This Night’s Foul Work

XXI

THE DRUG SQUAD HAD BEEN OBLIGED TO GIVE UP ITS CLAIM, BUT Adamsberg was not far off doing the same. His road was blocked: doors seemed to be closing on the investigation whichever way he looked.

Perhaps the Swedish stools weren’t so bad after all, because you couldn’t really sit on them, only perch there as if on horseback, with your legs dangling. Adamsberg had settled on one, quite comfortably, and was looking out of the window at the cloudy spring sky, which seemed as sunk in gloom as his inquiries. The commissaire did not enjoy sitting at his desk. After an hour sitting still, he felt the itch to get up and walk around, even if it was only round his office. This high bar stool gave him a new possibility, a sort of halfway house between standing and sitting, allowing his legs to swing gently as if he were suspended in the void, or flying through the air – something that suited the shoveller of clouds. Behind him, on the foam cushions, Mercadet was dozing.

The soil under the fingernails of the two men did, of course, come from the grave. It had been confirmed. But where did that lead? It said nothing about whoever had sent them to Montrouge, nor about what they had come to dig for underground, something sufficiently terrible to have cost them their lives two days later. Adamsberg had checked the recorded height of the nurse at his first opportunity: one metre sixty-five – neither too tall nor too short to be ruled out of the picture.

The information about the dead woman threw his thoughts into even greater confusion. Elisabeth Châtel, from the village of Villebosc-sur-Risle, in Upper Normandy, had been employed by a travel agent in Evreux. She hadn’t been handling dodgy sex tourism or adventurous safaris, just coach trips for elderly tourists. She had not been wearing any jewellery when she was buried. A search of her home had revealed no hidden wealth, nor any passion for valuables. Elisabeth had been austere in her tastes, never wearing make-up, and dressing plainly. Her relatives described her as religious and, from what one gathered, underlying their words was the assumption that she had never had any relationship with a man. She had paid no more attention to her car than to her person, and that was what had caused her death on the dangerous three-lane road between Evreux and Villebosc. The brake fluid had leaked and her car had been crushed by a truck. The previous most significant event in the Châtel family had been in 1789, when the family had been split between those who favoured the Revolution and those who opposed it. There had been a death as a result, and since then the two feuding branches of the clan had not spoken to each other. Even in death they were divided, with one branch being buried in the village graveyard at Villebosc, the other in a concession in the cemetery at Montrouge.

This cheerless summary seemed to contain the entire life of Elisabeth, a life apparently devoid of either friends or secrets. The only remarkable thing that had happened to her was the interference with her grave. None of that made sense, thought Adamsberg, swinging his legs. For the sake of this woman, who had apparently attracted no desire during her lifetime, two men had died after trying to reach her head in the coffin. Elisabeth had been placed in the coffin at the hospital in Evreux, and nobody could have had the opportunity to slip anything inside it.

At two o’clock there was to be a hasty conference at the Brasserie des Philosophes, where half the staff was still eating lunch. Adamsberg was not one to fuss about the conferences, either their regularity or the venue. He walked the hundred metres across to the brasserie, trying to find, on the map which kept flapping in the wind, the location of Villebosc-sur-Risle. Danglard pointed it out to him.

‘Villebosc comes under the Evreux gendarmerie,’ he said. ‘It’s one of those villages with half-timbering and thatched roofs, and you should know it, because it’s only fifteen kilometres from your Haroncourt.’

‘What Haroncourt?’ Adamsberg asked, trying to control the map which was flapping about like a sail.

‘You know – Haroncourt, where you went for that concert, when you were being the gallant escort and babysitter.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten the name of the village. Have you noticed that maps are like newspapers, shirts and obsessions? Once you’ve unfolded them, there’s no way you can get them folded up again.’

‘Where did you get that map?’

‘From your office.’

‘Give it here, I’ll fold it,’ said Danglard, extending an impatient hand.

