This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

V

  The news – without further explanation – that Carvin was to be taken into custody immediately, on a charge of murder, had preceded the two men by the time they returned to the squad’s headquarters. Still smelling strongly of fish, the large open-plan room was buzzing, none of the officers sitting at their desks. They were all on their feet, arguing, debating, wondering. How had Adamsberg managed this, when he’d only just returned from the fogs of the north? It was the fingernails, someone said, he asked to see the man’s nails. No, it was when he viewed the guys being questioned, he read it in their faces. What about the windscreen, there was all that stuff about the windscreen, wasn’t there? Yeah, but look, what was there on the windscreen of the 4x4? Nothing at all, in the end. The officers were divided between relief that there was an outcome, and frustration, as if the carpet had been pulled from under their feet far too quickly, without explanation, and with no time to anticipate how it would end. Adamsberg had arrived back only that morning, not having bothered to read the report – that much was clear to them all, though no one had said anything – and now, at seven in the evening, the curtain had come down suddenly, in a confusing welter of acts and questions.

  Danglard and Retancourt both invariably deplored this kind of confusion. Leaders of the pragmatic branch of the squad, believers in linear logic and rational calculation, they were annoyed at the way Adamsberg had conducted the day’s work, pursuing his haphazard inquiries, with few words to anyone. Even if there was a result – as it now seemed – the commissaire’s methods of operation always seemed erratic to them, quite the opposite of their Cartesian approach. But this evening, Danglard made no objection, since he was still on a high after his victorious joust with Maître Carvin – which had earned him a memorable success with the team, when they watched the video. As for Retancourt, her double satisfaction at seeing Adamsberg again and learning that Rögnvar, back in Grimsey, had carved her portrait on an oar, prevented her from voicing any criticism. She could still hear in her head the voice of the crippled fisherman in that inn in Iceland on their last day, she could still see his hand, gripping her knee. ‘Listen to this, Vióletta, listen carefully. No, don’t write it down, you’ll always remember it.’ Rögnvar, the anti-positivist par excellence, Rögnvar, the crazy man, the weirdo. And at that moment at least, she had loved him, with his long, matted blond hair, his weather-beaten wrinkles and his missing leg.

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg walked across the room, specks of earth in his hair, and smudges of dirt on his trousers. His eyes now showed marks of fatigue. He wedged himself upright against a table, and Estalère instinctively hurried to fetch him a coffee. The boss might do things slowly, without saying much, he might seem all over the place, but days like that can wear you out. In the young man’s view, wandering about and jumping from one thing to another was more tiring than going in a straight line.

  ‘I’ll just take a couple of minutes to fill you in,’ Adamsberg began. ‘There was a little dirt in the corners of Carvin’s fingernails, on the thumbs and the ring fingers, and it seemed out of place for a man like that. But you already knew that.’

  ‘No, commissaire, we didn’t know about that,’ Retancourt interrupted him.

  ‘Yes, you did, lieutenant,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh. ‘I didn’t make a secret of it. I told Lieutenant Froissy about it, because I wanted enlargements of the photographs showing his hands. Keep each other in the picture, I can’t talk to everyone individually about every detail. So, dirt then, and in my view it was probably earth. Because Carvin’s spare car keys were nowhere to be found. As you knew, Retancourt, because we’d had a word about it. And you said, “Our spare car keys turn us all into idiots.” If we lose them, we get distraught, it’s as if some safety barrier has collapsed. Many people would think that to chuck them in the Seine would be too painful. And Maître Carvin is the kind of man who takes a shower, not a bath. An action man, always in a hurry.’

  ‘Excuse me, commissaire,’ said Mercadet.

  ‘Excuse you for what?’

  ‘The shower?’

