by Fred Vargas
Roman laughed, rather cheerfully.
‘Because she wasn’t as good at spotting it as I am. Ariane’s very good, but her father wasn’t a barber. Mine was. I can spot when a lock of hair has been freshly cut. The ends are different – clean, not split. Can’t you see that here?’
‘No.’
‘Well, your father wasn’t a barber either.’
‘No.’
‘Ariane has another excuse. Elisabeth Châtel, from what I’d guess, didn’t pay much attention to her looks. Am I right?’
‘Yes. She didn’t use make-up, didn’t wear jewellery.’
‘And she didn’t go to the hairdresser. She cut her hair herself and made a bit of a mess of it. If her fringe was in her eyes, she picked up the scissors and cut it, just like that. So her hair is all different lengths, some long, some short, some medium. It would be pretty impossible for Ariane to spot which locks had been freshly cut in the middle of that mishmash.’
‘We were working at night under arc lamps.’
‘That would be another reason. And in the case of Pascaline, it’s hard to see anything.’
‘And you told Retancourt all this on Friday?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Nothing. She looked thoughtful, like you. I don’t think it makes that much difference to your inquiry, though.’
‘Except that now we know why she opens graves. And why she needs to kill a third virgin.’
‘You really think that?’
‘Yes. By three, the number of women.’
‘Possibly. You’ve identified the third?
‘No.’
‘Well, look for a woman with a good head of hair. Both Elisabeth and Pascaline had plenty of hair. Get me to my bedroom, mon vieux, I can’t take any more.’
‘I’m really sorry, Roman,’ said Adamsberg, standing up abruptly.
‘Doesn’t matter. But while you’re looking through those old remedies, try and find one against the vapours for me.’
‘I promise,’ said Adamsberg as he helped Roman towards the bedroom. The doctor turned his head, intrigued by Adamsberg’s tone.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
XLV
RETANCOURT’S DISAPPEARANCE, PLUS THE NIGHT-TIME COFFEE HE HAD drunk with Roman, the tender lovemaking of Camille and Veyrenc, the quick of virgins, and Roland’s thuggish face had all disturbed Adamsberg’s sleep. Between two shuddering bouts of wakefulness, he had dreamed that one ibex – but which one, the brown or the ginger? – had gone crashing down the mountain. The commissaire woke feeling sick and aching. An informal conference, or rather a sort of funeral session, had spontaneously opened that morning at the Serious Crime Squad. The officers were all hunched over on their seats, cramped with anxiety.
‘None of us has voiced it,’ Adamsberg began, ‘but we all know Retancourt hasn’t wandered off, or been hospitalised, or lost her memory. She’s fallen into the hands of our maniac. She left Dr Roman knowing something we didn’t know. That the “quick of virgins” means their hair, and that the murderer opened the graves to cut it off their corpses, because it’s the only part of the body that resists decomposition. On the dexter, in other words on the right side of the skull, which is positive compared with the left. And she hasn’t been seen since. So we might deduce that, after leaving Roman, she understood something that took her straight to the killer. Or else something that sufficiently worried the angel of death that she decided Retancourt must disappear.’
Adamsberg had deliberately chosen the word ‘disappear’ as being more evasive and optimistic than ‘die’. But he had no illusions about the nurse’s intentions.
‘With that stuff about the “quick of virgins”,’ said Mordent, ‘and nothing else, Retancourt must have understood something we still haven’t worked out.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Where did she go next, and what did she do to alert the killer?’
‘Well, the only way is to try and work out what she understood,’ said Mordent, rubbing his forehead.
There was a discouraged silence and several hopeful faces turned towards Adamsberg.
‘I’m not Retancourt,’ he said, with a shake of his head. ‘I can’t reason as she would, nor can any of you. Even under hypnosis, or catalepsy, or in a coma, nobody knows how to merge themselves with her in spirit.’
The word ‘merge’ sent Adamsberg’s thoughts back to the Quebec expedition, when he had indeed had to merge his body with his lieutenant‘s impressive bulk. The memory made him tremble with chagrin. Retancourt, his tree. He had lost his tree. Suddenly he raised his head and looked round at his motionless colleagues.
