by Fred Vargas
The commissaire walked into Veyrenc’s hospital room at lunchtime. The patient was gloomily considering a bowl of soup and a pot of yogurt on a tray in front of him.
‘Got to eat,’ said Adamsberg, sitting down by the bed. ‘No choice.’
Veyrenc nodded and picked up a spoon.
‘When your childhood memories come to the surface, Veyrenc, it gets risky. For everyone. You had a narrow escape.’
Veyrenc lifted the spoon, then put it down again, staring at his bowl of soup.
‘My soul is divided by a cruel stroke of fate.
My honour persuades me to bless the man who rode
To save me from the blows of unspeakable hate.
Yet my heart still rebels and cannot shed its load
Of resentment at him, from whom this bounty flowed.’
‘Yes, that is indeed the problem. But I’m not asking for anything from you, Veyrenc. And I’m no better placed than you are. I’ve saved the life of a man who may ruin my own.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because you’ve taken from me what I hold most dear.’
Veyrenc raised himself on one elbow, with a grimace of pain that pulled his crooked lip upwards.
‘Your reputation? I haven’t done anything to harm that yet.’
‘What about my woman? Seventh floor, door facing the stairs.’
Veyrenc fell back against the pillows, open-mouthed.
‘I wasn’t to know,’ he said in a low voice.
‘No. Nobody knows everything, perhaps you should try to remember that.’
‘It’s like in the story,’ said Veyrenc after a silence.
‘What story?’
‘The king, who sent one of his generals into battle and certain death, because he loved his wife.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Adamsberg, sincerely. ‘I’m tired. Who loved who?’
‘Once upon a time, there was this king,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Yes.’
‘And he was in love with the wife of this other guy.’
‘Right.’
‘So the king sent the other guy off to war.’
‘Right.’
‘And the guy got killed.’
‘I see.’
‘So the king took the woman.’
‘Well, that’s not the same as me.’
The lieutenant stared at his hands, concentrating and far away.
‘But you could have.
In the dark of the night, my lord, there came a time
To rid your sight of one whose presence was a crime.
Death lay in wait at last for him who wished you ill,
And who in love and war, is now your rival still.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Adamsberg.
‘What pity, what concern, made you reign your wrath in,
And led you to rescue the man behind the sin?’
Adamsberg shrugged his shoulders, which were aching with fatigue.
‘You were tailing me?’ asked Veyrenc. ‘Because of her?’
‘Yes.’
‘You recognised the guys in the street?’
‘When they pushed you into the car,’ Adamsberg lied, choosing to keep quiet about the microphones.
‘I see.’
‘We’re going to have to understand each other, lieutenant.’
Adamsberg got up and closed the door.
‘We’re going to let Roland and Pierrot get away. Without a policeman on duty outside their room, they’ll take the first opportunity to make a run for it.’
‘A present?’ asked Veyrenc, with a fixed smile.
‘Not for them, for us, lieutenant. If we press charges, there’ll be accusations and a trial, yes? You agree?’
‘I should certainly hope there will be a trial. And sentences.’
‘They’ll defend themselves, Veyrenc. Their lawyers will argue for self-defence.’
‘How could they make that out? They held me up at gunpoint in my flat.’
‘By claiming that it was you who killed Fernand and Big Georges and that you were planning to kill them too.’
‘But I didn’t kill those others,’ said Veyrenc sharply.
‘And I didn’t attack you on the High Meadow,’ said Adamsberg, equally sharply.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Nobody’s prepared to believe anyone else. And none of us can prove any of the accusations we make – it’s one man’s word against another’s. The jury will have no more reason to believe you than them. Roland and Pierrot could get away with it, believe me, and that could leave you in even bigger trouble.’
‘No,’ said Veyrenc. ‘They wouldn’t be able to prove it, so there would be no verdict against me.’
‘No, but you’d have a new reputation, lieutenant, and there’d be rumours. Did he kill those two other guys or not? The suspicion will stick to you like a tick. And you’ll still be scratching away at it in sixty years’ time, even if you’re acquitted.’
