This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

  ‘Ah, well, I did, I was his nephew after all!’

  ‘The statue, the dog, St Roch,’ Adamsberg murmured, as they went past the old sculpture in its niche.

  ‘You were right, then. It was from La Miséricorde that Seguin was organising those gang rapes.’

  ‘Which gives us the direct link between the killer and the death of the gang members. But Mercadet’s question is still a fair one. How could she know that the rapists came from the orphanage?’

  ‘Well, she must have known her father worked there.’

  ‘Yes, OK, but out of two hundred orphans there at the time, how would she get their names? How would she know about the Recluse Gang? And the use of spider venom? Another étoc blocking our path, Louis.’

  ‘Could the brother have told her?’

  ‘But the father locked him up when the others came “visiting”.’

  Adamsberg turned round and glanced back one final time at the little weather-beaten statue of St Roch. All that was left of the dog was a ball of stone with two ears and a fragment of tail.

  ‘But you know,’ he went on, ‘that must be it. The brother must have known their names, Louis. And he didn’t tell the truth at the trial. He’d been all the time collecting information and taking it to his sisters when they were little, pictures from magazines – or perhaps the names of their attackers. Like St Roch’s dog, bringing him some food. The necessary link between the dark forest and the outside world. Enzo was their saviour, the messenger. He must have known the names.’

  ‘And then he killed them one after another?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that can be it. Enzo was the go-between. But I can’t somehow see a man bothering with spider venom.’

  ‘Well, you did when we thought it was Little Louis and company.’

  ‘That’s different, they’d been bitten. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, open warfare. But that isn’t how it is for Enzo, I don’t see the direct link.’

  Veyrenc said nothing as they walked on, as if he was not listening. Then he stopped in front of a low wall covered in brick dust.

  ‘Can you remember what the plan of the Seguin house looks like? Froissy put it in the file and I read it in the train. Look,’ he said, tracing with his finger some lines in the dust, ‘here’s the entrance hall, and here’s a little bedroom, Enzo’s, and a downstairs toilet.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘On the left is a door leading to the rest of the house. The door that takes you to the main room, and the stairs leading to the bedrooms, the bathroom and the attic. And we know that when there were “visitors”, Enzo was confined to barracks.’

  ‘In his room, yes.’

  ‘Not exactly in his room, it was the door through to the main room that was locked.’

  ‘Well, that means the whole house.’

  ‘No, Enzo had access to another room.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, he did. A room you never think of, because it isn’t called a room: the entrance hall. And why don’t we call it a room? Because it isn’t one. It’s just the place where the inside world and the outside world meet, a sort of airlock. Not really part of the rest of the house. Enzo’s space.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Louis? That Enzo went to sit in the entrance hall, between the two worlds?’

  ‘No, not to sit, but he could get hold of elements from the outside world there, that was his job, his mission. Like you said. The go-between.’

  Veyrenc looked at his finger, dark with dust, and wiped it on the palm of his other hand. Adamsberg stared at the drawing on the wall.

  ‘Elements of the outside world,’ he repeated.

  ‘Things people take off in an entrance hall, a vestibule.’

  ‘A coat stand, hats, boots, umbrellas?’

  ‘Think about the coat stand.’

  ‘All right. Coats, caps, jackets . . .’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘The “visitors” left their coats there. All right, Louis. But do you think they’d leave their ID papers lying in their pockets when they were out on these trips? They’d have to be very stupid.’

  ‘Their coats would be from the orphanage, Jean-Baptiste. Not only would they have the name of the institution on them, but most likely the name of the pupil, sewn on to a name-tape. In places with boarders, everything’s labelled, from caps to shoes. Otherwise how do you give back the laundry or find the right coat?’

  Adamsberg traced the diagram of the house with his finger and nodded, impressed.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said, his finger still on the wall. ‘The entrance hall. You never think of that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it was all there. He had their names and the name of the orphanage. So why didn’t he say anything?’

  ‘Because his sister must have asked him not to. Well, one or other of them.’

  ‘Yes, so that it would be her business, she’d handle that?’

  ‘And all these years, the three of them have stuck close together and kept their counsel. Nothing has come out, no one has talked. But where are they now, the Seguin children?’

  Adamsberg took his finger off the wall rather regretfully, and the two men walked on.

  ‘According to Froissy,’ said Veyrenc, ‘it’s impossible to locate them.’

  ‘If even Froissy can’t trace them, they must have changed their names, it’s got to be that.’

  ‘Like everyone does, Enzo probably found out to how to get hold of false ID papers when he was in jail. And as for the sisters, it’s quite likely the courts granted them permission to change their names.’

  ‘But how will we find two girls placed in psychiatric clinics forty-nine years ago, if we don’t know either their names or what they look like?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and eat. The train leaves at 9 p.m. on the dot.’

  ‘By the time we’ve got the bus into Nîmes,’ said Veyrenc, pulling a face, ‘we’ll have to go to the station buffet. Which’ll be closed. Instead of that, we could stay over, sleep in Nîmes, and take the first morning train. What difference would it make? None, you might say. And I’d say: everything. You’ll be able to go to sleep sooner, doctor’s orders, don’t forget.’

