by Fred Vargas
‘Who must be about a hundred and twenty by now.’
‘Well, whoever took it over, I mean.’
‘On what pretext? You can’t go round saying again you’re just obeying orders from on high. You’re lucky that woman is going to keep quiet about it. If she is. You’re sure of her, are you?’
‘Since I bought her a hot chocolate in the Étoile d’Austerlitz.’
‘Making up to old ladies, that’s not a very proper thing to do, as she might have told you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. She was well aware what I was up to, and she told me so. And she asked me to let her know if I discovered anything new. But I didn’t promise anything,’ Adamsberg added, with a smile.
‘Except that you would look after this dead spider for her. That’s something. What kind of new, Jean-Baptiste?’
Adamsberg shrugged.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You can’t make two hundred recluses march off and attack someone.’
‘Out of doors, what’s more. I can’t see why hordes of spiders would come out of the woodpile to attack a man.’
‘No, it’s impossible, they’re solitary creatures. They just wait timidly until people have gone away.’
‘We’re getting nowhere, Jean-Baptiste.’
‘That’s why we have to try another route. Leading to the orphanage. We know its name: “La Miséricorde”. Somebody must have kept its old records, wouldn’t you think? You don’t chuck out piles of papers containing piles of orphans.’
‘And then what?’
‘We find the names of the kids who were at La Miséricorde in the same years as our first two victims, and we try to reconstitute the “little gang” she talked about.’
‘If you’re going that far, Jean-Baptiste, you’ll have to inform the squad.’
Veyrenc poured out a second glass of wine each, as they both reflected in silence, going over what very little they had in the way of data. Adamsberg staring at his empty plate, Veyrenc observing Estelle, who was that evening making more of an exaggerated display of waiting on the tables.
‘But why?’ Adamsberg said. ‘Do you want to get Danglard worked up again? We could easily manage without making it a big production. We could ask Froissy to research the three men who died and the orphanage, and she’d do it. We could probably count on support from Voisenet. You and I could carry out some visits. Mercadet, no doubt.’
‘So that way, we’d be a cosy little group of conspirators inside the squad. Danglard already knows what you’re up to, and he’s watching your every step, as if he thinks you’re about to fall off a cliff. We’d have to sneak off to the drinks machine room to have a chat. How long do you think that would last?’
‘Louis, what do you want me to tell them?’ Adamsberg reacted vigorously. ‘That I’m investigating three deaths by recluse bite, because recluses don’t kill? Because they never attack humans spontaneously? They’ll all say, like Voisenet did, those people were all very old. No dossier, not a shred of evidence of any kind. Then what will happen? Remember the last time they mutinied? When three-quarters of the team decided they wouldn’t go along with me? The squad almost disintegrated. This will be worse. I’ve no wish to go through that again. And I don’t want to drive them into a brick wall.’
‘But that’s where you’re going?’
‘I’ve no choice, Louis.’
‘Well, OK,’ said Veyrenc after another silence. ‘Just do what you have to.’
They had finished their meal. Adamsberg prepared to leave. They were the last customers.
‘Already?’ asked Veyrenc. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I’d quite like a coffee.’
‘It won’t bother you if leave you to it?’
‘No, off you go.’
Adamsberg left his share of the bill, put on his jacket, and as he went past, quickly took hold of Veyrenc’s arm.
‘I’m going to have a think,’ he said.
Veyrenc knew that Adamsberg was not going to have a think. Because he didn’t know how. He was incapable of sitting by his fireside, meditating, sorting out the evidence, weighing up the pros and cons. In his case, his thoughts were, so to speak, formed before he realised it. The commissaire was departing so that Veyrenc would be left alone with Estelle.
* * *
*
Once at home, Adamsberg took a half-smoked cigarette out of an old packet belonging to Zerk. He was missing his son. When they had been on the point of leaving Iceland, Zerk (real name Armel, and only known to Adamsberg once he had reached the age of twenty-eight) had announced that he had a mind to stay there. He had met a girl who was taking her sheep up to the summer pastures. Coming back without him had aggravated Adamsberg’s wish not to be in the city. And what was he going to do for cigarettes now? He didn’t smoke, except when he pinched one from Zerk’s packets. Which wasn’t really smoking, just stealing. Well then, he would buy a packet for his son, and now and again take one from it. So that was settled, at least.
He missed Lucio too. He would have adored this story about spiders. But Lucio had left that very morning to visit family in Spain. Adamsberg opened the door on to the little garden they shared, and looked at the old packing case they used as a seat, under the tree. He sat down on it, lit Zerk’s cigarette, and tried in spite of everything to think. Perhaps it was just as well, all things considered, that his son was away, so he wouldn’t witness his father’s confusion of mind and those spider legs waving about for no reason in a terrible atmosphere of stinking moray eel. He wasn’t going to tell his fellow officers about those images to explain the start of his investigation. He leaned back against the tree trunk, and stretched out his legs on the packing case. Should he disguise the truth to smooth over the rough edges? But even smoothed over, those rough edges wouldn’t pass muster. Think. He must think.