‘Yes,’ he said in a near-whisper, ‘there is just one of us who might have merged in spirit with Retancourt, to the point of being able to find her.’
He stood up, still hesitating, but a kind of light dawned on his face.
‘The cat,’ he said. ‘Where’s the cat?’
‘Behind the photocopier,’ said Justin.
‘Hurry up,’ said Adamsberg in a frantic voice, going from chair to chair and shaking his officers as if he were waking soldiers in his exhausted army. ‘We’re all so stupid. I’m so stupid. The Snowball will lead us to Retancourt.’
‘The Snowball?’ said Kernorkian. ‘But that cat’s a waste of space.’
‘The Snowball,’ Adamsberg pleaded, ‘is a waste of space who adores Retancourt. The Snowball wants nothing more than to find her. And the Snowball is an animal. With a nose, sensory organs, a brain as big as an apricot, stuffed with a hundred thousand smells.’
‘A hundred thousand?’ said Lamarre sceptically. ‘Could the Snowball cope with a hundred thousand smells?’
‘Yes, perfectly. And if he remembered only one, it would be Retancourt’s.’
‘Here’s the cat,’ announced Justin, and doubt returned to all minds as they saw the beast draped like a flaccid dishcloth over the lieutenant’s arm.
But Adamsberg, who was pacing up and down at a frantic speed in the hall, refused to give up his idea, and was issuing his battle orders.
‘Froissy, put a transmitter round the cat’s neck. You haven’t taken the material back yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good, go ahead. Powerful as you can make it, Froissy. Justin, organise two cars and two motorbikes, on the right frequency. Mordent, call the préfecture and get them to send a helicopter to our courtyard, with all the necessary. Voisenet and Maurel, move all the cars out of the yard so it can land. We’ll need a doctor with us and an ambulance following us.’
He looked at his watches.
‘We’ve got to be ready to go in an hour. Me, Danglard and Froissy in the helicopter, two teams in the cars, Kernorkian and Mordent, Justin and Voisenet. Bring something to eat, we won’t be stopping. Two men on bikes, Lamarre and Estalère. Where is Estalère, anyway?’
‘Up there’, said Lamarre, pointing to the ceiling.
‘Well, fetch him down here,’ said Adamsberg, as if referring to a parcel.
A febrile physical agitation, a chaos of rapid movements and shouted orders, nervous queries and footsteps thundering up and down stairs transformed the squad’s headquarters into a battle station before an assault. The sounds of people puffing, snorting and running about were drowned by the throbbing of the fourteen police cars as they were driven out of the large courtyard to make room for the helicopter. The old wooden staircase leading to the top floor had one step at the turn a couple of centimetres lower than the others. This anomaly had caused many a fall when the squad had first moved in, but people had got used to it. Now, in their impatience, two men, Maurel and Kernorkian, crashed downstairs.
‘What the heck’s all that din?’ asked Adamsberg, hearing the fracas above his head.
‘Just someone falling downstairs,’ answered Mordent. ‘The chopper’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Estalère’s on his way down.’
‘Has he eaten?’
/> ‘No. Not since yesterday. He slept here.’
‘Give him something to eat, then. Have a look in Froissy’s cupboard.’
‘Why do you need Estalère?’
‘Because he’s a specialist on Retancourt, a bit like the cat.’
‘Estalère did say something about it,’ Danglard confirmed. ‘He said she was looking for something intellectual.’
The young brigadier approached the group. He was trembling. Adamsberg put his hand on his shoulder.
‘She’s already dead,’ said Estalère in a defeated voice. ‘After all this time, it stands to reason she’s dead.’
‘Yes, it stands to reason, but Retancourt’s a woman beyond the bounds of reason.’
‘But she’s mortal.’
Adamsberg bit his lip.
‘What’s the chopper for?’ asked Estalère.
‘The Snowball won’t stick to roads. He’ll go through houses and gardens, and across roads, fields and woods. We won’t be able to keep up with him in a car.’
