by Fred Vargas
‘What do you want us all to do?’
‘Simple. You, Retancourt and I will do some digging to get the surface soil up. Then Mathias will search the soil underneath, for traces of occupation.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that. Is Retancourt really going to come?’
‘No idea.’
‘Well, you sort it out. I’m going to organise our dinner.’
‘We’re not going to the truckers’ café?’
‘No.’
Without being fussy about food, Veyrenc did not share Adamsberg’s almost total indifference to it. He had come to the conclusion that everyday life was quite bad enough to get through as it was, without having to forgo the transitory well-being brought by a good meal. Adamsberg sent a text to Mathias.
Found the place. 5.2 km out of Lourdes on C14, goes by Chemin Henri IV towards Pau. Field’s name Pré Jeanne d’Albret, 4 hectares, should be on your map. Look for my car, bright blue.
The reply was immediate.
Have loaded gear. Leaving now, taking 5h rest overnight, with you c11 tomorrow.
One man with me already. Woman arriving tomorrow 14.38.
The one worth 10?
Polyvalent goddess of team. Tree of forest. Shiva 18 arms.
8 arms you mean. Good-looker?
See what you think. Bark of magic trees an obstacle sometimes.
Adamsberg texted Retancourt next, to save his battery.
Archaeological dig. Am here with Veyrenc. Can you lend us a hand?
Lending a hand, he thought, was the kind of invitation to tempt Retancourt’s surplus energy, always needing an outlet. But she was by no means simple-minded and he had to get past the bark first.
What kind of dig?
DNA of potential killer.
Louise? What about spoon I pinched?
I know.
A laconic reply, which to the best-informed members of the squad really meant Adamsberg’s habitual ‘I don’t know’.
Dig for what then?
He couldn’t avoid the question now.
Ancient recluse cell. Woman lived here for 5 years after being locked up and raped.
When?
When I was a kid.
That’s why you asked Danglard to talk about women recluses?
Partly.
But why would recluse you saw as a child be ours?
You know many recluse cells used in our lifetime?
Know zilch about them.
Bernadette Seguin or sister Annette, also named Louise, could have been in one. Only 3 of us here + mass of earth to shift.
Train time?
It wasn’t the weak argument about the Seguin sisters that had tipped the balance for Retancourt, Adamsberg realised. But the mass of earth to shift with only three men.
9.48 arrives Lourdes 14.38. You can meet my pal Mathias prehistoric expert.
Good-looking while we’re at it?
Yes. Man of few words. Outer bark to get past.
* * *
*
His satisfaction at discovering the dovecot (‘dovecot, dovecot’, he said to himself several times) had calmed down the bubbles of gas. Adamsberg went off to find some wood for a fire. Then he built his fireplace, surrounded by stones, a good distance from the dovecot. You had to give time for the embers to form. Because he was pretty sure Veyrenc wouldn’t be arriving with sandwiches, but with something to grill.
As he watched the fire take, he opened his notebook. The relief had been only short-lived. He reread in order the notes he had made in the hope that one of the bubbles would burst. Like when you revise something for an exam, but don’t take in a single word.
Dovecot: couldn’t find the word.
Evasion: anguish at someone being tethered (pigeon feet tied) or being pigeon myself (doctor).
There’s nobody else left to kill (Veyrenc).
Creaking boards (Retancourt).
Too much chattering and cooing (Retancourt).
Martin-Robinson: just two birds, not a problem, resolved.
In fact, this list was more like an esoteric incantation, a mantra, than a search for meaning. Maybe his bubbles were simply random particles looking for mystic wisdom, nothing to do with a pragmatic solution to a police investigation. Maybe they were little sparks of madness. Maybe they didn’t give a damn about his work. Or any work come to that. They just enjoyed frolicking and dancing, and like a schoolboy who’s daydreaming instead of studying, they were pretending, so as to fool anyone spying on them. And the spy was himself in this case, thinking the bubbles were working when they were really bunking off.
The embers were glowing by the time Veyrenc came back from his shopping trip and set about preparing a meal.
‘Nice fire,’ he approved. ‘What matters with an open fire is balance, makes it more efficient.’
He then set up a big barbecue on the embers, laid out some chops and sausages, and lit a small camping stove to heat up some tinned haricot beans.
‘Sorry about the veg,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t going to shell peas and chop up bacon.’
‘It’s perfect, Louis.’
‘And I didn’t bring proper wine glasses either with stems. No point spilling our wine on the grass.’
Apart from the worry about his list of esoteric mantras, and the bubbles that had gone off playing truant, Adamsberg felt blissfully content to smell the meat grilling and to look around the encampment. He let Veyrenc set out the plates and cutlery, just as Froissy would have, and bring out of his backpack two tumblers which he placed firmly down on the grass, before uncorking a bottle of Madiran.
‘To the almost-excavated cell,’ he said, filling the glasses.
Veyrenc produced salt and pepper and served out the meat and beans. The two men ate their meal in silence for a while.
‘To the almost excavated cell,’ Adamsberg repeated. ‘Because you believe in it?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You’re being Socratic.’
‘The trick is you can never know when I’m doing it or not.’