  ‘A shower is less efficient at getting ingrained dirt out than a bath, which soaks everything away. Carvin had to lose his spare car keys so that he could accuse Bouzid of taking them. But why actually throw them away, if he could find some other way to keep them? If he could find a hiding place that would be inexpugnable – is that the right word, Danglard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks. Well, of course, he couldn’t hide the keys at home, or in his chambers. And the idea of hiding something usually suggests burying it. A simple but excellent idea. Bury the keys in the earth under the chestnut tree opposite his windows. Covered by the grid. A very good plan. If it hadn’t been for the little residue of earth under his nails, it would never have occurred to me. If it was me, I’d have thrown the keys away. Lamarre and Kernorkian, when Carvin gets here, take samples of the matter under his fingernails, so that we can get it analysed and compare it with the earth still attached to the keys. The spare keys were luckier than the wife: he wanted to save his own life, but not his wife’s. There are men like that, who have a talent for making choices.’

  Voisenet brought out the evidence bag from his rucksack and passed it round. ‘Take care,’ he warned them, ‘don’t rub the earth off the keys.’

  ‘But what about the windscreen?’ asked Justin. ‘We didn’t know anything about the windscreen.’

  ‘Oh really, Justin? But I told you about the gravel chippings, on a section of road that we knew the 4x4 had travelled. I told you, Danglard, and I told you too, Retancourt. Dammit all, why don’t you pass things on? And I did say that just as there are no two dandelions alike, there are no two motorists alike. Didn’t I? So it was easy enough to see why I took Carvin and Bouzid both out in a car, to see how they would drive when they reached the gravel.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said Lamarre frankly, twisting a button on his jacket, always the same one.

  Lamarre, who was diffident, and had retained from his time in the gendarmerie a painful military stiffness, was honest to the point of blundering, and readily admitted that he couldn’t follow a train of thought, a confession many others preferred to avoid. In this, he was a valuable asset, because, like Estalère, he saved his colleagues from asking a lot of foolish questions.

  ‘We’d checked the 4x4 inside out,’ Adamsberg said. ‘But we didn’t bother with the windscreen, because normally no one touches the windscreen.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said Lamarre.

  ‘Gravel chippings, windscreen, what do drivers do about them?’

  Lamarre remained for a moment head down and his clenched fist against his mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ he began slowly, ‘you mean people that when they’re driving over gravel, put a finger on the windscreen, in case bits jump up, to reduce the impact? I’ve got an uncle does that.’

  ‘Well, that’s what Bouzid does too. A careful, almost nervous driver. He puts his fingers on the windscreen, though actually no one knows if that does any good. Everyone has their own little ways.’

  ‘Well, I do that too,’ said Justin. ‘You don’t think it works?’

  ‘Never mind whether it works or not, Justin, you’re still going to do it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  ‘I had Bouzid drive over the route twice. And both times, he put his fingers on the windscreen when we drove over that stretch of gravel, even though he was talking a lot, and thinking about other things. It was a pure reflex action.’

  ‘And Carvin?’

  ‘Well, of course, he’s a fast, aggressive, show-off sort of driver. He doesn’t bother putting his fingers on the glass. He likes making the gravel fly.’

  ‘Lots of people like that,’ remarked Danglard. ‘It’s a nice noise.’

  ‘And the inside surface of a windscreen,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘is usually both gr
easy and dust-covered. If you put a finger on it, even wearing a glove, it’s going to show up. And there was nothing at all on the 4x4. Which means Bouzid never drove it.’

  ‘But why use the divisionnaire’s fancy car?’ asked Retancourt. ‘To impress the lawyer?’ She was annoyed with herself for not having noted the detail of dirt under Carvin’s fingernails, when she had had him sitting in front of her. And for not having pieced together the elements of evidence Adamsberg had given her. But while the commissaire may have thought he was speaking clearly, he was wrong, since you couldn’t spend all your time trying to work out his incomplete riddles.

  ‘Because that car is the same make as the 4x4. Same angle of windscreen. We have to be as precise as possible, so that they can’t pick holes in it. Our evidence is actually pretty weak. The spare car keys for instance: a good defence lawyer could say that Bouzid had buried them to incriminate the husband. Which wouldn’t have been very clever of him, since the hiding place is hard to find. But then Bouzid has no dirt under his fingernails. And he takes showers too.’

