by Fred Vargas
‘The soil underneath it? Pigeon droppings?’
‘There was this recluse, who lived in it for five years, a long time ago, you weren’t even born. I was a child myself.’
‘You mean a real recluse?’
‘Yes, real, like in medieval times.’
‘But what do you want to find by excavating it?’
‘Her identity. I need your help. I can get some of my men to dig up the turf and the humus. But then what? To examine the soil of her “habitat”, who am I going to ask? The cops? It’s quite small, can’t be more than four square metres.’
‘No, that makes sense, she wouldn’t have had a three-bedroom flat if she was, like you say, a genuine recluse.’
‘But I need to go through the stuff with a toothcomb. So that we can get some uncontaminated DNA from hair or teeth.’
‘No problem,’ said the phlegmatic and reliable Mathias.
‘There’s probably a lot of hair, but after years in the damp, the roots will have gone, and even the hair will be damaged. I’m banking on the teeth with soft tissue still being there.’
‘What makes you think there’ll be teeth?’
‘I saw her.’
‘You saw her?’
‘She had her mouth wide open. Just a few rotten stumps.’
‘Scurvy, perhaps? What sailors used to get on long voyages.’
‘Yes, well, I’m on a long voyage too.’
‘When is this for?’
‘As soon as you can. I’m on my way now to reconnoitre the place. I know where the field is, but it covers about four hectares.’
‘The dovecot’s been demolished?’
‘Knocked down, immediately after she left.’
‘Now, if you’re trying to locate it in a field, here are some tips. If the soil occupied is not very deep down, that has an effect on the way the vegetation grows and what it looks like. Even two thousand years later.’
‘Yes, you once told me that.’
‘Under the humus, there will be the remains of stones from the perimeter walls of the dovecot, and the grass won’t grow so well there. You might find brambles, nettles, thistles. Look for a circle of what most people call weeds.’
‘Right.’
‘And inside the circle, you’ll have a lot of organic matter, rotten food, excrement. So there, the vegetation should be very rich, nice juicy grass, very green. Got the picture?’
‘A circular patch of rich grass, surrounded by nettles.’
‘That’s it. Don’t just look down vertically at the field, but crouch down and look along the surface horizontally. You’ll find it. I’ll come by road and meet you with my gear. So where is this?’
‘About six kilometres outside Lourdes.’
‘In the van, let’s say it’ll take about ten to twelve hours. I’ll set out tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Mathias.’
‘No problem, it really interests me.’
* * *
*
It was almost 8 p.m. when Adamsberg drew up outside the Pré d’Albret. He had tried to find a room for the night, but Lourdes and the surrounding areas were booked out. People apparently reserved months ahead. He called Mathias.
‘I’m on the site. Can you bring some camping equipment? There aren’t any rooms to let.’
‘For how many people?’
‘You, me and two of my men. Or rather you, me and two of my team, one of whom is a woman who’s worth ten men. If they come.’
‘All right, will organise. Can you arrange anti-contamination suits, gloves and all that stuff? Seen anything yet?’
‘I’ve just got here and I’m hungry. What are you eating tonight?’
‘Jugged hare and langoustines, I dare say. What about you?’
‘Spinach boiled in Lourdes holy water, I expect.’
‘Why are you on your own, without anyone helping?’
‘Because I haven’t told anyone. Yet.’
‘Ah, you haven’t changed, I see. Suits me.’
* * *
*
Adamsberg decided to divide the field into eight strips, by sight, and began staking it out, crouching down often, as Mathias had advised. The grass wasn’t tall, since there had evidently been a flock of sheep there recently, leaving plenty of droppings. That reminded him of the Icelandic ewe that had trodden his mobile into its dung. He halted his search at 9 p.m. since the light was fading, and set off towards Lourdes, where he found a truckers’ café, neglected by the pilgrims. He ate a solid meat stew with some sharpish Côtes du Rhône, still wondering whether his impulse that morning to come and search the remains of the recluse’s cell was in any way justifiable. He called Veyrenc, so that at least one team member should be aware of his absence. When Louis answered, he could hear sounds of a restaurant in the background.
‘You’re in La Garbure.’
‘Come and join me, I’ve only just started.’
‘I’m a bit far away, Louis. I’m in a truckers’ café just outside Lourdes.’
There was a silence. Estelle was bringing the lieutenant’s food.
‘You’re on the trail of your own recluse?’
‘I’ve been pacing out her meadow, four hectares of it.’
‘So how do you hope to find where it was?’
‘By looking. The grass won’t have grown where there are buried stones from the building, but it will grow strongly on earth enriched by organic matter.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘I have an archaeologist friend.’
‘Because you’re going to dig?’
‘Yes.’
‘What for?’
‘Teeth.’
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Worried about Danglard?’