Adamsberg’s mobile buzzed in the grass. A text. It was nine thirty. He leaned over in the darkness to pick it up.
‘You say we’re all neurotic, but our mobile phones certainly are.’
He picked up the phone and lifted a finger.
‘It’s Louvain,’ he said with sudden excitement. ‘The DNA result.’
He looked at the phone for a moment before pressing the button. Read it in silence, then passed it to Veyrenc.
Partial analysis of representative but fragmentary samples of hair and spoon. No correspondence. Tomorrow, with more tests, we might find some link, cousin to cousin to cousin. Any use or not?
As I expected, replied Adamsberg, typing in the failing light. But thanks.
He passed the phone to Veyrenc. The pale light from its little screen illuminated his colleague’s face, which was looking more granite-like than ever.
Adamsberg took out his notebook and by the light of the fire which he had rekindled, wrote down: After the negative DNA result I said to Louvain ‘As I expected’. No idea why.
Veyrenc got up without speaking, collected the plates, cutlery and pan, which he then stacked with exaggerated care.
‘We can wash it all in the stream in the morning,’ he said in a studiedly neutral voice.
‘Yeah, fine, we don’t want to do that in the dark,’ replied Adamsberg in the same distant tone.
‘I brought some washing-up liquid. Ecological.’
‘Better for the stream.’
‘Yes, good for the stream.’
‘We can go after our morning coffee, and clear everything in one go.’
‘Yes, better than two trips.’
Then Veyrenc sat down cross-legged and the two men remained silent
.
‘Who’s going to start?’ asked Veyrenc.
‘Me,’ said Adamsberg. ‘It was my idea and I was wrong. To the second blind inlet,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘Wait a moment, Jean-Baptiste. There’s still the possibility Louise did do the shooting, but deposited someone else’s hair.’
‘No, you’re right. The analysis doesn’t quite rule her out.’
Adamsberg sprawled on one elbow to feel around in the grass. The moon, veiled by cloud that night, was no help. He found his jacket and brought out another two crumpled cigarettes, which he repaired with his fingers. He gave one to Veyrenc and lit his own with a twig from the fire.
‘But why would she pick hair that looked so like her own?’
‘Bad question. Lots of women her age dye their hair.’
‘But why did I reply to Louvain that it was as I expected?’
‘Because you did expect it.’
‘It was sort of coming apart.’
‘And I’ll ask you the same question I asked when we were in the Hotel du Taureau. When did it start, your doubt?’
‘Two days ago?’
‘And why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s these bubbles of gas dancing inside my head. They tell each other stuff, they whisper. And I can’t get any sense out of them.’
‘Bubbles of gas?’
‘Proto-thoughts, if you prefer. Nonsense. I think of them as bubbles of gas. Whether they’re at play or at work, I don’t know. Do you want me to read out the words that seem to trigger or disturb them? Not that they make anything clearer to me.’
He did not wait for Veyrenc’s approval to open his notebook.
Dovecot: couldn’t find the word.
Evasion: anguish at someone being tethered (pigeon feet tied) or being pigeon myself (doctor).
There’s nobody else left to kill (Veyrenc).
Creaking boards (Retancourt).
Too much chattering and cooing (Retancourt).
Martin-Robinson: just two birds, not a problem, resolved.
Veyrenc nodded and raised a hand. Adamsberg could see the hand moving by the light from the tip of his cigarette.
‘When did you write “Martin-Robinson: just two birds, not a problem, resolved”?’
‘This morning.’
‘Why, if it was resolved?’
Adamsberg shrugged.
‘Because one of the bubbles fussed about it, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’d say you wrote it because the matter wasn’t sorted.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘I don’t think so. Was it the doctor himself that got the bubbles bothered?’
‘No, it’s just his name, that’s all.’
‘A lot of birds in there as well as pigeons: a martin, a robin . . .’
‘Yes, cooing as well. Do you believe his second theory?’
‘About there being a traitor?’
‘Suppose,’ Adamsberg began, reluctantly, as if about to pronounce a sentence he should not be saying, ‘just suppose, that someone is fooling us. With those hairs. And when I say “suppose”, that isn’t right, actually I feel certain. It was a decoy. I said we were lucky to have found four. I said we were rich. Too rich of course.’
‘Four isn’t just too many, it’s improbable. Our killer isn’t a beginner. He or she would have taken the elementary precaution of wearing a cap or a hood. I say he or she, because we can’t rule out it being a man now.’
‘But who, Louis, could have been able to place those hairs in the box room in Torrailles’s house?’
‘Only one person, the killer.’
‘No, two: the killer or Retancourt. I wondered how, being in charge of guarding Torrailles and Lambertin, she hadn’t imagined the attack might come from inside the house. When the whole of the outside was being patrolled by three cops. She must have thought of it.’
‘Or not. You hadn’t thought of it yourself. Nor had I. Or anyone else.’
Veyrenc threw his cigarette stub into the fire.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘Retancourt’s far more subtle than that. She’d never have left four hairs.’
‘Just the one,’ said Adamsberg, looking up again.
The lieutenant picked up the bottle for their last glasses of the evening.
