by Fred Vargas
Vessac did not look away.
‘Little shits,’ he said.
‘Who, you or the victims?’
‘Us, of course. We were total bastards. When Little Louis lost his leg, he was only four – four! What did we do? We laughed. Well, not me at that stage, I was younger, but I joined them soon after. Think that stopped us? No way. When Jeannot lost a foot and Marcel had his cheek eaten away – Christ, he was a sight – what did we do? We laughed some more. And what made us kill ourselves laughing was when one of Maurice’s balls fell off like a walnut. Maurice One-Ball, we called him, and the whole of the orphanage knew.’
‘Do you know who’s done this to you?’ Adamsberg asked, pointing to the wound.
‘Yeah, of course. It’s their revenge and no wonder. And I’ll tell you something: I don’t want to kick the bucket, but I get the message, I deserved it. At least they left it until we were old. They let us have time to live, meet women, have kids.’
‘They didn’t wait till all of you were so old, Vessac. Between 1996 and 2002, they killed four of your gang members: Missoli, Haubert, Ménard and Duval. Not with spider venom but with fake accidents.’
‘Ah,’ said Vessac. ‘Still, I get it. What I don’t know is how they’re doing it. Takes a lot of venom to kill someone.’
‘Twenty doses at least.’
‘Well, beats me, but what do I care, state I’m in? Now look here!’ said Vessac, suddenly raising his left arm. ‘Élisabeth knows nothing about all this, she doesn’t know I was a little ruffian when I was young. And she mustn’t know.’
‘There’s an investigation under way,’ said Adamsberg, ‘and if it’s successful, there’ll be a trial . . .’
‘Yeah, and the press will . . . All right. She’ll find out in the end. But just don’t let her find out before I die. So we can say goodbye without it hanging over us. Is that possible?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Word of honour?’
‘Word of honour. But what about the rapes, Vessac?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘that wasn’t me.’
‘Because they did rape girls, didn’t they?’
‘In Nîmes, yes.’
‘Gang rapes?’
‘Always. And it went on after the orphanage.’
‘But not you?’
‘No. Not because I’m good-hearted, commissaire, don’t go thinking that. It was something else.’
‘What?’
‘If I don’t tell you, you’ll think I was in on the rapes too. But it’s a bit complicated to explain.’
Vessac thought for a few moments, and asked Veyrenc for more water. His temperature was rising.
‘Cops or no cops, this is between us men, OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I tell you, it won’t go beyond these four walls?’
‘No.’
‘Word of honour?’
‘Word of honour.’
‘It was gang rape. Like you said. You had to prove to the others you could do it, you had to strip off. And I couldn’t.’
Another silence, another sip of water.
‘I thought, well, I knew,’ he said, speaking with difficulty, ‘my cock was too little. And that bastard Claveyrolle would have found some nickname for me. So I dodged it. You believe me?’
‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg.
‘Doesn’t make me an angel, make no mistake. Because I was still part of it. Looking on. Or worse, holding the girl down. That’s being an accomplice, isn’t it? Nothing to be proud of.’
The doctor opened the door.
‘Three minutes,’ he said.
‘Let’s be quick, Vessac,’ said Adamsberg, leaning towards him. ‘Who injected you with the venom?’
‘Who? Nobody, commissaire.’
‘Two of your ex-comrades are in the killer’s sights, Alain Lambertin and Roger Torrailles. Tell me, and I might be able to save them. We’ve got seven deaths on our hands already.’
‘Eight, counting me, cos I’m on the way out. But I can’t help you. We were coming back from this café we go to, Élisabeth and me. I parked the car, I got out, I was just putting the key in the front door when I felt something sting my arm. Not a big sting. At about ten past nine.’
‘You’re lying, Vessac.’
‘No, commissaire, word of honour.’
‘But you must surely have seen the person, the one who injected you.’
‘There wasn’t anyone there. I thought maybe it was a bramble, there are some in the hedge, I meant to cut them back, oh well, it’s too late now. No, I tell you, no one. You can ask Élisabeth, she was there, she’ll tell you the same, that woman doesn’t know how to tell a lie. It was only later I got to thinking, when I saw the swelling. Not that we get recluses round here. But as you might guess, I did a bit of research after the other three died. So I knew what to look for. Swelling, a little blister. And I told myself, your turn now, Olivier, they got you. But how they did it, commissaire? Fucked if I know.’
As the doctor opened the door again, Adamsberg got up and nodded. Then he put his hand on the man’s left arm.
‘Cheers, Vessac.’
‘Cheers, commissaire. And thanks. You may not be a priest, anyway I’m not religious, but I feel a bit better after talking. But, hey, remember now, the pair of you. Word of honour?’
Adamsberg looked at his hand, resting on Vessac’s good arm. On the arm of a stink bug, yes, but a man who was about to die.
‘Word of honour,’ he said.
They left the hospital building in silence and walked into its little garden.
‘We’ll have to check,’ said Veyrenc.
‘That there really was nobody there? Yes. We’re going to have to torment Élisabeth Bonpain. Let’s go to Saint-Porchaire. I want to see exactly where it happened, before any traces disappear.’