  ‘One should always obey them.’

  ‘Just one detail, no luggage.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I dare say the shipmates on the Trinidad didn’t have clean shirts either.’

  * * *

  *

  So the two men found themselves at almost ten in the evening in a small hotel near the Roman amphitheatre, where food was still being served.

  As they finished the meal, Adamsberg said:

  ‘I think I know now what’s been bugging me about that man’s name, Seguin.’ He waved his hand to order two coffees. The restaurant had officially closed, but while they were clearing the tables, the owner had let the two men carry on sitting there.

  ‘Do you remember? It’s a famous story: “La Chèvre de Monsieur Seguin,” Monsieur Seguin and his little goat.’

  ‘We did it at school. She was called Blanquette,’ said Veyrenc, ‘and so pretty that the chestnut trees bent their boughs down to caress her with their branches.’

  ‘And she wanted to run away and be free, didn’t she?’

  ‘Like the six goats before her.’

  ‘I’d forgotten the other six.’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Seguin adored his little goats, but they’d all got away. Blanquette was the seventh.’

  ‘I always thought Seguin himself was the wolf. And since his goat wanted to escape, he tethered her and ate her himself.’

  ‘Or attacked her,’ said Veyrenc. ‘When they tried to run away, Seguin threatened his goats by saying they’d “see the wolf” – but you know what that expression means,
“see the wolf”? See a man naked, lose your virginity. You’re right. What the story really means is that Blanquette is raped. Do you remember how she “struggled all night” and at dawn she’s lying on the ground with her white fur all bloodstained, because the pretty little goat was white, so a virgin – and is eaten up. So you’re saying Seguin’s name really suited him.’

  ‘No, I’m saying Enzo read stories to his sisters. Since that’s such a famous one, I think they must have known it.’

  ‘Probably, yes, most people would have heard it in school in those days. But what’s your idea?’

  ‘Well, when you have to choose a new name, you’d almost certainly choose one that has some connection, some echo of the old one, or of your former life.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So think. Louise Chevrier, the story’s title is “La Chèvre de Monsieur Seguin”. Louise, the tethered goat, the victim who was devoured.’

  ‘Louise Chevrier,’ said Veyrenc slowly. ‘Froissy couldn’t find anyone born with that name in 1943.’

  ‘A new identity then?’

  ‘And she could have altered her date of birth.’

  ‘Like Mercadet says, nothing easier than to fiddle a birth date.’

  ‘It’s too late to wake Froissy up, but the first name she chose, Louise, might have been one of her own other names, a second or third one.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg as he started typing a message.

  ‘Who are you going to wake up?’

  ‘Froissy.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, she’ll be asleep.’

  ‘No, she won’t.’

  ‘But something doesn’t fit here, Jean-Baptiste. Annette was freed aged nineteen – then fourteen years later, if we’re right about Louise, she was raped again, by Carnot. Could that be some damned coincidence?’

  ‘Who’s talking about a coincidence? Carnot was friendly with the others, wasn’t he? Annette was their victim, they might have latched on to her again.’

  ‘I think Froissy’s sleeping, you’re a brute.’

  ‘Talking of being a brute, Louis, I punched Danglard on the jaw.’

  ‘Hard?’

  ‘Quite hard, but just one blow on the chin. Not so much a blow as a rite of passage. A rite of return rather. Back to the team.’

  The mobile on the table vibrated.

  ‘See, she wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘She’ll tell you some cover story.’

  Sorry, sir, was having dinner. Elder sister Bernadette Marguerite Hélène, younger Annette Rose Louise.

  Thanks, Froissy. Staying Nîmes overnight back 10am, goodnight.

  ‘Annette Rose Louise,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Louise Chevrier. She must have chosen Louise deliberately and Chevrier unconsciously. The little kid goat, tied up by the father Seguin.’

  ‘But how did Louise Chevrier manage to be on the spot for all those murders? She doesn’t drive.’

  ‘Let’s just suppose she does actually drive.’

  ‘And when she left for Saint-Porchaire, Irène didn’t notice?’

  ‘Irène was in Bourges at that time.’

  The telephone pinged again. He’d missed a voicemail message and was anxious when he recognised Retancourt’s voice.

  ‘Commissaire, we were all three on duty around Torrailles’s house in Lédignan. Easy, no need to hide, Torrailles knew he was under protection. He was finishing supper outside with Lambertin, at a little table, face-to-face, there was a lot of talk, belly laughs and revolting jokes, honestly, these guys have never stopped being stink bugs. There’s a big courtyard, with a low hedge, it goes round all four sides. At 10 p.m. the street lamps went out but it was still quite light. There was a lamp over the door and a tea light on the garden table, quite visible, white plastic. It was attracting mosquitoes. They swatted them with their hands, slap, slap, slap. “It’s only the females that bite, see, you gotta pay them back.” About 10.15, Torrailles started to scratch his right arm. Here’s their conversation: Torrailles: “Fucking female! One of the bitches got me.” Lambertin: “That’s your own bloody fault, turn off the light.” Torrailles: “No, fuck’s sake don’t, can’t see what we’re drinking.” Three minutes later, Lambertin starts to scratch his neck on the left side. They’d had enough of this, so they picked up the bottle and glasses and went inside. Then less than an hour later, out they come from the house, the pair of them, panicking, they beg us to get them to hospital, because the bites had swollen. I looked at them with a flashlight. There was already a swelling in both cases, couple of centimetres across, with a blister forming. Right now, we’re all on the way to the hospital in Nîmes, they’re up ahead with Justin and Noël, and I’m following in the other car. Right arm, left side of neck, so they must have been attacked from the same place. We were all three doing the rounds of the house all evening, no one could have got near, no one could have got in. Impossible – it’s like it fell from the sky. We must have missed something. Terribly sorry.’

