrenc what I was doing under the tree.’
‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ Roland said tauntingly. ‘Wouldn’t be here otherwise, would he?’
‘You’ve always been a little shit, Roland. And that’s God’s truth.’
Adamsberg saw the blue lights of the ambulances approach, lighting up the fence of the site. The paramedics loaded the men on to stretchers.
‘Mordent, I’m going with Veyrenc. Can you go with the others? They’ve got to be put under police guard.’
‘Commissaire, I’m minus my shirt.’
‘Take Maurel’s. Maurel, you can take my car back to headquarters.’
Before the ambulances had left, Adamsberg had time to call Hélène Froissy.
‘Froissy, I’m sorry as hell to get you out of bed. But can you go and strip out all the bugging equipment, first from the office, then from my house. Then go out to Saint-Denis, rue des Ecrouelles. You’ll find Veyrenc’s car there – clean it all out.’
‘Can’t it wait a few hours?’
‘Froissy, I wouldn’t be calling you at three in the morning if it could wait a single minute. Lose the lot.’
XL
THE SURGEON WALKED INTO THE WAITING ROOM AND LOOKED AROUND TO see which one was the commissaire de police waiting for news of the three men with bullet wounds.
‘Where is he?’
‘Over there,’ said the anaesthetist, pointing to a small dark man who was fast asleep, stretched out across two chairs, with his head resting on his jacket for a pillow.
‘If you say so,’ said the surgeon, and shook Adamsberg by the shoulder.
The commissaire sat up, felt his aching back, rubbed his face, and ran his hands through his hair. Ready for the day, thought the surgeon, but then he hadn’t had time
to shave either.
‘They’re OK, all three of them. The knee injury will need physiotherapy, but the kneecap wasn’t touched. The shoulder wound’s almost nothing, he can go home in a couple of days. The one with the thigh injury’s lucky, it was pretty close to an artery. He’s feverish, and he’s talking in verse.’
‘What about the bullets?’ asked Adamsberg, shaking out his jacket. ‘I hope they haven’t been mixed up?’
‘No, each one in a box, labelled with the bed number. What happened?’
‘Hold-up at a cash machine.’
‘Oh,’ said the surgeon, disappointed. ‘Money’s the root of all evil, I suppose.’
‘Where’s the knee injury?’
‘In Room 435 with the shoulder.’
‘And the thigh?’
‘Room 441. What happened to him?’
‘The one with the knee injury shot him.’
‘No, I meant his hair.’
‘Oh, that’s natural. Well, a sort of natural accident.’
‘I’d call that an intradermic keratin variation. Very rare – exceptional, really. Do you want some coffee? A bit of breakfast? You look rather pale.’
‘I’ll find a machine,’ said Adamsberg, standing up.
‘The coffee in the machine’s horse piss. Come with me, I’ll fix you up with something.’
As doctors tend to be obeyed, Adamsberg went off docilely behind the man in the white coat. Have something to eat. Have something to drink. You’ll feel better soon. Stumbling a little, Adamsberg had a quick thought for the third virgin. It was midday, nearly time for lunch. No need to feel scared now, things would be all right.