* * *
*
From the car, Adamsberg called Irène Royer at her guest house in Bourges. He was still affected by seeing Vessac’s atrocious wound, and by hearing his admissions – word of honour – as well as by the dignity of the stink bug as he lay dying.
‘Is that you, commissaire? You’re just in time, I’m leaving. So was it just a normal bite victim?’
‘No, not at all, Irène. It was another stink bug from the orphanage, a man called Vessac. But don’t go putting this out on the internet, it’s confidential, as agreed.’
‘I promise.’
‘But we still have the same problem. He says he didn’t see anyone when he felt the bite.’
‘Was he in the house or outside?’
‘Outside, standing by his front door, just about to go in. I’m going to check that with his lady friend.’
‘Where was he bitten?’
‘Upper arm.’
‘But that’s impossible, commissaire, recluse spiders can’t fly!’
‘Well, that’s where it was, on his arm.’
‘Perhaps there was a big woodpile near his door. He might have brushed against it, and disturbed a spider just coming out for a walk.’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to check.’
‘Wait a moment, commissaire. What was the name again?’
‘Vessac.’
‘Not Olivier Vessac, surely?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Holy Mother of God. And his lady friend, that’s Élisabeth Bonpain?’
‘That’s right, that’s her name.’
‘She’s his lady friend and his partner. If you follow me.’
‘Yes, I saw her, I’ve gathered that. And she’s devastated.’
‘Holy Mother! Élisabeth!’
‘You know her?’
‘She’s a friend, commissaire. Kindest woman in the world, break your heart. I met her about, oh, eleven years ago. I went for on
e of my antalgic drives to Rochefort, that’s where we met. I even stayed a whole week, because we were as thick as thieves, sorry, excuse me, shouldn’t say that, we got on like a house on fire, oh dear, that’s not much better, but we did.’
‘Irène, would you be able to tell if she was lying?’
‘Do you mean if she says there was no one there, but there was? But why would they want to protect a murderer?’
‘So that people wouldn’t find out about the past perhaps? And yet he did tell me about it himself. But then, it wasn’t an official questioning under caution, it wouldn’t count, as he knew perfectly well.’
‘Oh. Maybe you’re right. But I could certainly get the truth out of Élisabeth. We tell each other all sorts of things.’
‘All right, come here then.’
‘From Bourges?’
‘Yes, why not? Is five hours in your anti-arthritis car too much?’
‘No, commissaire, it’s not that, it’s this woman who shares my house. Did I not tell you about her? Louise, she’s called. And she’s, well, how shall I put it, she’s a bit soft in the head. Well, really very soft. With the recluse business she’s gone doolally, can’t speak about anything else. Recluses, recluses. And what with all these deaths, when I’m not there she gets in a state, she sees them everywhere.’
‘Look, Élisabeth’s your friend, and quite apart from finding out whether she’s telling the truth or not, her man Olivier is going to die in the next two days. Like I said, she’s in great distress. She could be needing you.’
‘I understand, commissaire, when you put it like that. I’ll drive over – Louise will just have to suffer with her spiders.’
‘Thank you. Where shall we meet? You know Saint-Porchaire, is there a café, or a restaurant?’
‘Le Rossignol, not expensive and they let rooms too, so I could stay there. I’ll try calling Élisabeth.’
‘I’ll meet you there about two thirty. Drive carefully, Irène.’
* * *
*
They were in sight of Saint-Porchaire when Mercadet called.
‘We’ve got another bite victim,’ Adamsberg said at once. ‘Olivier Vessac.’
‘One of the bastards?’
‘Yes indeed. A repentant bastard, but apparently not a rapist. He was complicit though.’
‘Not a rapist? And you believe that because he told you so?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t explain, Mercadet, I gave my word of honour.’
‘Oh, OK, that’s different,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Now I’ve got another one, too.’
‘Another what?’
‘Case of rape. In 1967. And this time, I’ve got the names: Claveyrolle, Barral, as usual, the terrible two, plus Roger Torrailles. A woman of thirty-two in Orange.’
‘Well done, lieutenant. So how long did they get?’
‘Nothing. There was a procedural irregularity. No trial. That’s why it was hard to find.’
‘What happened?’
‘The clueless local cops forced confessions out of them without a lawyer present. They had the statement of the woman, Jeannette Brazac, and they just blundered straight ahead. Using violence, what’s more. So that scuppered any chance of a trial. And Jeannette Brazac, well, she killed herself, eight months later.’
‘Did you hear that, Louis?’ said Adamsberg, ending the call. ‘They really were a gang of rapists. And a woman died in 1967 because of them.’
‘Well, stink bugs or rapists, we still have to protect the last two.’
Veyrenc braked as they reached the main square of Saint-Porchaire, while Adamsberg tried to reach Mordent.
‘Keep going – Vessac’s place is number 3 rue des Oies-Folles, the street of mad geese.’
‘Do they exist, mad geese?’
‘Of course. You said yourself we’re all a bit crazy.’
‘Wouldn’t know about geese, though.’
‘Mordent? Adamsberg here. Olivier Vessac is on his deathbed in hospital in Rochefort.’