Danglard, unlike Adamsberg, appreciated those objects – and ideas – which imposed a discipline on him. Every other morning, he would find that his newspaper had already been consulted by Adamsberg and as a result was lying crumpled on the desk. For lack of any more serious matter, it bothered him. But he could hardly complain about this disorder, since the commissaire regularly arrived in the office before it was light – and looked at the newspaper – while never complaining about Danglard’s habitually poor timekeeping.

The officers were huddled in their usual spot in the brasserie, a long alcove lit by two large stained-glass windows that threw blue, green or red reflections on their faces, according to where they sat. Danglard, who considered the windows ugly and refused to have a blue face, always sat with his back to them.

‘Where’s Noël?’ asked Mordent.

‘On work experience by the Seine,’ explained the commissaire as he sat down.

‘Doing what?’

‘Inspecting the seagulls.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ said Voisenet peaceably, speaking as an indulgent positivist and zoologist.

‘Anything’s possible,’ Adamsberg agreed, putting a packet of photocopies on the table. ‘So now we’re going to work logically. I’ve prepared your marching orders, with a new description of the killer. For the moment, we’re looking for an older woman, height about one metre sixty-two, conventional in appearance, who may wear navy-blue shoes, and who has some kind of medical knowledge. We’re starting the inquiry at the Flea Market on this basis, in four teams. You’ll each have photos of the nurse Claire Langevin, the serial killer with the thirty-three victims.’

‘The angel of death?’ asked Mercadet, sipping his third cup of coffee ahead of the others, in order to stay awake. ‘Isn’t she in prison?’

‘Not any more. She killed a guard and escaped, ten months ago. She may have arrived via the Channel coast, and she’s probably back in France. Don’t show the photographs till the end of your inquiries, don’t influence the witnesses. It’s just a possibility, no more than a shadow of a chance.’

Just then Noël came into the cafe and found a place, in a green light, between two colleagues. Adamsberg glanced at his wristwatches. At this time, Noël should have still been going towards the river and have got as far as Saint-Michel. The commissaire hesitated, then said nothing. From his stubborn expression and insomnia-darkened eyes, it was clear that Noël was looking for an excuse to do something – lob a ball into play, for instance – either to pacify or to provoke. Better to bide one’s time.

‘As for this Shade,’ he went on, ‘approach her with the utmost caution, it’s dangerous territory. We need to find out whether Claire Langevin wore navy leather shoes, if possible whether they were polished, and in particular polished underneath.’

‘Underneath?’

‘You heard, Lamarre, polished on the soles. Like you put wax on the underneath of skis.’

‘What for?’

‘It insulates the wearer from the ground, so that they glide across it without touching it.’

‘Ah, I didn’t know that,’ said Estalère.

‘Retancourt, will you go to the last address we had for the nurse, that house? Try to find out from the estate agent where her belongings are. They might have been thrown out, or they may have been kept. And go and see the last patients she had dealings with.’

‘The ones she didn’t kill,’ pointed out Estalère.

There was a short silence, as so often after the naïve remarks of the young officer. Adamsberg had explained to everyone that Estalère would settle down with time and that one had to be patient. So everyone tended to protect him, even Noël, since Estalère was not a sufficiently credible rival to pose any threat.

‘Go via the lab, Retancourt, and take a technical team with you. We need to look closely at the floors of the house. If she really did polish the underside of her shoes, there might be some traces on the floorboards or tiles.’

‘Unless the agency has had the whole place cleaned.’

‘True. But as I said, we’re proceeding logically for the time being.’

‘So we check for marks.’

‘And above all, Retancourt, you have to protect me. That’s your mission.’

‘Protect you? From…?’

‘Her. It’s possible that she’s after me. Apparently, according to the expert, she may want to eliminate me, so that she can carry on and rebuild the wall I tore down when we caught her.’

‘What wall?’ asked Estalère.

‘The wall inside her,’ said Adamsberg, tracing a line with his finger from his forehead to his navel.

Estalère leaned forward in concentration.

‘Is she a dissociator?’ he asked.