‘I see,’ said Veyrenc, after a pause. ‘But why should I trust you? What’s in this for you? You want to fix their escape, so they can start again another time?’
‘You’re still harking back to that, Veyrenc? Do you really think it was me that sent Roland and Pierrot after you last night? And that that’s why I was downstairs outside your house?’
‘Well, I have to consider the possibility.’
‘Why would I have saved you, then?’
‘In order to cover yourself, for a second attack that would succeed.’
A nurse breezed in and put two tablets in a cup on the night table.
‘Painkillers,’ she said. ‘To be taken with meals, there’s a good boy.’
‘Come on, swallow them down,’ said Adamsberg, handing them over. ‘Take them with a spoonful of soup.’
Veyrenc obeyed, and Adamsberg put the cup back on the tray.
‘Yes, that does make sense,’ said the commissaire, returning to sit down and stretching his legs. ‘But it’s not true. Sometimes an untruth can be very convincing, and still not be true.’
‘Well, what is the truth?’
‘I’ve got a personal reason for wanting them to escape. I didn’t tail you, lieutenant, I put a bug on you. I bugged your mobile phone and your car.’
‘You went that far?’
‘Yes. And I should prefer that not to get known. If there’s a prosecution, it will all come out – phone-tapping, the lot.’
‘Why, who’s going to tell them?’
‘The officer who installed it on my orders. Hélène Froissy. She trusted me and did what I asked. She thought she was acting in your own best interests. She’s an honest woman and she’ll tell the truth if the magistrate asks her.’
‘I see,’ said Veyrenc carefully. ‘So it’s in both our interests.’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s not so easy, escaping from here,’ objected Veyrenc. ‘They can’t get out of the hospital without attacking the duty policemen. That wouldn’t look good. And you’d be suspected, or at best accused of negligence.’
‘Yes, they will attack a couple of policemen. I’ve got a couple of youngsters who’ll swear blind that the criminals knocked them to the ground.’
‘Estalère?’
‘Yes, and Lamarre.’
‘But why would Roland and Pierrot try to escape? They probably think it’s impossible to get out of the hospital. There could be more police at the exits.’
‘They’ll escape because I’ll tell them to.’
‘And they’ll obey you.’
‘Of course.’
‘And who says they won’t try it on again?’
‘I do.’
‘So you’re still giving them orders, commissaire?’
Adamsberg stood up and went round the bed. He looked at the temperature chart: 38.8 degrees.
‘We’ll talk about it again, Veyrenc, when we can each listen to what the other one’s saying. When your fever has gone down.’
XLI
&n
bsp; THREE DOORS AWAY FROM VEYRENC, IN ROOM 435, ROLAND AND PIERROT were bargaining aggressively with the commissaire. Veyrenc had dragged himself painfully, step by step, to the doorway and, sweating with pain, strained his ears to pick up snatches of their conversation.
‘You’re bluffing,’ said Roland.
‘You ought to be thanking me for offering you a way out. Otherwise you’re looking at ten years minimum for you, and three for Pierrot. Shooting at a policeman’s a serious offence – they won’t show you any mercy.’
‘Carrot Top was out to kill us,’ said Pierrot. ‘It was legitimate self-defence.’
‘Anticipated self-defence,’ said Adamsberg. ‘And where’s your proof, Pierrot?’
‘Don’t listen to him, Pierrot,’ said Roland. ‘Carrot Top’s going to jail for murdering the others, plus intent to murder us, and we’ll get off with compensation, plenty of cash.’
‘No, that’s not what’s going to happen,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You’re going to make yourselves scarce, and you’re going to keep your mouths shut.’
‘Why?’ asked Pierrot, distrustfully. ‘What’s the catch, if you get us out of here? I smell a bloody great rat.’
‘Course you do. But the rat’s my business. You disappear, a long way off, and we hear no more from you, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘What’s the catch?’ Pierrot repeated.