‘Oh shit! Are you there?’
‘I’ve just left him. Listen, I need round-the-clock protection for the last two of the gang. Call up the gendarmeries of Senonches and Lédignan and ask them to send some men. Just say we have reason to believe they are being threatened. Uniformed cops, because they’ve got to be conspicuous.’
‘What if Torrailles and Lambertin refuse?’
‘Believe me, Mordent, with seven of their gang murdered and Vessac now dying, they’ll agree.’
Veyrenc pulled up in front of 3 rue des Oies-Folles. The two men staked out the place, the earthen path, the little strip of woodland, the heavy wooden door of the house. There was no woodpile anywhere near.
Veyrenc slowly paced the short distance between the door and the car parked on the grass verge.
‘No question,’ he said. ‘You can see their footsteps, Vessac and Élisabeth, as they walked across the wet grass. No third person behind them. No sign of anyone approaching from the other side.’
‘Nothing here either,’ said Adamsberg, crouching in front of the door, and feeling the top of the grass. ‘Just the two of them.’
He liked grass. That’s what he ought to do in the little garden he shared with Lucio, dig over the ground down to about fifty centimetres, take out all the Parisian stones, fill it with compost and sow grass. Lucio would love that.
Lucio: Scratch that recluse, lad, scratch it till you draw blood.
I don’t want to, Lucio. Let me go.
You’ve got no choice, hombre.
Adamsberg felt the back of his neck tighten again, and his throat constricted at the same time as he suddenly thought of his mother. A passing vertigo made him put his hand on the ground.
‘Shit, Jean-Baptiste, don’t wipe out the marks.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Veyrenc, seeing his friend’s pale face. For a Béarnais with a dark complexion like Adamsberg, going pale was rare.
‘I’m fine.’
No, Lucio, I don’t want to.
Adamsberg went on automatically running his fingers through the grass.
‘Look here, Louis,’ he said, holding out an invisible object between his thumb and index finger.
‘A little bit of nylon thread,’ said Veyrenc. ‘About twenty centimetres. Some local’s fishing line?’
‘People fish everywhere, but this was tangled up in a nettle.’
‘Well, that wasn’t what bit Vessac.’
‘Still, get an evidence bag from the car, I’m afraid I’ll lose it.’
Adamsberg and Veyrenc went on searching for another quarter of an hour among the plants, on the path, looking for anything, but finding nothing at all, except the fragment of fishing line. They got back in the car, Adamsberg driving now, both feeling dejected. Vessac and his ‘lady friend’ had indeed been alone, to all appearances.
‘What do you want to do now?’ asked Veyrenc, still keeping a weather eye on his friend.
‘We haven’t eaten since last night. Let’s go to this Rossignol, get ourselves a Froissy-type breakfast and wait for Irène. Élisabeth Bonpain will be easier to question with her there.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
‘Where’s the plastic bag?’
‘In the case. Frightened of losing it?’
Adamsberg shrugged.
‘It’s all we’ve got,’ he said.
‘In other words, zilch.’
‘You said it.’
XXVI
‘Zilch again,’ said Adamsberg letting his mobile fall on to the table in Le Rossignol. ‘Retancourt hasn’t been able to trace any Jeannot Escande in the area, but she’s only just begun her raids.’
‘Raids?’
‘When Violette goes on a search, it isn
’t a reconnaissance, it’s a raid.’
‘Jeannot probably slept in his car.’
‘That would be sensible. And the Lamarre team hasn’t found any sign of Jeannot in Palavas either. Which is good news. But again, they’re just at the beginning.’
‘Little Jeannot with one foot – who’d have thought it?’
‘We don’t have any hard evidence yet, Louis.’
‘But he’s the only one missing.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have doubts about it?’
Adamsberg pushed away the remains of his breakfast, but poured another cup of coffee.
‘You want some?’ he asked Veyrenc. ‘You’ve had hardly any sleep.’
‘I’ll take a nap in the car. We’ve got a good three hours to wait.’
‘OK, Louis, I’m going to go for a walk, run a bit perhaps. I need to call my mother too.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Veyrenc, standing up. ‘You have doubts?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still waiting to see clearly, Louis.’
‘Through your mists?’
‘Yes.’
* * *
*
Adamsberg walked out of the village of Saint-Porchaire and found a forest path. Either his sense of smell or his desire made him capable of locating trees as accurately as elephants locate water. He sat down on a bank between two young elms, and called his home number in Béarn. His mother didn’t want to talk about her arm and the broomstick, she wasn’t one to complain. It was more important to have news of her Jean-Baptiste.
‘What are you working on, son? You sound tired.’
‘There are always difficult moments in an investigation, that’s all.’
‘What are you working on?’ she repeated.
Adamsberg sighed, and hesitated.
‘The recluse,’ he said finally.
There was a short silence, then his mother spoke again, more hurriedly.
‘The recluse, son? Which one? The nun or the creature?’
‘Why did you say that? You know something?’
‘Know what?’
‘That’s the second time someone has mentioned a woman, and I don’t understand. A nun, you said?’