‘How did you know?’ asked Adamsberg, who was always astonished at the sudden flashes of intuition from the young brigadier.

‘I read Lagarde’s book. She talks about “inner walls”. I remember it perfectly. I remember everything.’

‘Well, you’re quite right. she’s a dissociator. You could all reread the book, in fact,’ said Adamsberg who had still not done so himself. ‘I can’t remember the exact title.’

‘Either Side of the Crime Wall,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg looked at Retancourt, who was flipping through the photographs of the elderly nurse and registering the details.

‘I don’t have time to protect myself from her,’ he said. ‘And I’m not really convinced enough to take steps. I’ve no idea what kind of danger it might be, from what direction it might come, or what precautions to take.’

‘How did she kill the prison guard?’

‘Stabbed him in the eyes with a fork, among other things. She would kill with her fingernails if she could, Retancourt. According to Lagarde, who’s familiar with her, she’s incredibly dangerous.’

‘Well, get a bodyguard, commissaire. That would be the most reasonable thing to do.’

‘I’d rather it was you – I’d have more confidence.’

Retancourt shook her head, weighing up the gravity of the mission and the irresponsibility of the commissaire.

‘I can’t help you at night,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to sleep standing up outside your door.’

‘Oh, night-time’s not a problem,’ said Adamsberg with an airy wave of the hand. ‘I’ve already got a bloodthirsty ghost keeping me company in the house.’

‘Really?’ asked Estalère.

‘A certain Saint Clarisse, who was killed by a heavy-fisted tanner in 1771,’ said Adamsberg, with a touch of pride. ‘She’s called “the Silent Sister”. She used to rob old folk and cut their throats. A direct rival for our nurse, if you like. If Claire Langevin tried to get into my house at night, she’d have a job to get near me. Because Saint Clarisse has a penchant for killing women, especially old ones. So you see, I’m not afraid.’

‘Who told you all that stuff?’

‘My neighbour, an ancient Spaniard with one hand. He lost the other in the civil war. He says the nun’s face is like a wrinkled walnut.’

‘How many did your one kill?’ asked Mordent, who seemed amused by the story. ‘Seven, like in fairy tales?’

‘Spot on.’

‘And you’ve seen her?’ asked Estalère, disconcerted by the smiles all round.

‘Just a legend,’ said Mordent, separating the syllables as was his habit. ‘Clarisse doesn’t exist.’

‘Just as well,’ said the brigadier. ‘But is your Spaniard crazy or what?’

‘Not at all. He was bitten by a spider on the arm he’s lost, and it still itches sixty-nine years later. He scratches a point in the air.’

The arrival of the waiter distracted Estalère from his perplexity. He jumped up to place a collective coffee order. Retancourt, taking no notice of the clatter of crockery, was still looking at the photos of the nurse, while Veyrenc was talking to her. The New Recruit had not shaved and he had that soft indulgent look of a man who has been up all night making love. That reminded Adamsberg that he had let Ariane get away while he had been sleeping like a log in her car. The reflections from the windows lit up the strange colours of the lieutenant‘s striped hair.

‘Why is it your job to protect Adamsberg?’ Veyrenc was asking Retancourt. ‘Just you, on your own?’

‘It’s become a habit.’

‘I see:

“So ’tis you, dear Madame, who the buckler must wield,

To act ’gainst the killer, as armour and shield.

I give you my valour, to the very last breath,

Beside you for vict’ry, or beside you for death.” ’

Retancourt smiled, distracted for a moment from her preoccupations.

‘Is that really what you want, Veyrenc?’ asked Adamsberg, trying not to sound too cold. ‘Or is that just poetic licence? Do you really want to help Retancourt protect me? Think before you answer, and estimate the danger. Making up verse won’t help.’

‘Retancourt’s perfectly capable of handling it,’ interrupted Noël.

‘Shut up,’ said Voisenet.

‘Yeah, just shut up,’ said Justin.

Adamsberg realised that on the staff Justin sometimes played exactly the same role as the punctuator at Haroncourt, while Noël was the most aggressive of the contradictors.