  ‘How do we know that?’

  ‘Because I asked him, Retancourt,’ said Adamsberg, a little surprised.

  ‘Well, with luck then,’ said Justin, ‘we’ll have Carvin’s prints on the keys, not Bouzid’s.’

  ‘Whatever we’ve got,’ said Danglard, ‘at least we know now for sure that Bouzid wasn’t driving the car. No human hairs, no fingerprints on the windscreen, plus some extra dog hairs when there aren’t any in his own car. We’ll get Carvin.’

  ‘You’ll get him, commandant,’ said Adamsberg, ‘by extracting a confession from him. And for reasons you well know, you’re the one who’s going to make him spit it out. This man who doesn’t shrink from crushing a woman to death in the street. Here he is, commandant, this is your moment. Take your time, I’ll be watching through the screen.’

  ‘He’s going to say it stinks in our offices,’ said Noël.

  ‘He’s already noticed that. If he mentions it again, you can tell him we went fishing for a repulsive creature, a moray eel.’

  ‘No, don’t do that!’ protested Voisenet.

  ‘All right, we won’t say its name. What’s happening to it now?’

  ‘My mother will just have finished boiling it.’

  ‘There you are then, all in order.’

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg disappeared into his office at the back of the big room. Voisenet followed him straight inside.

  ‘There’s been another one, sir,’ he whispered, as if they were sharing a dangerous secret.

  ‘Another what?’ asked Adamsberg, carelessly slinging his jacket over a chair.

  ‘Another victim of the recluse.’

  The commissaire spun round sharply, his eyes more focused than they had been all day.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘A man, same area.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Eighty-three. He’s not dead, but he’s already developed septicaemia. The outlook’s not good.’

  Adamsberg took a few paces across the office then stopped short, folding his arms.

  ‘Well, we don’t want to miss Danglard questioning the lawyer,’ he said.

  ‘No, absolutely.’

  ‘Tell me about it later, with all the details. This evening perhaps? Are you tired?’

  ‘No, commissaire. Well, I’m not tired of the recluse.’

  ‘Did you give Froissy the photos of the car keys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, fine. Better talk about it outside the office.’

  ‘About what? Froissy and the keys?’

  ‘No, about the recluse spider. After we’ve heard Danglard do the questioning, come round to my place, I’ll rustle up something for you to eat.’ Adamsberg thought for a moment, head on one side.

  ‘Pasta OK for you?’

  * * *

  *

  Even before entering the interrogation room with Danglard, the silent and unexplained procedure of taking samples of dirt from under his fingernails had unsettled the lawyer. Adamsberg had been present, and Carvin’s features were transformed by fear. People who have a highly elevated idea of themselves have never envisaged falling one day. And when it happens, they collapse, they’re stunned, unprepared for it, all their substance vanishes in the stupor of failure. They have no middle ground, no shades of grey, no capacity for anticipation. That’s the way they are.

  ‘No, Maître Carvin,’ said Adamsberg as he walked behind the lawyer, ‘don’t go thinking I’ll be searching for similar earth samples all over France – it is earth, isn’t it? It’s just to confirm something. I’ve already found your spare car keys. Those damned keys. How childish to want to hang on to them, don’t you think? Little children are like that, they want to own everything, hold on to it, not lose it, little trifles, bits of string. And that desire can move them to violence. But when they’re about eight, it seems to go away. They’ve developed more of a sense of security. Not in every case though. A child can be willing to kill for a glass marble. But he doesn’t kill anyone, he shouts, he has a tantrum. An adult, who is greedy for possession, can kill: he can run over – twice! – a woman who weighs fifty-two kilos, a woman with a charming laugh. But that’s because the marble has turned into two million, one hundred and thirty-eight thousand, and one hundred and twenty-three euros. And fourteen centimes. Let’s not forget the centimes. Because they are the surviving echo of that glass marble.’

