This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes. Descartier got off because, in the end, it was the right guy. But they slapped a six-month suspension on him.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Eleven years ago.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, commandant,’ said Adamsberg, making haste to leave, since he had no wish for Danglard to change the subject and get on to the recluse.

  ‘Wait a minute. If you want to contact him you probably won’t find him at work on a Saturday. I may have a home phone number for him.’

  Danglard leafed through a large folder of handwritten papers on a shelf.

  ‘Got a pen?’

  Adamsberg wrote down the number, thanked him again and left. He rarely hurried. But he now crossed the big room quickly, nodding discreetly to Retancourt and, a few minutes later, was driving off towards the 9th arrondissement with a screwdriver in his pocket.

  XIV

  Adamsberg sat down at a side table, in a brasserie almost opposite Froissy’s building. It was already nearly four o’clock, and despite his morning croissants, he was hungry. He ordered a sandwich and a coffee, and tapped in the office number of the 9th arrondissement police headquarters. As Danglard had predicted, Hervé Descartier wasn’t there. To call him at home made matters more delicate. He considered again the different reactions he might get, but called anyway.

  ‘Commissaire Descartier?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ replied the breaking voice of a teenager.

  The son obviously had his instructions. But the note of uncertainty in his voice indicated that Descartier was indeed at home.

  ‘One second, young man, before you hang up. I know your dad, we’ve worked together. He is your father?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not at home.’

  ‘Just try this. Tell him it’s Commissaire Adamsberg, can you remember the name?’

  ‘Wait while I write it down. But he’s not here.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And tell him that I can help him find the man he’s after at the moment. That it’s urgent.’

  ‘Do you mean the rapist?’

  ‘Since you know all about it, yes. Written all that down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know he’s not there, but will you go and show it to your father. Can you do that?’

  Adamsberg heard the youngster running and a door banged.

  ‘Descartier speaking. Adamsberg? Is that really you?’

  ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Say something else for me to be sure.’

  ‘We worked on the case of the naked man. Found on the track between Paris and Deauville. Contusions on his shoulders and a head injury. For some people, such as you and me, it meant someone had knocked him out first and pushed him on to the tracks. But for other people, such as our boss, whose name was something like Jardion or Jardiot, his death was simply the result of falling on to the rails.’

  ‘Yeah, right, Adamsberg, I do recognise your voice now. Jardiot he was called, Jardiot as in idiot.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Not that I give a damn about him. OK, I’m listening.’

  ‘Sorry to trouble you at home.’

  ‘If it’s about this bastard we’re after for rape, you’re not troubling me. We’re getting nowhere with it.’

  ‘Do you have any DNA?’

  ‘A fingerprint plus some DNA. Stupid bugger left a few drops of sperm in the car park when he took off his condom. Talk about a cretin.’

  ‘But you don’t have a name?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t on the database.’

  ‘Well, I have a suspect, fairly strong case. And I’ve got a name, Sylvain Bodafieux, lives at 82 rue de Trévise. Temporary lease, under a false name, Rémi Marllot. Self-employed, removals specialist. Interested?’

  ‘Don’t wind me up. Why have you fingered this bloke?’

  ‘That’s just it. I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. What the fuck am I supposed to do about your “suspect”, if I’ve got nothing to go on? No evidence, no warrant. Forgotten the rules, have you? Why are you keeping it secret? Want the credit for your people?’

  ‘No, not at all. Not bothered about that. But if a whisper of this gets out, even to you, a woman might die. Which I’m anxious to avoid.’

  There was a silence, and Adamsberg heard the sound of a cigarette lighter. He got up in turn, made a sign to the waiter and went out on to the pavement to light one of Zerk’s cigarettes.

  ‘You smoke now?’ asked Descartier.

  ‘No, I’m smoking one of my son’s.’

  ‘When I knew you, you didn’t have any son.’

  ‘No, I only got to know him when he was twenty-eight.’

  ‘You haven’t changed much, I see. So what are you suggesting here?’

  ‘Got the time?’

  ‘It’s 4.15.’

  ‘How long would it take you to get six men to the rue de Trévise? You’d need that many, the building might have two exits, best to check.’

  ‘Twenty minutes from when I end this call.’

  ‘OK, say in thirty minutes, you get your men posted. Discreetly, plain clothes in the first place. When I know that the guy is about to come out into the open, I’ll call you – give me your mobile number. That’s if it is our man.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then they quickly put on their hi-vis jackets, whip out their guns, act as conspicuous as possible. If you see a guy about mid-thirties, dark hair, thin on top, exiting the building, either quickly or furtively, looking round, and carrying a rucksack or whatever, that’s him. If he starts to run when he sees you, it’s even more likely to be him.’

  ‘And you’re planning to dislodge him somehow?’

  ‘That’s right. But I need you to be there to grab him.’

  ‘And how are you going to work this? I know, you can’t tell me. OK, understood. This woman, you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Yes. Now listen, I can’t be sure he’s home right now. Normally, he’s in the flat all weekend. If you don’t see anyone come out, wait – until the evening if necessary. If he’s out now, but comes home, believe me he won’t take long to come dashing out again.’