‘At the stage we’ve reached . . .’ he said.
‘At the stage we’ve reached,’ said Adamsberg, pointing in the dark towards the site of the dovecot, ‘the answer’s got to be there. In the territory of the recluse. Where we’ll find her teeth.’
‘But a woman’s teeth,’ said Louis with a slight demur.
‘I know.’
‘Enzo. He had the list.’
‘So did Cauvert. I’m not forgetting him, Louis.’
Veyrenc moved off to distribute cushions and blankets in the car. It would be a bit of a tight squeeze. But when you’ve known each other as children, anything goes.
Adamsberg covered the fire, scattering ash over the embers. He opened his notebook one last time, by the light of his mobile.
After ‘Martin-Robinson: just two birds, not a problem, resolved’, he wrote: ‘Or not.’
XLIII
Adamsberg and Veyrenc helped Mathias, who arrived at the Pré d’Albret shortly before 11 a.m., to unload his materials. It was the first time Veyrenc had met the archaeologist, and found himself faced with a man of few words, well-built and with long, thick blond hair. He wore sandals on his bare feet, and his canvas trousers were kept up with a length of rope.
With the rapidity born of long practice, Mathias pumped up four inflatable tents in a ring around the now cool fireplace and installed mattresses and camping lamps. He set up a field latrine behind a large tree, then, essentials completed, went to inspect the circle and returned looking pleased.
‘Will this do?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘Yes, that’s it all right. I don’t think the occupied area is very deep down. Fifteen to twenty centimetres. So we should use pickaxes but not the point, just the blade.’
‘Right away?’
‘Right away.’
‘We’ve saved you some hot coffee.’
‘Later.’
Since the circle was too small for two people to attack it with picks, the three men took turns for the first hour, one digging while the other two shovelled bucketloads of earth and emptied them out. Mathias was more efficient at digging than either Adamsberg or Veyrenc, so they modified the rota.
‘Here!’ said Mathias suddenly, kneeling down and with his trowel clearing a patch of twenty square centimetres of dark brown, packed earth, which contrasted slightly with the surrounding humus. ‘This is the level of occupation. Seventeen centimetres down.’
‘How can you tell? asked Adamsberg.
Mathias looked at him in puzzlement.
‘Can’t you see the change? We’ve reached a different layer.’
‘No.’
‘Never mind. This was where she walked.’
* * *
*
The three men ate a hasty lunch, Mathias because he was in a hurry to get back to the site, Adamsberg because he had to go and pick up Retancourt from Lourdes.
When they returned, the prehistorian was still digging, but now taking much more care, while Veyrenc emptied out the soil, both of them shirtless and sweating under the hot June sunshine.
The sight of Retancourt made Mathias stop in mid-swing, and he let the pickaxe fall to the ground. The lieutenant, whom Adamsberg had described as the magic tree in the forest, was as tall as himself, Mathias noted. And this woman, who would have looked fully armed even if naked, had a very interesting face with finely drawn features. But despite her faultless lips, straight nose and tender blue eyes, he could not have said whether she was pretty or attractive. He hesitated, suspecting she could pr
obably change her appearance at will, veering from harmonious to off-putting whenever she wanted to. And what about her power? Was it simply muscular or psychological? Retancourt defied description and analysis.
He climbed out of the pit to shake her hand, wiping the earth off on his trousers first, and looked her in the eye.
‘Mathias Delamarre,’ he introduced himself.
‘Violette Retancourt. Don’t stop on my account, I’ll watch what you do and pick it up. The commissaire told me you’d reached the level of occupation.’
‘Here it is,’ said Mathias, pointing to a cleared patch which now measured almost a square metre.
Adamsberg offered Retancourt bread, fruit and coffee, but she refused, putting down her bag, taking off her jacket, and at once taking her place in the chain emptying out earth. Her arrival speeded up progress, so by seven in the evening Mathias had been able to clear the entire earthen floor, inside the circle of stones remaining from the ancient foundations of the dovecot.
‘This is where she lived,’ said Mathias, standing up – after several hours without speaking at all – as if inviting visitors to inspect a property, while he leaned on his pick handle. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to some splinters of wood, ‘was a plank she must have sat on to keep off the cold and damp. She must have eaten here. There are fragments from the plate she used. In this area here, where it’s less brown, without organic matter, will be where she slept. There are traces of two post sockets. So she had one advantage, and one only, over the recluses of the Middle Ages, she must have had a hammock, so she could sleep in the dry. Here we have a pile of food remains. You can see some fragments of chops, chicken wings, cheap cuts people must have given her. And here, maybe it was Christmas, is an oyster shell. She was very organised and careful, as far as possible in the circumstances, she didn’t let herself go. She’d made a walkway of thirty centimetres wide – can you see it? – from the hammock to the window where people put their offerings. And she didn’t drop anything along that path in five years.’
‘How do you know the window was on this side?’ asked Retancourt.
‘That path and this stone. She would have stood on it to receive the food. So with some old photographs of the dovecot, one could estimate her height, Adamsberg. And here,’ he said, ‘this zone with lighter-coloured earth, already becoming rather powdery in bits, was her privy.’