  The commissaire left the interrogation room and went to sit behind the one-way mirror, where over a dozen colleagues were already crammed together, driving up the temperature in the little viewing room. It was hot and sweaty and the persistent aroma of moray eel didn’t help. Froissy, who was a sensitive soul, was sitting on a chair and fanning herself. Retancourt remained impassive, showing no sign of sweat. Just another of her many extraordinary qualities. Adamsberg tended to say that Retancourt could convert her energy into as many different capacities as the circumstances warranted. He supposed that just now she had converted it into cooling down her organism and suppressing her sense of smell.

  Danglard began courteously, without irony or aggression.

  ‘“Ah money! Whether you have it or whether you don’t, it’s always the root of all evil.” No, don’t bother chasing up that quotation, maître, it’s from a popular author, writing for ordinary people. “Whether you have it” – in my view, that’s when it does much more damage. We need some kind of vigilant sensor, calibrated to react when our fortune and our power increase, so that it can scan any modifications in our brain cells, and set off alarm signals. What do you think about that, Maître Carvin?’

  Carvin did not move a muscle, or even shiver. The looming spectacle of his defeat had plunged him into a catatonic state. Danglard took over three hours to extract his confession, through the use of a thousand banderillas. It was a dazzling display of carefully thought-out questions, contrasting and unpredictable, and they finally got the better of the lawyer’s last defences. It was 22.35 when the commandant came out of the room, his leg muscles trembling with the effort.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said simply. ‘He is too. Did you hear him? He wants some grated carrot. Grated carrot!’

  ‘He’s in shock,’ said Adamsberg.

  Danglard headed quickly to his own office where he poured himself a glass of white wine, then another, without taking the time to sit down.

  ‘Anyone coming for supper?’ he asked. ‘Drinks on me at the Brasserie des Philosophes. Champagne for starters.’

  About ten of his colleagues went out with the commandant, as the night shift arrived, and Adamsberg slipped away, saying he needed some sleep.

  VI

  As he tapped quietly on Adamsberg’s front door, Voisenet had the sensation, both amusing and worrying, that he was taking part in a minor conspiracy. And also a sudden fe
eling that he must be an idiot. Fretting over this spider, sneaking out at night to discuss it in private, none of that made sense. He was still thinking about Carvin’s collapse, about Danglard’s brilliant show of intellect, and the discovery of the car keys. All of that existed, and justified their efforts and their motivation. But this spider, well, no.

  Adamsberg was watching the pasta cooking and motioned to his lieutenant to sit down.

  ‘There’s someone in your garden, commissaire.’

  ‘It’s just my neighbour, old Lucio. Every night, he goes out there under the beech tree with his beer. God protects him from spiders. When he was a child, he lost an arm during the Spanish Civil War. But on the arm he lost, he’d been bitten by a spider, and he’s forever telling me the arm was lost before he could finish scratching the bite. So it carries on itching. He’s turned this into a saying that applies to every life situation, according to him. Never let an itch persist, give it a good scratch, draw blood if you have to, or it will go on itching all your livelong days.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Adamsberg, putting some tomato sauce and cheese on the table. ‘Get two plates out of the cupboard, will you, it’s nearly ready. Cutlery in the drawer, glasses up above.’

  ‘There’s wine?’

  ‘Bottle under the sink. Help yourself to the pasta, it cools quickly.’

  ‘So my mother always says.’

  ‘Did she finish boiling that eel?’

  ‘All I need to do now is disengage the skeleton. It’s going to be a whopper.’

  ‘You said it.’

  Adamsberg uncorked the bottle of wine, opened the jar of tomato sauce, and thought for a moment before passing it to the lieutenant.

  ‘You don’t know what’s in this stuff. Forty-three kinds of pesticide, crude oil, additives, colouring, bit of horseflesh, nail varnish. We have no idea what we’re putting in our mouths.’