‘I’ll tell you what the catch is. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll make public the name of the guy who paid you off all those years ago. And I don’t think he’ll much appreciate the publicity, thirty-four years on.’
‘What do you mean, paid us off?’ asked Pierrot, in genuine surprise.
‘Ask Roland,’ said Adamsberg.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Roland. ‘He’s a fucking tosser, always was.’
‘The deputy mayor in those days, remember him? In charge of planning and also a wine-grower. You know who I mean, Pierrot. And now he’s boss of a big building firm, isn’t he? He paid the gang a big advance to beat up the Veyrenc kid. With the rest to come after you got out of the reformatory. That’s why Roland’s got a chain of hardware stores, and that’s why Fernand was swanning about in the South of France.’
‘What money? I didn’t get any!’ yelled Pierrot.
‘No, neither did Big Georges. Roland and Fernand pocketed the lot.’
‘You bastard,’ hissed Pierrot.
‘Shut up, motherfucker,’ growled Roland.
‘Say it isn’t true, then,’ Pierrot demanded.
‘He can’t,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Because it is true. The deputy mayor was after all the vines of the Veyrenc de Bilhc appellation. He wanted to force a sale and threatened Veyrenc’s father if he wouldn’t play ball. But Veyrenc Senior hung on. So our man organised a gang attack on the little kid, knowing that the father would give in out of fear.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,’ said Roland. ‘You can’t know all that stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t normally, no. Because you’d sworn secrecy to that bastard in the town hall. Only everyone always tells one person their secret, Roland, so you told your brother. Who told his girlfriend. Who told her cousin. Who told her best friend. Who told her boyfriend. Who happened to be my brother.’
‘Roland, you fucking bastard,’ said Pierrot from his bed.
‘I couldn’t put it better myself,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So now do you understand that if you don’t do as I say, and if you touch a hair of Veyrenc’s head, brown or ginger, I’ll publicise the name of your contact in the town hall. Who will have ways of taking care of you. So what’s your decision?’
‘We’ll go,’ muttered Roland.
‘Good. And you’d better not damage the looks of the two cops on duty, because they know the score. You can make it look convincing, but don’t hurt them.’
In the corridor, Veyrenc shrank back inside his door. He managed to reach his bed just before Adamsberg came out of Room 435. Veyrenc lay back on the bed, exhausted. He had never known exactly why his father had agreed to sell the vineyard in the end.
XLII
‘AND NOW THE WISE OLD CHAMOIS DID SOMETHING MONUMENTALLY stupid, out of jealousy, although he’d read all the books there were. He went and found two big wolves, who were unfortunately very mean and nasty. “Watch out for the ginger ibex,” he said, “he’s going to attack you with his horns.” No sooner said than done. The two wolves attacked the ginger ibex. They were very hungry and would have gobbled him all up, and he would never have been heard of again. And then the brown ibex would have been able to get on with his life in peace, without his rival, and had fun with the marmots and squirrels. And the girl ibex. But no, Tom, that’s not how it worked out, because life is more complicated and so is the inside of an ibex’s head. So the brown one went charging after the two wolves, and smashed their jaws. And they ran away without asking for more. The ginger one had been bitten on his leg, so the brown one had to look after him. He couldn’t let him die, now could he, Tom? And all this time, the girl ibex was hiding. She didn’t want to have to choose between the brown ibex and the ginger one, that upset her. So the two ibex sat down on their chairs and smoked their pipes and had a chat. But all the same, they would have attacked each other with their horns over the slightest thing. Because one thought he was right and the other one was wrong. And the other one thought he was telling the truth and the other one was lying.’
The baby put a finger on his father’s eye.
