Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXIV

THE DAYS WORKING WITH GINETTE SAINT-PREUX PASSED PEACEABLY, except for the growing complexity of the course, which obliged Adamsberg to start taking notes from his teammate’s dictation. ‘Transfer to amplification chamber, production of copies of the sample by the thermal cycler.’

‘OK, Ginette, whatever you say.’

But Ginette who was as talkative as she was determined, had spotted Adamsberg’s vague expression and was not letting him off the hook.

‘Don’t switch off, it’s not that hard to understand. Imagine a molecular photocopy machine, producing millions of examples of segments. Right?’

‘Right,’ repeated Adamsberg automatically.

‘The products of the amplification carry a fluorescent tag which makes it easy to detect with a laser-scanner. Do you get it now?’

‘Yes, Ginette, I get it fine. Just carry on, I’m watching.’

Noëlla was waiting for him on the Thursday evening, perched on her bike, and smiling broadly with a confident air. Once the mattress had been unrolled on the floor of the shop, she leant up on one elbow, and reached out to take something from her rucksack.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ she said, brandishing an envelope.

She waved it in front of his eyes with a laugh. Adamsberg sat up, apprehensively.

‘She’s managed to get a seat on the same flight as you, next Tuesday.’

‘Are you going back to Paris? Already?’

‘I’m going home with you.’

‘Noëlla, I’ve already told you, I’m married. No way.’

‘Liar.’

He kissed her again, feeling more worried than before.