Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXI

VIVALDI’S MUSIC UNFURLED AROUND HIM, RELEASING SPIRALS OF thought, profuse and confused. The sight of Camille wrestling with her viola affected him more than he would have wished, but this was merely a stolen hour, and an incognito emotion which committed him to nothing. Transferring his professional habits to the music, he heard the thread of the composition stretch as if it were an insoluble enigma, almost reach the point of screaming with impotence, and then resolve itself into an unexpected and fluid harmony, as if it were alternating complexities and resolutions, questions and answers.

It was at one of the moments when the string players had begun a ‘resolution’ that his thoughts shot back to the hasty departure of the Trident from the Haguenau Schloss. He was following the trail, as he watched Camille’s bow move. By pursuing the judge, Adamsberg had always forced him to move on, that being the only slight power he had ever acquired over the magistrate. He had arrived in Schiltigheim on the Wednesday, and it was the next day that Trabelmann had exploded with anger at him. There would have been plenty of time for the event to become known and to appear by Friday in the local papers. Which was the very day that Maxime Leclerc had put his house on the market and cleared out. If that was so, both of them were involved now. Adamsberg was once more chasing the dead man, but the dead man knew that his pursuer had reappeared. In that case, Adamsberg had lost his only advantage, and the power of the dead man could block his way at any time. Forewarned is always forearmed, but the judge’s foresight was potent to the power of a hundred. Back in Paris, Adamsberg would have to adapt his strategy to this new threat and escape the alsatians snapping at his legs. ‘I’ll give you a start, young man. I’ll count to four.’ Run, Adamsberg, run for your life.

Unless he was totally mistaken. He spared a thought for Vivaldi who was sending him this danger signal across the centuries. A good guy, Vivaldi, a real buddy, and the quintet were doing him proud. It was not for nothing then that his car had driven him here, to steal an hour out of Camille’s life, and to receive a precious warning from the composer. Since he was apparently hearing from the dead, he might very well hear a whispered message from Antonio Vivaldi, and he was sure the Venetian musician had been good company. A guy who writes music of such beauty is bound to give you excellent advice.

It was only at the end of the concert that Adamsberg spotted Danglard, whose eyes were fixed on his protégée. The sight immediately destroyed all his pleasure. What the devil was Danglard up to now? Was he going to meet him at every turn? Interfering with his whole life? Obviously he knew all about the concerts and was faithfully at his post, the dependable, loyal and irreproachable Adrien Danglard. Well, shit. Camille didn’t belong to him, for God’s sake. So what was the capitaine planning with this close surveillance? Was he trying to creep into Adamsberg’s life? Real anger towards his deputy rose within him. The grey-haired benefactor, slipping in through the door left open by Camille’s heartbreak.

The speed with which Danglard then disappeared surprised Adamsberg. The capitaine had gone round the back of the church and was waiting at the artists’ entrance. To offer congratulations, no doubt. But no, Danglard was loading stuff into a car, and then taking the wheel, and Camille was with him. Adamsberg drove off behind them, anxious to see how far his deputy would take this secret solicitude. After a halt, then a further ten minutes’ drive, Danglard parked the car, then opened the door for Camille, who handed him a bundle wrapped in a blanket. The blanket, and the fact that the bundle made a noise, communicated to Adamsberg, in a spasmodic shock, the extent of the situation.

A child, a baby. And going by the small size of the bundle and the voice, perhaps no more than a month old. Motionless, he watched the door of the house close behind the couple. Danglard, the bastard, the thief in the night.

But Danglard reappeared quickly, gave Camille a friendly wave, and hailed a taxi.

Good God, a child, thought Adamsberg on the long drive back to Hull. Now that Danglard had been absolved from the role of treacherous bastard and had once more become the loyal and dependable friend – which by no means lessened his resentment towards him – his thoughts were concentrated on the young woman. How on earth had Camille ended up with a child? Inevitably, he thought with a pang, that meant some kind of connection with a man. If the baby was a month old, that meant nine plus one, say ten months. So Camille had waited only a few weeks before finding his successor. He trod on the accelerator, suddenly impatient to overtake the damned cars rolling peacefully along at the sacred speed of ninety kilometres an hour. Anyway, that was the situation, and Danglard must have been informed early on, and hadn’t breathed a word about it to him. Still, he understood why his deputy had spared him this news, which even now stung him deeply. But why? What had he, Adamsberg, been hoping? That Camille would weep for a thousand years and never forsake her lost love? That she would turn into a statue whom he could bring back to life whenever he wanted to? Like in a fairy story, as Trabelmann would have said. No, she had stumbled, but survived, and then met some other man, it was as simple as that. A harsh reality which he had to digest with difficulty.

No, he thought later, lying on top of his bed, no, he had never really taken on board that he would lose Camille when he lost Camille. It was logical enough after all, but he couldn’t handle it. And now there was this bastard of a new father, who was driving him out of the picture. Even Danglard had taken the side of the other man against him. He could easily imagine the capitaine walking into the maternity ward and shaking hands with the newcomer, who would be a reliable sort of chap, safe as houses, offering all his uprightness and benevolence in contrast to him, Adamsberg. A man of irreproachable habits and morality, a businessman, with a labrador, no, two labradors, and polished shoes with new laces.

Adamsberg hated him fiercely. That night, he would have massacred the man and his dogs, without hesitation. He, the flic, the cop, the pig, would have gladly committed murder. With a trident too, why not?