‘Yes, Tom, it is difficult. It’s a bit like the opus spicatum, with fishbones going one way and another. And then Third Virgin, who lived all by herself in a nice little rabbit hole with her gerbils, appeared on the scene. She lived on dandelions and plantains, and she was very scared, because a tree had nearly fallen on her. Third Virgin was very tiny, she drank a lot of coffee, and didn’t know how to protect herself against the evil spirits of the forest. So Third Virgin called for help. But some of the other ibex got cross, they said Third Virgin didn’t exist, and they weren’t going to get involved. So the brown ibex said, “OK, let’s just drop it.” Look, Tom, I’m going to do it again.’
Adamsberg rang Danglard’s number.
‘Capitaine, I’m still educating my little one. Once upon a time, there was a king.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was in love with the wife of one of his generals.’
‘Yes.’
‘So he sent his rival off into battle, knowing that he would be killed.’
‘Correct.’
‘Danglard, what was the king called?’
‘David,’ said Danglard, in a hollow voice, ‘and the general he sacrificed was called Uriah. David married his widow, who became Queen Bathsheba, mother of the future King Solomon.’
‘See, Tom, how simple it is,’ said Adamsberg to his son, who was snuggled up on his stomach.
‘Are you saying that for my benefit?’ asked Danglard.
Adamsberg sensed the lifelessness in his deputy’s voice.
‘If you think it was me that got Veyrenc set up to be killed,’ Danglard went on, ‘you’re quite right. I could say I didn’t mean it to happen, and I could swear that I had no idea that’s how it would turn out. But so what? Who would ever know whether I didn’t really want it to happen, deep down?’
‘Capitaine, don’t you think we worry enough about what we really do think, without having to worry about what we might have thought if we did think it?’
‘Maybe,’ said Danglard, in a barely audible voice.
‘Listen, Danglard, he’s not dead, nobody’s dead. Except perhaps you, drinking yourself to death in your sitting-room.’
‘I’m in the kitchen.’
‘Danglard?’
No answer.
‘Danglard, get a bottle of wine and come over here. I’m on my own with Tom. Saint Clarisse has popped out for a walk. With the tanner, I dare say.’
The commissaire hung up so that Danglard couldn’t refuse. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘remember the very wise
chamois, who had read all those books? And had done something very stupid? Well, the inside of his head was so complicated that he got lost inside it himself in the evenings. And sometimes during the day as well. And not all his wisdom and knowledge helped him to find a way out. So then the ibex had to throw him a rope and pull hard to get him out of it.’
Adamsberg suddenly looked up at the ceiling. From the attic came a slight sound, as of a robe swishing over the ground. So Saint Clarisse had not popped out to see the tanner after all.
‘It’s nothing, Tom. A bird or the wind. Or a rag blowing over the floor.’
In order to sort out the inside of Danglard’s head, Adamsberg made a good fire in the grate. It was the first time he had used the fireplace, and the flames rose up high and clear without smoking out the room. This was how he intended to burn the Unsolved Question about King David, which was clogging up his deputy’s head, spreading doubts into all its corners. As soon as he came in, Danglard sat down by the fire alongside Adamsberg, who added log after log to the fire to reduce his anguish to ashes. At the same time, without telling Danglard, Adamsberg was burning the last traces of his resentment of Veyrenc.
Seeing the two ruffians from Caldhez again, hearing Roland’s vicious voice, had brought the past back to mind, and the cruel attack in the High Meadow reappeared to him in full colour. The scene played itself out from start to finish before his eyes, in screaming detail. The little kid on the ground, held down by Fernand, while Roland approached with a piece of broken glass. ‘Not a peep out of you, you little shit.’ The panic of little eight-year-old Veyrenc, his head bleeding, his stomach slashed, in unspeakable pain. And himself, young Adamsberg, standing motionless under the tree. He would give a lot not to have lived through that scene, so that this unfinished memory would stop pricking him thirty-four years later. So that the flames would burn away Veyrenc’s persistent trauma. And, he caught himself thinking, well, if being in Camille’s arms could help Veyrenc get rid of it, so be it. On condition that the damned Béarnais didn’t take his territory. Adamsberg threw another log on the flames and smiled vaguely. The territory he shared with Camille was out of Veyrenc’s reach. He needn’t worry.