  Adamsberg, his features frozen, let Veyrenc listen to the message. They stared at each other without a word.

  ‘The last two standing, Louis, she’s knocked off the last two,’ said Adamsberg finally, swallowing his cold coffee quickly. ‘In one go. With three cops doing the rounds outside. How in heaven’s name could someone do that? Even if something falls from the sky, it should be visible, shouldn’t it? What’s the time now?’

  ‘Ten past midnight.’

  ‘Well, no point waking Irène to ask if Louise is there. They were “bitten” at about ten fifteen. It’s not more than about forty-five minutes to get from Lédignan to Cadeirac.’

  The hotel owner suggested more coffee. From their conversation, he had gathered a while back that they were from the police, and high-ranking, and on a case. When you’ve got the cops in your establishment, you try to be accommodating. Adamsberg accepted the offer of the free coffees, and went to fetch them himself from the bar.

  ‘Retancourt? You’re at the hospital?’

  ‘Just getting there.’

  ‘Can you come and pick us up, Veyrenc and me, at 7.30 a.m.?’

  ‘In Paris? At 7 a.m.? Aren’t there any cars there?’

  ‘No, no, we’re here in Nîmes, and without a car.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Hotel du Taureau, near the amphitheatre.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Lieutenant, have you got the evidence kit with you?

  ‘Doesn’t leave my bag, sir. Haven’t you?’

  ‘No, we left without luggage.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Bring it along, plus your camera.’

  ‘I want to repeat this, commissaire. No one went in, no one came out. Absolutely no one! And we could see quite well, the whole of the courtyard and five metres into the road. A shadow couldn’t have got past.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourselves. Even you can’t intercept everything that’s spat from the sky.’

  Adamsberg ended the call, drank his coffee standing up, and looked across at the wall of the dining room, where the owner had a display of guns. About fifteen lever-action rifles, old Winchesters, shining in the gloom.

  ‘Spat from the sky. We’re stupid, Veyrenc, that’s what she must have done.’

  ‘What, spat on them?’ said Veyrenc, who was still stunned by the news of the two final assaults.

  ‘Yes, that must be it,’ said Adamsberg, pulling up his chair noisily and sitting back down.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Drink your coffee, and listen. She must be using a gun.’

  ‘To spit with.’

  ‘Yes, liquid, fluid, a hypodermic gun. A tranquilliser dart, if you prefer.’

  This time Veyrenc looked up.

  ‘Oh. The sort vets have, to knock out animals? Stun guns? Tranquilliser darts, yes.’

  ‘Exactly
. With night-vision sights. They can shoot from forty, sixty metres away. On impact, the sheath of the needle comes off and the stuff’s injected automatically.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘During my national service, I was a sniper, I still get the catalogues. This gun must be a category D weapon, openly available for sale with the syringes. Even though it could be lethal if people took it into their heads to fill the hypodermic with a solution of arsenic, say. Or recluse venom.’

  ‘The venom of twenty-two recluses, Jean-Baptiste. Multiplied by six victims, and that means 132 spiders!’

  ‘Forget the 132 recluses. She fired a gun, that’s all that matters for now.’

  ‘It doesn’t figure. Nobody’s reported having a dart or a hypodermic in their arm or leg. They’d have seen it. You feel a sting, you look to see, you put your hand there.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Let’s suppose for a moment that the hypodermic comes out and falls off, which would surprise me. We’d have found it in the grass at Saint-Porchaire by Vessac’s front door. Unless the murderer comes along afterwards to collect it. Which would be foolish and very risky.’

  Adamsberg leaned his chin on his hand, and looked down.

  ‘We did find something in the grass at Saint-Porchaire,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Your bit of fishing line, dropped in there by the wind.’

  ‘Not just dropped, Louis, it was caught in something. Help me here. Suppose I’m a murderer. I’ve absolutely got to make the hypodermic disappear.’

  ‘But why? Does it really matter if someone finds the syringe? It gives less away than a bullet would. No traces from the gun’s barrel. No way you can identify it. So why would you want to get the needle back?’

  ‘So that nobody actually thinks for a second that these deaths are murders. If we hadn’t discovered the links between the victims and the Miséricorde bullies, we’d still be back at the same place: the recluse spiders have just got more toxic and these old men have died simply because they’re old. No murder, no investigation, the murderer has nothing to fear. And I’ve got nothing to fear. If I can get my hypodermic back, that is.’