The waiter brought the coffees, which provided a brief interlude. Estalère passed them round with scrupulous attention, making sure that everyone had the right one. The others let him do it: they were used to it.

‘I accept,’ said Veyrenc, somewhat tight-lipped.

‘What about you, Retancourt?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘Do you accept him?’

Retancourt looked at Veyrenc in a clear-eyed and neutral way, appearing to weigh up his capacity to help her, visibly assessing him by some standard of her own making. She looked almost like a horse-dealer appraising her animal, and the examination was sufficiently unsettling to cause a silence round the table. But Veyrenc took no offence at the process. He was the New Recruit, it was his job. And he had himself provoked this irony of fate. He was to protect Adamsberg.

‘OK, I accept,’ Retancourt concluded.

‘Very well,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Him?’ said Noël, between gritted teeth. ‘But he’s new round here, for fuck’s sake.’

‘He’s got eleven years’ service,’ retorted Retancourt.

‘Well, I’m against’, said Noël, raising his voice. ‘This guy won’t protect you, commissaire, he hasn’t the slightest wish to.’

Well spotted, thought Adamsberg.

‘Too late, it’s been decided,’ he decreed.

Danglard was observing the scene anxiously, while filing his nails and weighing up Noël’s obvious jealousy. The lieutenant zipped up his leather jacket, as he did whenever he was about to overstep the line.

‘It’s up to you, commissaire,’ he said with a harsh laugh, as the green light flickered across his face. ‘But to fight a monster like that you need a tiger. And far as I know,’ he said, jerking his chin towards the New Recruit’s hair, ‘there’s more to a tiger than stripes.’

He’s hit the spot, Danglard had time to think, before Veyrenc turned deathly pale and got to his feet opposite Noël. Then he sat down again, as if all the strength had gone out of him. Adamsberg read on the New Recruit’s face such suffering that a knot of pure rage formed in his stomach, relegating the war of the two valleys into the far distance. Angry outbursts were so rare with Adamsberg that they were dangerous, as Danglard well knew. He stood up in turn, and moved round the table quickly, seeking to fend off a scene. Adamsberg had hauled Noël to his feet and, pressing his hand hard against his chest, was pushing him step by step towards the street. Veyrenc sat motionless, one hand involuntarily on his cursed hair, without even looking at them. He was simply aware that two women, Retancourt and Hélène Froissy, were sitting silently beside him. As long as he could remember, apart from his chaotic love life, women hadn’t hurt him: they had never made insults or flippant remarks about his hair. Since the age of eight, he had always had girls as friends, never a single male companion. He had no idea how to talk to men and didn’t want to.

Adamsberg returned to the brasserie six minutes later, alone. The tension within him had not yet dissipated, leaving his face as if illumined with a pale glow, not unlike the strange luminescence of the windows.

‘Where’s he gone?’ asked Mordent cautiously.

‘Off with the seagulls, and still flying. And if I have my way, he’ll stay in the air for some time.’

‘But he’s already had his leave,’ Estalère remarked.

This conscientious interruption had a calming effect, as if someone had opened a little window painted yellow in a room full of smoke.

‘Well, he can take a bit more,’ said Adamsberg, more mildly. ‘Now, into your teams,’ he said, glancing at his watches. ‘You can pick up the photographs of the nurse from the office. Danglard will coordinate.’

‘Not you?’ asked Lamarre.

‘No, I’m going on ahead. With Veyrenc.’

The paradoxical situation was in part beyond the control of either Adamsberg or Veyrenc, who found no verses to declaim to restore his equilibrium. He now found himself assigned to protect the commissaire, while Adamsberg was now Veyrenc’s defender, responsibilities neither of them had wished for. Provocation can lead to undesirable consequences, Adamsberg reflected.