  ‘OK, got it. But how am I going to justify having six men hanging around the building?’

  ‘Make something up. You got a phone call from someone in distress, you think someone has been attacked, whatever, you sort that out. And then by pure chance, seeing a man who tries to run away as soon as he catches sight of the cops, you lay hands on him. You take him to the station, flagrant case of evading police pursuit, and you take his prints.’

  ‘Might work, but it’s a bit irregular.’

  ‘Since when has that bothered you? Since you kicked in a door and almost put out someone’s eye, I seem to recall.’

  ‘Never mind, it was the right guy. Either that or we lost him. The judge didn’t want to listen.’

  ‘That’s life.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So are you on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One more thing, and this is important. In his bag, you’ll probably find a laptop, a CCTV receiver and some images on a hard disk.’

  ‘What kind of images?’

  ‘What do you think? Peeping Tom pictures.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you pass them to me.’

  ‘You’re making a monkey of me, Ad,’ said Descartier, reverting involuntarily to the way he had addressed his fellow officer back in the day. ‘What evidence have I got then? What are you going to do with my evidence?’

  ‘You’ll have his prints and his DNA – isn’t that enough for you?’

  Adamsberg went back inside the café, holding the phone to his ear.

  ‘All right, let’s do it,’ s
aid Descartier.

  ‘Mind, this is all if it is him. I can’t promise. But I’m pretty sure I’m right.’

  ‘Why do you want the recordings?’

  ‘To destroy them.’

  ‘Or else she might kill herself? That it? OK, Ad, understood.’

  ‘What time’s it now?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘Haven’t you got a watch?’

  ‘Two, but they don’t work.’

  ‘You really haven’t changed, have you? That’s the only reason I’m trusting you on this.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s 4.23 now.’

  ‘OK, get going. I’ll phone you, don’t switch it off for a second.’

  * * *

  *

  Adamsberg finished his sandwich unhurriedly, his eyes on the clock in the café which he had just noticed. He broke camp only at 4.35.

  He crossed the rue de Trévise calmly. No one could have taken him for a policeman. He tapped in the door code, went up to the third floor and quietly opened Froissy’s door. He went through the sitting room (impeccable, of course), noticed the enormous refrigerator in the kitchen, holding her backup food store, and sat down to take off his shoes. But he didn’t think there would be a hidden audio sensor. All spy cameras with 360-degree visibility are equipped with a motion sensor which is more efficient. The world of hidden cameras had made huge progress. They could nowadays be concealed inside pens, light bulbs, cigarette lighters, watches, and sold like harmless toys over the internet under the unambiguous name ‘spy camera’. Sent under plain cover, however, and with the pious injunction ‘protect your house’ – in other words, spy on people. Still, just in case his target was still using sound, he tiptoed on stockinged feet towards the bathroom. Placing himself outside camera range, climbing on a chair from the sitting room, close against the door jamb, he gently pushed the door open, looked round the room to note the walls, the tiling, the shower, the piping and finally the ceiling. From the side, he could see the smoke detector, with its grooves and battery indicator, a flat round object about 150 millimetres across. Black, but in the centre, something shining like a marble. Shining like a camera lens.

  He got down from the chair, grinning to himself and went into the kitchen, closing the door and making no more noise than Snowball the cat on its photocopier, then checked the time on his mobile, which he had set in the café. 4.52. After waiting a minute or two, he called Descartier.

  ‘Are you in position?’

  ‘Just got here. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m on the spot. How long would it take your men to put on their police gear?’

  ‘Two minutes.’

  ‘OK, I’ll launch things here. Good luck, Descartier.’

  ‘You too, Ad.’

  This time, Adamsberg went into the bathroom without any precautions, carrying his chair, turned on the taps in the basin and washed his hands quite naturally. The next-door toilet flush was immediately activated. The neighbour wouldn’t bother filming a man of course. But he was likely to be very cautious. If he wanted to make anyone think it was just some mysterious faulty plumbing, and at the same time to alarm Froissy, while leaving a frightening doubt in the air, he had to set off his waterworks whoever was in the bathroom. In the mirror, Adamsberg watched the ‘smoke detector’, which was detecting nothing except poor Hélène Froissy. In daylight, Retancourt wouldn’t have missed the camera lens, but she had inspected the bathroom at night, looking up, and would have been blinded by the spotlights on the ceiling surrounding the sensor.

  Adamsberg switched the lights on, and looked at the false smoke detector. Now you couldn’t see the camera lens gleam. With a sense of intense satisfaction, he climbed on the chair and unscrewed the fixture. Now, this very second, the guy must realise what was happening. He put his ear against the north wall, through which he could hear only muffled sounds, but someone was moving about in the next-door flat, pushing aside furniture, opening cupboards.

  Precisely eleven minutes later, a man left the building looking wary. Peering out of the window, having raised the blind, Adamsberg watched Descartier’s men, who quickly became highly visible with their police jackets and guns. Rémi Marllot (or whatever his real name was), a short fat little man, carrying a rucksack, chose to run as soon as he saw them. Straight into the arms of Commissaire Descartier.