XII
Next morning, Froissy eyed Adamsberg anxiously, immediately diagnosing the source of his trouble.
‘You haven’t had any breakfast, have you, commissaire?’
‘Not important, lieutenant.’
Heading towards his office, he motioned to Veyrenc to join him.
‘I went straight off to sleep, Louis. But I woke up at five o’clock, under the tree, and wrote this. Just two pages, summarising what we’ve got so far: the deaths, the orphanage and the conclusions of Professor Pujol. Could you type it out for me, put it into decent French and tidy it up a bit?’
‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘Who’s on duty today?’ Adamsberg asked, glancing up at the noticeboard.
‘Not all that many. Last Saturday and Sunday, a lot of people put in overtime because of the 4x4. So they’re taking time off.’
‘So who’s in?’
‘Justin, Kernorkian, Retancourt, Froissy. Mordent is working on phase 2 of the report, but at home.’
‘Call in all the others, Louis. Better it should come from you.’
‘You’re going to inform the squad?’
‘That’s what you advised me, isn’t it? And you were right. Get them together, Danglard of course, Mordent, Voisenet, Lamarre, Noël, Estalère and Mercadet. Make enough copies of my text to go round when you’ve got it into shape. Meeting to start at eleven, no point getting them out of bed and have them arriving here in a bad mood. They’ll have a chance to change their minds during the meeting.’
‘That’s possible,’ said Veyrenc, glancing down at Adamsberg’s notes.
‘The usual photocopier isn’t working – we’ll have to lift the cat off the other one.’
Just then Froissy arrived, carrying a full breakfast tray, her hands shaking slightly which made the cups tinkle.
‘I’ve wrapped the coffee pot in a tea towel,’ she explained, ‘so it won’t get cold. I added a cup for you, lieutenant,’ she said before leaving.
‘Wha
t did you tell her?’ asked Veyrenc, eyeing the excessively large pile of croissants. ‘That you hadn’t eaten for five days?’
The lieutenant made space on the desk, pushing the recluse spider’s box aside, and began pouring out the coffee.
‘Not as good as Estalère’s,’ he commented. ‘But that’s between ourselves.’
‘She’s on edge, isn’t she? She was looking very pale.’
‘Yes, very, and she’s lost weight.’
Retancourt appeared in the doorway. And when Retancourt appeared in a doorway it was difficult to see anything either behind her or above her.
‘Come in, lieutenant, join us,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Froissy provided the croissants.’
Retancourt helped herself without speaking and sat down in the seat vacated by Veyrenc, who had gone off to edit Adamsberg’s notes. She never worried about her weight – which was considerable – since she seemed able to convert any fat into pure muscle.
‘Can I have a word with you?’ she asked. ‘Because this is something that normally wouldn’t be any business of ours.’
‘We’ve got a little time, lieutenant. I’ve called a meeting for eleven.’
‘What about?’
‘About something that normally wouldn’t be any business of ours.’
‘Oh really?’ said Retancourt suspiciously.
‘But obviously I’m not alone. Tit for tat, tell me about yours.’
‘It’s a case of sexual harassment. Possibly. But the person concerned lives in the 9th arrondissement, out of our area.’
‘Has this person been to complain to the police?’
‘No, she wouldn’t dare. And I have to say there isn’t any firm evidence, nothing that would justify going to the cops. She says it’s nothing. But really, she thinks the worst, she’s withdrawn into herself, she can’t sleep.’
‘And you think she has good reason? Why?’
‘Because it’s something vicious, commissaire, something invisible and incomprehensible.’
‘Well, so is my case. Invisible and incomprehensible. It happens. What else?’
‘There have been two rapes in the 9th in the last month. Only three hundred metres and five hundred metres from where she lives.’
‘Get to the point, give me the story.’
‘It’s when she goes into the bathroom. Not a threat, not a stalker, no phone calls. But just the damn bathroom. The room doesn’t look out on anyone else. It only has a window on to the courtyard, frosted glass.’
Retancourt hesitated.
‘And?’ said Adamsberg.
‘Commissaire, if you smile, even a shadow of a smile, I’ll tear you to shreds.’
‘Sexual harassment isn’t something I find remotely amusing, lieutenant.’
‘But there’s only one thing to report, and it’s inconclusive.’
‘As you said. Go ahead.’
‘The minute she goes into her bathroom, the neighbour starts running water, on the other side of the wall that separates their flats. Every time. That’s all. Think that funny?’
‘Do I look as if I think it funny?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, runs water?’
‘Flushes the toilet.’
Adamsberg frowned.
‘And this woman lives alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long has it been going on?’
‘Over two months. It might sound like nothing at all, but . . .’
‘No, it doesn’t sound like nothing at all.’
The commissaire stood up and walked around, arms folded.
‘It’s like a signal of some kind? As if every time she goes in, her neighbour says “I’m here, and I know you’re there”.’
‘Or worse, “I can see you”.’
‘Is that what she thinks? A hidden camera, CCTV?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s what you think too?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it could be taking images? There was a case like this a few months ago, it started in Romorantin. A flush that kept going. And a little later, it was all over the internet. The victim’s face was easily identifiable. She was spared nothing, the toilet being in the bathroom too.’