The two men spent a couple of hours combing the market, arranging things so that they did not have to speak directly to each other. Veyrenc did most of the questioning, while the commissaire appeared to be vaguely looking for some unspecified object to buy. As daylight faded, Adamsberg pointed to an abandoned wooden chest and called a pause. They sat at opposite ends of the chest, leaving maximum space between them. Veyrenc lit a cigarette, which removed the need to say anything.

‘Awkward business, working together,’ said Adamsberg, chin in hand.

‘Yes,’ agreed Veyrenc.

‘ The mysterious gods play their games with our fate,

Ignoring our desires until it is too late.’

‘You’re right, lieutenant, the gods are to blame. They get bored, so they drink and play games, and we find ourselves trampled underfoot. Both of us. Our own plans are thrown off course, and all for the gods’ amusement.’

‘You don’t have to do this legwork. Why didn’t you stay back at the office?’

‘Because I’m looking for a fireguard.’

‘Ah. You have an open fire?’

‘Yes. When Tom starts walking it’ll be dangerous. So I’m looking for a fireguard.’

‘There was one back in the middle aisle. With a bit of luck, the stall might still be open.’

‘You might have said earlier.’

Half an hour later, by which time it was dark, the two men were trudging back up the aisle, carrying an ancient and heavy fireguard; Veyrenc had spent a long time beating down the price, while Adamsberg had been testing its stability.

‘It’s fine,’ Veyrenc said as they put it down beside the car. ‘Good-looking, solid, and not too dear.’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Adamsberg agreed. ‘If you can push it on to the back seat I’ll pull it from the other side.’

Adamsberg took the wheel and Veyrenc did up his seat belt. ‘OK if I smoke?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Adamsberg, starting the engine. ‘I used to smoke for years. All the kids used to smoke secretly in Caldhez. I guess it was the same with you in Laubazac.’

Veyrenc opened the car window.

‘Why did you say “in Laubazac”?’

‘Because that’s where you lived, two kilometres from the Veyrenc de Bilhc vineyard.’

Adamsberg drove slowly, taking the bends without haste.

‘Well, what of it?’

‘Because it was there, in Laubazac, that you were attacked. Not in the vineyard. Why did you lie, Veyrenc?’

‘I don’t tell lies, commissaire. It was in the vineyard.’

‘It was at Laubazac, on the High Meadow, behind the chapel.’

‘Who was attacked, you or me?’

‘You.’

‘So I know what I’m talking about. If I say it was in the vineyard, it was in the vineyard.’

Adamsberg stopped at a traffic light and glanced across at his colleague. Veyrenc was obviously sincere.

‘No, Veyrenc,’ Adamsberg went on as he drove off again. ‘It was in Laubazac, on the High Meadow. That’s where the five boys came to, from the Gave de Pau valley.’

‘The five louts who came from Caldhez.’

‘Precisely. But they never set foot among the vines. They came to the High Meadow and they came over the path through the rocks.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. They had a rendezvous fixed at the chapel. That’s where they attacked you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do,’ protested Veyrenc. ‘But it was in the vineyard that I passed out, and my father came and fetched me and took me to hospital in Pau.’

‘That was three months earlier. The day you let go of the mare, and she trampled you. You had a broken tibia, and your father picked you up in the vineyard and took you to Pau. The mare was sold after that.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Veyrenc. ‘How could you know that?’

‘Didn’t you hear about every little thing that happened in Caldhez? When René fell off the roof, but by some miracle wasn’t hurt, didn’t you hear about that in Laubazac? And when the grocer’s shop burned down, you heard about that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You see.’

‘But, shit, it was in the vineyard.’

‘No, Veyrenc. The business with the mare and the attack by the boys from Caldhez were two separate incidents, one after another, and you were knocked out both times, but three months apart, with two trips to the hospital in Pau. You’ve mixed them up. Post-traumatic confusion, that’s what the police doctor would say.’

Veyrenc undid his seat belt and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The car was stuck in a traffic jam.

‘I can’t see what you’re getting at, I can’t at all.’

‘What had you gone to do in the vineyard, when the boys appeared?’

‘I’d gone to see what the grapes were like, because there’d been a storm the night before.’