‘No, I’m just worried that they’re all exhausted. We’ve had a double failure so far. The first time was when the trail leading to the boys who were bitten collapsed. If it has collapsed. And then these last executions using spider venom, which we’ve been unable to prevent. So I’m not about to ask their permission to go digging around in the relics of a recluse that nothing connects with the murders, on the pretext that I saw her as a child. Nothing except two words: Bernadette and recluse.’
‘All right. What did you mean by “if it has”. About the boys who were bitten.’
‘Danglard was capable of obstruction to protect his brother-in-law. What if someone else is doing the same thing? Are we really so sure none of those men went missing when Vessac was murdered?’
‘Someone else? You mean our fellow officers?’
‘I have to think of them.’
‘Danglard had one of the suspects in his own family. That’s unlikely to be the case for anyone else.’
‘I don’t mean a family motive, but an ethical one. People don’t want to arrest the killer. I’m obliged to wonder about that, because I’m wondering myself what I’ll do when I find her. If I find her. If this turns out to be another blind inlet, we’ll have to go back to those boys who were bitten. Because Little Louis and the others will certainly have realised what’s going on, right from the start. But none of them has ever contacted the police with a view to saving the last of the old gang.’
‘Because they were protecting one of their group?’
‘Or the woman who has been doing the killing. They might know who she is.’
‘Well, no point putting them through it, they’ll all keep their mouths shut. There’s nobody else left to kill. The trail’s gone cold.’
Adamsberg paused, then took out his notebook.
‘What did you just say?’
‘That the trail’s gone cold.’
‘No, before that. Something quite ordinary – can you say it again please?’
‘They’ll all keep thei
r mouths shut. There’s nobody else left to kill.’
‘Thanks, Louis. Don’t tell anyone about this for now. No point until I get permission from the local authority to do the dig. Which might not be straightforward because it’s a protected place, undisturbed. I suppose no one wanted to buy the land at the time and make money out of holy terrain. And they haven’t since either. They seem to let sheep graze there, but I guess sheep don’t offend holy ground, being the Lord’s flock or something like that.’
Adamsberg had no wish to drive to Pau to find the hotels there closed to him. He parked his hired car on the verge near the Pré d’Albret and tipped the seat back to form a makeshift bed. He took the snowstorm from his pocket and made it dance in the light of the waning moon. He repeated again the last sentence that had pierced one of his bubbles of gas: ‘There’s nobody else left to kill.’
As for the other little thing that was troubling him, he had worked that one out, and it was of no importance: the name of the psychiatrist, Martin-Robinson. Two birds in his name, but neither of them pigeons: a martin and a robin. Of no great significance.
He settled down as best he could in the car, feeling depressed and besieged by the bubbles bouncing around relentlessly, unprompted and unwanted, along various secret routes. Yes, there were those hairs from the box room. And yes, there were certainly signs that could link Louise to the murders. But for two days now, something had gone missing in his thought processes, undermining his conviction that he was on the right track. And that something was hiding in the bubbles, he felt sure. But that was as far as he got. When had his certainty started to wobble? After Retancourt had been to see Louise? No, before that. But Retancourt had written something in her text message that had prompted some disturbance. He reread her last message, which Veyrenc had forwarded to his phone. Couldn’t get in there, creaking boards. He shrugged his shoulders. Yes, of course, creaking boards. One of Magellan’s ships, the Santiago had come to grief in a storm. Its timbers and masts must have creaked mightily, before it was wrecked on a dark cliff in yet another blind inlet. But still, nothing to lose, he opened his notebook and wrote down: creaking boards.
There’d been something else as well: too much chattering and cooing, not my scene.
Cooing. That brought him back to pigeons. He copied that out too: too much cooing. Then he closed his notebook, feeling ill at ease.
XLII
At 6 a.m., feeling stiff all over after his night in the car, Adamsberg set off to find a stream which his map showed to be nearby. He passed a café where the iron blinds were just being lifted, but thought it better to wait until he had washed and put on some less crumpled clothes.
The water was icy cold and clear, but he liked clear water and didn’t mind the cold. Once he was clean and properly dressed, his hair still wet, he ordered breakfast in the same village café, where he was the first customer. His dip in the stream had washed away his darker thoughts, but he still sensed, through the snowstorm in his pocket, that the bubbles of gas were waking up, stretching and getting ready to start their erratic waltz again. He wrote in his notebook: Martin-Robinson: just two birds, not a problem, and underlined it. Veyrenc sent him a text as he was on his way back to the car at seven thirty.
Need help? Can get to Lourdes by 14.22.
I’ll pick you up. Charge your mobile battery. Nowhere to stay, sleeping in car, washing in stream, eating at truckers. OK?
Fine. Will bring some extras.
Bring two anti-contamination suits and the usual stuff.
And clothes?
Yes please.