‘She’s far away,’ said Estalère. ‘I can’t feel her near us any more. The Snowball won’t be able to go that far. He’s got no muscles, he’ll just collapse on the way.’
‘Have something to eat, brigadier. Do you feel strong enough to ride a motorbike?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Give the cat something to eat, too. Plenty of it.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ said Estalère, in a tragic voice. ‘We don’t actually know that Retancourt was on to something. The maniac might not have been after her just to shut her up.’
‘What for, then?’
‘I think she’s a virgin,’ whispered the brigadier.
‘I thought of that too, Estalère.’
‘She’s thirty-five, and she was born in Normandy. and she has lovely hair. I think she could be the third virgin.’
‘But why her?’ asked Adamsberg, though he already knew the answer.
‘To punish us. By taking Violette, the killer would get hold of …’
Estalère hesitated and hung his head.
‘… the material she needs,’ Adamsberg completed his sentence. ‘And at the same time, she’d be striking us in the heart.’
Maurel, his knee still sore after falling downstairs, was the first to stop his ears as the helicopter arrived, flying in over the roof. The other officers all lined up at the windows, hands over ears, watching the large grey and blue machine gently lower itself into the courtyard. Danglard went over to Adamsberg.
‘I’d rather go in the car,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘I’d be no use to you in the helicopter, I’d just be ill. I have enough problems in lifts.’
‘Swap with Mordent, then, capitaine. Are the men ready with the cars?’
‘Yes. Maurel’s waiting for a word from you to open the door and let the cat out.’
‘What if he just goes for a piss in the yard?’ said Justin. ‘That’s the kind of thing he’d normally do.’
‘He’ll get back to his normal self when he finds Retancourt,’ Adamsberg pronounced.
‘Forgive me for raising this’, said Voisinet, with some hesitation. ‘But if Retancourt’s already dead, will he still be able to smell his way towards her?’
Adamsberg clenched his fists.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Voisenet. ‘But it really is important.’
‘There are still her clothes, Justin.’
‘Voisenet,’ Voisenet automatically corrected him.
‘Clothes keep their smell for a long time.’
‘Yes, OK.’
‘She may be the third virgin. That may be why she’s been taken.’
‘Yes, I thought of that too,’ said Voisenet. ‘But if so, you could call off the search in Normandy.’
‘Already done.’
Mordent and Froissy joined Adamsberg, ready for the signal to leave. Maurel was carrying the cat in his arms.
‘He won’t be able to damage the transmitter with his claws, will he, Froissy?’
‘No, I’ve protected it.’
‘Right, Maurel, get ready. As soon as the chopper’s gained some height, release the cat. And as soon as the cat goes, give the signal to the cars.’
Maurel watched the team go out, bowing their heads as they ran under the rotor blades of the helicopter, which had begun to rev up. The machine hoisted itself jerkily into the air. Maurel put the Snowball down so that he could cover its ears from the noise of the engine and the cat flattened itself against the ground like a pool of fur. Adamsberg had said ‘release the cat’ the same way one might say ‘release the torpedo.’ But the lieutenant was sceptical as he picked the animal up and headed for the doorway. The soft mass in his arms didn’t exactly look like a guided missile.
XLVI
FRANCINE NEVER GOT UP BEFORE ELEVEN. SHE LIKED TO LIE FOR A LONG time under her blankets in the morning, when all the night-time creatures were back in their holes.
But a sound had bothered her last night, she recalled. She pushed back the old eiderdown – that would have to go as well, with all the dust mites that must be living under its yellow silk – and looked round the room. She immediately discovered what it was. A sliver of cement blocking a crack under the window had fallen out and was lying in fragments on the floor. Daylight was visible between the wall and the wooden surround of the window.
Francine went to take a closer look. Not only would she have to block the hateful crack up again but she would have to think. How and why had the cement fallen out? Could some creature from the outside have pushed its snout into the crack, or tried to break in by knocking the wall? If so, what could it be? A wild boar, perhaps?
Francine sat back on the bed, with tears in her eyes and her feet lifted well off the floor. If only she could go to a hotel until the flat was ready. But she had done her sums and it would be far too dear.