‘See? It’s impossible. Because the attack was in February, and the grape harvest was over by then. The time with the mare, yes, that was in November, you’d gone to check the grapes for the Christmas harvest.’

‘No,’ repeated Veyrenc. ‘And anyway, what does it matter? What the fuck does it matter, whether it was in the vines or in the high meadow at Laubazac? They attacked me all right, didn’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bashed my head with metal bars and slashed my stomach with a bit of glass?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what does it matter?’

‘So it shows that you don’t remember quite everything.’

‘Well, I can remember their faces very well, nothing you can do about that.’

‘I’m not disputing that, Veyrenc. You remember their faces, but you don’t remember everything. Think about it, we’ll talk about it another day.’

‘Just let me off here,’ said Veyrenc in a dejected voice. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

‘What would be the point? We’ve got to work together for the next six months, and you wanted it that way. Don’t worry, there’s a fireguard poking through here between us. That will protect us.’

Adamsberg smiled briefly. His mobile rang, interrupting the valley warfare, and he passed it to Veyrenc.

‘It’s Danglard. Can you switch it on and hold it to my ear?’

Danglard briefly told Adamsberg that the three other teams had come back empty-handed. No woman, old or young, had been seen talking to Diala and La Paille.

‘Retancourt found anything?’

‘No, not much. The house is abandoned. There was a burst pipe last month, and there’s ten centimetres of water on the floors.’

‘She didn’t find any clothes?’

‘Nothing so far.’

‘So all that could have waited till tomorrow, capitaine.’

‘It’s this guy, Binet. He’s called you three times urgently this afternoon, according to the switchboard.’

‘Who’s Binet?’

‘Don’t you know him?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Well, he knows you quite well, it seems. He’s asking for you in person, urgently. He says he’s got something very important to tell you. From the tone of the messages, it sounds serious.’

Adamsberg gave a puzzled glance at Veyrenc, and signed to him to take down the number.

‘Can you call this Binet’s number, Veyrenc, and pass it to me?’

Veyrenc punched in the number and held the phone to the commissaire‘s ear. The traffic jam was clearing.

‘Binet?’

‘Hard to get hold of you, man from the Béarn!’

The man’s booming voice echoed inside the car and Veyrenc raised his eyebrows.

‘Not for you by any chance, is it, Veyrenc?’ Adamsberg said in a whisper.

‘No, don’t know him,’ Veyrenc whispered back, shaking his head.

The commissaire frowned.

‘Binet, who are you?’

‘Binet, Robert Binet. Oh, for… don’t you remember me?’

‘Sorry, no.’

‘The café in Haroncourt, for Chrissake.’

‘OK, Robert. I’ve got you now. How did you find out my name?’

‘The Hotel du Coq, it was Anglebert’s idea. He thought we should tell you right away. And we thought so, too. Of course,’ said Robert, with a touch of pique, ‘if you’re not interested…’

The Norman is quick to recoil, like a snail whose horns are touched.

‘No, no, Robert, of course I’m interested. What is it?’

‘There’s been another one. And you thought it was serious that other time, so we thought you ought to know now.’

‘Another what, Robert?’

‘Another one, just the same, massacred in the woods of Champ de Vigorne, near the old railway track.’

A stag, for crying out loud. Robert had been putting through urgent phone calls to Paris on account of a stag. Adamsberg sighed, feeling tired, dealing with the thick traffic and the headlights in the rain. He didn’t want to upset Robert or the others in the group who had made him welcome that evening, when he had been somewhat sadly accompanying Camille to the concert. But he had had very little sleep these last nights, and simply wanted to eat and get to bed. He drove in under the entrance to the Crime Squad headquarters, and indicated by a shrug to his colleague that it wasn’t anything important and he could go off home now. But Veyrenc, who seemed sunk in his own disturbed thoughts, did not move.

‘Give me the details, Robert,’ said Adamsberg in a resigned voice, as he parked the car. ‘I’m taking notes,’ he said, but without taking out a pen.

