An Uncertain Place

L

ADAMSBERG WALKED FOR OVER AN HOUR ON THE BANK OF the Seine that was in sunlight, listening to the seagulls mewing in French, and holding his mobile in his hand, waiting for a call from London. It came through at 2.15, as Stock had promised. It was a very short conversation, since Adamsberg had left a single question with DCI Radstock, one to which he had only to reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

‘Yes,’ said Radstock, in English. Adamsberg thanked him and snapped his phone shut. He hesitated a moment, then chose Estalère’s number. The young brigadier was the only person he could think of who would offer neither comment nor criticism.

‘Estalère,’ he said, ‘go and see Josselin in hospital. I’ve got a message for him.’

‘Yes, sir, what shall I say?’

‘Tell him that the tree on Highgate Hill is dead.’

‘The tree in Highgate?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will do, commissaire.’

Adamsberg went back up the boulevard slowly, imagining the tree roots in Kiseljevo rotting away around the grave.

Where will they grow again, Peter?