She wiped her eyes and put on her slippers. She’d lived for thirty-five years in this tumbledown old farm, so she’d manage for another two months. She didn’t have any choice. She would have to wait, counting the days. She cheered herself up with the thought that it would soon be time to go to the pharmacy. And this evening, after blocking up the hole, she’d go to bed with her coffee and rum and watch another film.
XLVII
IN THE HELICOPTER HOVERING OVER THE ROOFS OF THE OFFICE, ADAMSBERG was holding his breath. The little red light from the cat’s transmitter was quite visible on the screen, but it wasn’t moving an inch.
‘Shit,’ muttered Froissy through clenched teeth.
Adamsberg spoke into his radio.
‘Maurel? Have you let him go?’
‘Yes, commissaire. He’s sitting on the pavement. He went about four metres to the right of the door, then he sat down. He’s watching the traffic.’
Adamsberg let the mike fall on to his knees and bit his lip furiously.
‘Look, he’s moved,’ announced the pilot, Bastien, a man overweight to the point of obesity but who was flying the helicopter with the casual grace of a pianist.
Adamsberg leaned towards the screen, his gaze riveted to the little red light which was indeed starting to move off slowly.
‘He’s going towards the Avenue d’Italie. Keep following him, Bastien. Maurel, tell the cars to start.’
At ten past ten, the helicopter was flying due south over the southern part of Paris, like a great insect tied to the movements of a soft furry cat, quite unfitted to the outdoor life.
‘He’s turning south-west, he’s going to cross the ring road,’ said Bastien. ‘The traffic’s at an absolute standstill, there’s a big tailback.’
‘Please don’t let Snowball get run over,’ prayed Adamsberg rapidly, addressing his prayer to he knew not who, now that he had lost sight of his third virgin. ‘Let him be a cunning animal.’
‘He’s across,’ announced Bastien. ‘He’s going into the suburbs. He’s found his cruising rhythm now, he’s almost running.’
Adamsberg glanced in wonder at Mord
ent and Froissy, who were craning over his shoulder to see the red point moving on the screen.
‘He’s almost running,’ he repeated, as if to convince himself of this unlikely development.
‘Nope, now he’s stopped,’ said Bastien.
‘Cats can’t run for long,’ said Froissy. ‘He might do it a bit now and then, but no more.’
‘He’s off again, steady rhythm again.’
‘How fast?’
‘Two, three kilometres an hour. He’s heading for Fontenay-aux-Roses at a steady trot.’
‘Cars, make for the D77, Fontenay-aux-Roses, still south-west.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Danglard as he took the car on to the D77.
‘Eleven-fifteen,’ said Kernorkian. ‘Perhaps he’s just looking for his mother.’
‘Who?’
‘The cat.’
‘Grown-up cats don’t recognise their mothers, they don’t give a damn.’
‘Well, what I mean is that the Snowball could be taking us absolutely anywhere. Perhaps he’s taking us to Lapland.’
‘Not if he’s going south.’
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Kernorkian. ‘All I meant was –’
‘Yes, I know what you meant,’ Danglard cut him off. ‘You just meant we don’t know where the fucking cat’s going, we don’t know if he’s going after Retancourt, we don’t know if Retancourt’s alive or dead. Hell’s bells, Kernorkian, we don’t have any choice.’
‘Head for Sceaux,’ came Adamsberg’s voice over the radio. ‘Take the D67 via the D75.’
‘He’s slowing down,’ said Bastien. ‘He’s stopping. Perhaps he’s taking a rest.’
‘If Retancourt’s in Narbonne,’ muttered Mordent, ‘we’ve got a long way to go yet.’
‘Hell, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She might not even be in Narbonne, at that.’
‘Sorry, said Mordent. ‘It’s just nerves.’
‘I know, commandant. Froissy, have you got anything to eat there?’
The lieutenant felt in her backpack.
‘What do you want? Sweet or savoury?’
‘What kind of savoury?’
‘Paté?’ guessed Mordent.