‘Like I said. Massacred. Demolished.’

‘What does Anglebert say?’

‘You know Anglebert, he’s got his own ideas about it. He thinks it’s some young nutter who’s got a bit older but no wiser. The thing is, he’s moved from Brétilly, he’s over our way now. Anglebert’s not sure it’s a weirdo from Paris any more. He said it could be some local weirdo.’

‘And the heart?’ Adamsberg asked. Veyrenc frowned.

‘Cut out, thrown away, all chopped up. Same thing all over again, listen what I’m telling you. Except it’s a ten-pointer. Oswald, of course, he thinks it’s a niner, not that he can’t count, but he always has to be different. So are you going to do something about it?’

‘I guess so, Robert,’ Adamsberg lied.

‘Can you get over here? We’ll buy your supper, we’re waiting for you. What’ll it take you? Hour and a half?’

‘I can’t come just now, I’m dealing with a double murder.’

‘Ha, so are we. If you don’t call this a double murder, then I don’t know what is.’

‘Have you told the gendarmes?’

‘They couldn’t give a shit. Thick as two short planks. They didn’t even stir themselves to take a look.’

‘And you did?’

‘Yeah, this time we did. The Champ de Vigorne, that’s close to us, understand?’

‘So is it a tenner or a niner?’

‘A tenner, of course. Oswald, he just talks a lot of rubbish to annoy. His mother was from Opportune, just by where they found the stag. So, of course, he’s showing off about it. But come on, dammit, are you coming up here for a drink or not? We can’t wait for ever.’

Adamsberg was trying to think of the best way to wriggle out of the situation, which was difficult, since Robert considered the slaughter of the stags as weighing the same in the balance as two men who’d had their throats cut. In the obstinacy stakes, it seemed that Normans – these ones, at any rate – were as bad as the Béarnais, at least the ones from the Gave de Pau and Ossau valleys.

‘I can’t, Robert, I’ve got a ghost on my hands.’

‘Well, Oswald’s got one too, and that doesn’t stop him coming out for a drink.’

‘He’s what? Oswald?’

‘He’s got a ghost on his hands, like I said. In the graveyard at Opportune-la-Haute. Well, it was his nephew that saw it. He’s been going on about it for a month now.’

‘Put Oswald on the line.’

‘Can’t, he’s gone out. But if you come, he’ll be back here. He wants to see you too.’

‘Why?’

‘Because his sister’s asked him to see you, about the thing in the graveyard. Maybe she’s right, ‘cos the police in Evreux, they don’t want to know.’

‘But what was it, this thing, Robert?’

‘Don’t ask me, I don’t know.’

Adamsberg consulted his watches. Almost seven o’clock.

‘I’ll see what I can do, Robert.’

The commissaire put the mobile back in his pocket, and gazed ahead of him. Veyrenc was still sitting in the car.

‘Something urgent?’

Adamsberg leaned his head against the glass of the window.

‘No, it’s nothing.’

‘But he was talking about a heart being torn out.’

‘It’s a stag, lieutenant. Up there, they’ve got someone who gets his kicks cutting up stags, and that’s got them all in a sweat.’

‘A poacher?’

‘No, not at all, someone who just likes killing stags. And they’ve got a ghost too, a Shade, up there in Normandy.’

‘Nothing to do with us, though, is it?’

‘Nope, not at all.’

‘So why are you going?’

‘I’m not going, Veyrenc. I can’t do anything about it.’

‘I thought you seemed like you wanted to go.’

‘Too tired and it’s of no importance,’ said Adamsberg, opening his door. ‘I’d end up smashing the car and me with it. I’ll call Robert later.’

The car’s doors slammed. Adamsberg locked it. The two men prepared to separate a few yards further on, in front of the Brasserie des Philosophes.

‘If you want,’ Veyrenc said, ‘I could drive and you could sleep. We could get up there and back in the evening.’

Adamsberg, his mind a blank, stared at the car keys he was still holding.