  ‘Whoa! Where do you think you’re going?’ the commissaire shouted, very loudly, so that witnesses would hear. ‘What’s your problem? Scared of the cops? Start running when you see us?’

  ‘Got something to hide?’ chipped in a lieutenant.

  ‘No! What is this, bloody hell, why are you stopping me?’

  ‘Just asking why you were running.’

  ‘Because I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘You didn’t look in a hurry when you came out of the building. Only started running when you saw us.’

  ‘What’s in the bag? Weed?’

  ‘No, never touch the stuff.’

  ‘Like touching something else, do you?’

  ‘Get off, what do you want with me?’

  ‘We’re just wondering, sir, why you started to run.’

  Reassured, Adamsberg pulled down the blind, and removed all traces of his presence in the flat. Froissy must never, ever know that anyone had removed that fitting from her bathroom. A new smoke alarm – a real one – would have to be installed urgently. Adamsberg called Lamarre, a man capable of fixing anything, since he’d built a house for his mother in Granville. Who said he’d have a new one fitted in a couple of hours. Adamsberg sent him a photo of the false detector, so that he could procure a similar model. Although Lamarre did not yet know that he would be operating in Froissy’s flat, the commissaire insisted that this was totally confidential, and Lamarre was indeed a little shocked that his discretion should be in doubt. After all, he had once been in the French Army, where secrets remained secret, and it showed in his everyday demeanour. But if Lamarre was somewhat lacking in imagination, he was a man to count on absolutely for the execution of a practical task. Whereas imaginative people – well, it was their job – would be asking questions all the time about the propriety of the procedure.

  All that remained was for Descartier to keep his word. Adamsberg felt sure he would.

  XV

  The commissaire had arranged to meet Retancourt in the courtyard behind headquarters. As soon as she heard his car door slam, she was approaching with her large guardsman-like strides.

  ‘All done and dusted,’ said Adamsberg calmly. ‘She won’t know a thing about it.’

  He felt in his inside pocket and pulled out the false smoke alarm.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said, showing her the little black camera lens, curved and shining in the sun.

  ‘God Almighty,’ said Retancourt, frowning with irritation.

  ‘It’s over, Violette,’ he said gently.

  ‘But it isn’t, she’ll notice the smoke alarm’s gone.’

  ‘As we speak, Lamarre’s busy fixing a new one. It’ll look almost identical, but this time it’s genuine.’

  Retancourt did feel admiration for Adamsberg, an emotion she was very bad at expressing, among others.

  ‘I thought the detector looked absolutely normal,’ she said, through clenched teeth and still frowning. ‘Like it seemed perfectly normal that Froissy had it put in as soon as possible. Shit. I should have spotted it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t imagine you could fit a spy camera so quickly to a new fixture. How long is it? Only six months they’ve been compulsory. That’s what fooled me, must have distracted me. But shit, all the same I should have spotted it,’ she repeated.

  ‘No, you couldn’t. Not when the spotlights were on. It doesn’t shine at all then, I tried it out.’

  Adamsberg sensed that his lieutenant was relaxing a little, as her regrets could be exp
lained.

  ‘And as I said, “that was all to the good”, Violette. Because the guy has now been collared by Descartier’s men, that’s the chief in the 9th.’

  ‘Jesus, you didn’t tell him what it was about, did you?’

  ‘Retancourt!’ said Adamsberg simply.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Like I just said, she won’t know a thing. Here are her keys. Get them back into her handbag somehow. I’ll be picking up the man’s laptop and the images as soon as I can. Meanwhile, just get rid of this piece of shit for me,’ he said, passing her the fitting. ‘And while you’re at it, the pile of croissants Froissy gave me as well.’

  ‘Croissants?’

  ‘So she won’t know I didn’t eat them all this morning. That matters too.’

  ‘Oh, you’re right, it does.’

  ‘When she gets home, she’ll notice that the flush next door isn’t going off. All will be well.’

  ‘She’s scared to go inside the bathroom any more. So how will she know?’

  ‘That’s a point.’

  ‘I can only see one solution. I’ll invite her round for a meal tomorrow night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And when I pick her up, I’ll go and wash my hands. And I’ll tell her it’s all quiet on the bathroom front. I’ll try it out several times. Nothing. So the guy must have got his faulty plumbing fixed, it must have been triggered by vibration from the floor in her flat.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘No, of course not, but I’ll convince her, I’ll do my utmost.’

  ‘I’m counting on you.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve never before asked her to dinner. But I think I can see a plan,’ she went on after a moment’s thought. ‘She’s keen on Vivaldi, isn’t she?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Yeah, she is, I’ve heard her say. Just round the corner from me, there’s a little church, and this Sunday there’s a Vivaldi concert on there. I could say I don’t want to go on my own. I think that would work.’

  ‘Because you were going to go to it anyway?’

  ‘No, what do you think!’