‘Same here.’
‘And that woman killed herself.’
Adamsberg walked round a bit more, arms tightly folded.
‘But you’re right,’ he said. ‘Complaining to the police because the neighbour flushes the toilet isn’t going to be followed up. Does she know the neighbour?’
‘No, never seen him.’
‘How does she know it’s a man then?’
‘Because his name’s on the letter box in the entrance: Rémi Marllot, with two ls.’
‘One second, let me note it. So he must be avoiding meeting her face-to-face. Not leaving the house until after she does, and getting home before her. Does she keep regular hours?’
‘No.’
‘So he’s probably stalking her. What about weekends?’
‘He’s there the whole time. Flushing his fucking toilet.’
‘Is this woman a friend of yours, Retancourt?’
‘You could say that. If I have any friends.’
‘I’m surprised you’re even telling me this. Knowing you, you’d have dealt with it yourself. You’d have gone over there, ripped out the camera, found the images, grabbed the guy and torn him limb from limb.’
Veyrenc came into the room, and put the photocopies on the desk, glancing with surprise at Retancourt’s tense expression.
‘Did you contact them?’ Adamsberg asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Everyone.’
‘Perfect. We’ve got another twenty minutes.’
‘I did go there one evening,’ Retancourt admitted, when Veyrenc had left again. ‘I did a thorough search of the bathroom – I was looking for the camera. I examined the walls, the radiator, the hairdryer, the mirror, the towel rail, the piping and even the light bulbs. Nothing.’
‘Is there a ventilator outlet?’
‘Yes, of course, on the outer wall. I dismantled it. Nothing.’
‘Then you, er, entered the neighbour’s flat?’
‘Yes. It was filthy and stinking. It doesn’t look like he’s really moved in, it’s just a temporary campsite. I checked out the bathroom too: nothing. No porn magazines or DVDs, no photos, nothing on the computer. Perhaps it really is a toilet cistern that’s out of order,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘No, that can’t be it. He’s keeping the images somewhere else.’
‘But how would he get any images? Like I said, I really searched the place. Nothing.’
‘That’s all to the good, Violette.’
Adamsberg occasionally addressed his lieutenant by her first name, out of a sudden surge of affection: ‘Violette’ – perhaps the least appropriate name for someone of Retancourt’s stature.
‘If you’d touched the camera,’ he said, ‘he’d have noticed. He’d have dismantled his sensor quickly and disappeared with the images. Anything on the bathroom ceiling?’
‘Nothing special. Two spotlights, ordinary bulbs, and a smoke detector.’
‘A smoke detector? In the bathroom?’
‘Yes,’ said Retancourt with a shrug. ‘The installing guy told her it was compulsory because she keeps her washing machine in there, which she’s not really supposed to, plus a wall-mounted hairdryer.’
‘Installing guy? What guy?’
‘Well, there’s a big market for this kind of thing, because people don’t know how to install them themselves,’ she said, with the puzzled air of someone who had been born with an adjustable spanner in her hand. ‘A fitter came round the whole building, putting them in. For people who
were no good at DIY. Or old people who didn’t want to get up on a ladder with a drill. I had someone come round too, it’s quite common.’
‘So what does the detector look like?’
‘Like a regular one, far as I know. I haven’t bought mine yet. Grooves for taking in the air, a perforated disc that lights up for the alarm, and a little indicator for the battery.’
‘Is the indicator black?’
‘Yes, black, normal. It’s supposed to light up when the battery runs out.’
‘Yes, it should go red. I need this woman’s name,’ said Adamsberg sternly, ‘and her address.’
Retancourt hesitated.
‘It’s kind of awkward,’ she said.
‘Oh for God’s sake, why come to me then, Violette, if you don’t want to tell me? I’ve never known you so slow off the mark.’
This comment appeared to stimulate the lieutenant, whose anxiety for ‘the woman’ had indeed seemed to absorb her normal energy.
‘Froissy,’ she murmured.
‘What did you say?’
‘Froissy,’ she repeated quietly.
‘Are you telling me we need Froissy to help, or that she is this woman?’
‘It’s her.’
‘Good God!’
Adamsberg pushed his hair back from his brow and started pacing again. A fit of anger made him clench his arms.
‘Right, we’ll sort this out, Violette, believe me.’
‘Without getting the cops in? Nobody must ever know about this, ever.’
‘Without the cops.’
‘But we are the cops.’
Adamsberg brushed away this paradox with a wave of his hand.
‘These images must never find their way into the hands of anyone,’ he said. ‘People think that voyeurs are just passive observers, but plenty of rapists have spent hours watching images. We’ve only got six minutes before the meeting. Could you nip down into the courtyard and check, wearing gloves, whether anyone has put a GPS trace on her car? If so, just leave it there.’
‘I could suggest Froissy goes to spend the night at a hotel.’
‘No, no, absolutely not. We don’t want to do anything to alert this guy. She should carry on as usual. Which direction is the dividing wall between the bathrooms? North, south, east or west?’