* * *
*
At 8 a.m. on the dot, Adamsberg walked into the town hall of Lourdes, which was the local authority for the Pré d’Albret. Two hours later, he was no further forward. They understood his request and his problem, but it needed the personal approval of the mayor. And the mayor was not available. Monday morning, creaking machinery. The commissaire explained politely that he was quite willing not to disturb the mayor, but in that case, his staff should contact the prefect of Hautes-Pyrénées département, to explain that while the mayor of Lourdes couldn’t be found, a senior policeman wished to lodge an urgent request in connection with an investigation relating to the deaths of ten people, so far. At that point, things moved quickly, and ten minutes later Adamsberg was walking out with the document in his hand.
He drank another strong coffee on the way back, bought some water and a sandwich, and started prospecting the field again, tackling the first quarter of the second strip. By 1 p.m. he had finished the third strip, but without finding any anomaly in the vegetation. Perhaps, since he had been capable of forgetting the word ‘dovecot’, he was also subconsciously failing to see the site, and looking at it without perceiving it. He sat in the shade to eat a lunch of which Froissy would have disapproved, especially the apple full of pesticides. His thoughts returned to Louise Chevrier. He called the lab and asked to speak to Louvain.
‘This is Adamsberg. Look, I know you’re overworked, Louvain.’
‘Nice to hear from you. What are you on to?’
‘Ten murders.’
‘Ten?’
‘The six most recent in the last month.’
‘I’ve heard nothing about them. I’d have been told, wouldn’t I?’
‘You’re being told now. It’s those deaths by recluse spider venom.’
‘The old geezers in the south? Are they murders?’
‘Keep it to yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because so far, nobody’s prepared to admit it’s possible to kill someone with recluse venom. The only way I can prove they’re murders is via DNA tests.’
‘You mean the hierarchy doesn’t know about your investigation?’
‘Correct.’
‘So the samples you sent, the hairs and the spoon, you got them illicitly?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you want me to do an illicit test? That I can’t write into the report?’
‘Remember a few years ago, you had a secret paternity test done on yourself in your lab, to investigate claims for child support from a mother who was threatening you with mega problems. As it turned out, you weren’t the father. So, wasn’t that an illicit test?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, just suppose my hierarchy is like an inflexible and recalcitrant mother, which it is. I have to take a short cut.’
‘Well, OK, since it’s for you, and because the mother is recalcitrant. We registered the samples this morning, but I’ll take them off the register. I might be able to give you a partial result tonight. It would give you an inkling.’
* * *
*
As he drove towards the station in Lourdes, Adamsberg hoped that Louvain’s willingness to process the samples quickly would dispel the worrying ballet of gas bubbles. Nothing of the kind happened though, and he had to try to expel them deliberately, as he saw the train enter the station. Veyrenc’s arrival was welcome: the terrain was much more complex to search than he had foreseen, and being able to discuss things would help. To all appearances, Veyrenc’s approach to a conversation sometimes seemed banal, negligent, even obtuse, but this had the subtle effect of uprooting Adamsberg’s thoughts from where they had lodged. Either Veyrenc simply agreed, especially if he could see no way ahead, or he contradicted and argued, forcing Adamsberg to go back over simple elements, and make more of an effort to dislodge his subterranean thoughts. There was a Greek word for that approach.
The lieutenant got down from the train with two large suitcases and a bulky rucksack.
‘Here we have the luxury bedroom and bathroom,’ he said, pointing to the luggage. ‘A de luxe bar and grill. I didn’t bring any bedside tables. So what’s new?’
‘Tonight we might know more about the DNA.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Louvain’s on to it. I just gave him a bit of nudge, that’s all.’
‘Though crooked grows the tree / The fruit might luscious be.’
‘Louis, now that Danglard is off duty, don’t start quoting stuff at me, I’m tired of it.’
‘I made that up, not that Danglard would approve.’
‘Danglard says your versification is faulty.’
‘He’s right.’
The two men loaded the extremely heavy bags into the car.
‘Sure you didn’t bring bedside tables?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘Or wardrobes?’
‘Nope.’
‘Have you had some lunch?’
‘Just a sandwich in the train.’
‘I did too, but under a tree. Tell me, what’s it called, that way of talking that consists of making the other person feel really stupid, by asking questions to make him say what he thinks he doesn’t know, but he really does.’
‘Maieutics.’
‘And who invented it?’
‘Socrates.’
‘So when you keep asking me questions one after another, that’s what you’re doing?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said Veyrenc with a smile.
* * *
*
They both attacked the field right away, one on the fourth strip, one on the fifth, once Adamsberg had explained to Veyrenc the method of looking along the grass horizontally. At 7 p.m. Adamsberg was starting the sixth strip and Veyrenc the seventh. An hour later, Veyrenc waved his hand. He’d found the circle. Mathias was right. A circular patch of very green and thick grass was surrounded by a mixture of thistles, nettles and barren grasses. The two men did high fives like idiots, since Veyrenc had never wanted to dig out the recluse’s cell, and Adamsberg had been afraid of it. He stood beside the circle and looked around.
‘Yes, this must be it, I recognise it now.’ He raised his arm and pointed. ‘My mother must have been standing there when I peeped in through the window, the pigeonhole. I’ll alert Mathias and Retancourt.’