Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXXV

RETANCOURT HAD STOPPED FOR TWO HOURS TO SLEEP AND THEY entered Detroit at seven in the morning. The city was as mournful as an old duchess, in the ruins of her estate, still wearing the ragged remains of her robes. Dirt and poverty had replaced the former wealth of old Detroit.

‘Here’s the block,’ said Adamsberg, consulting his street plan.

He looked up at the building, which was soot-blackened but otherwise in good condition, with a cafe on the ground floor, as if he were examining a historic monument. And in a sense he was, since behind these walls Raphaël lived, moved and slept.

‘The Mounties are parking twenty metres behind us,’ Retancourt remarked. ‘Very clever. What can they be thinking of? Do they really imagine we haven’t noticed they’ve been behind us all the way from Gatineau?’

Adamsberg was leaning forward, his arms folded tightly against his stomach.

‘You go in on your own, commissaire,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and sit in the cafe.’

‘I can’t,’ said Adamsberg in a whisper. ‘And what’s the use anyway? I’m on the run like he is.’

‘Exactly, so you’re quits. He won’t be alone any more, nor will you. Go on, it’s the best thing to do, commissaire.’

‘You don’t understand, Retancourt. I just can’t. My legs won’t move. They feel as if they’ve turned to iron bars.’

‘Shall I have a go?’ asked the lieutenant, turning sideways and putting her hands on his shoulder blades.

He nodded. After about ten minutes of the massage, he felt as if a kind of warm oil was flowing down through his thighs, making it possible to move again.

‘Is that what you did to Danglard in the plane?’

‘No, Danglard was just afraid of dying.’

‘So what am I afraid of?’

‘Exactly the opposite.’

Adamsberg nodded and got out of the car. Retancourt was about to leave him and go into the cafe when he put a hand on her arm.

‘He’s in there,’ he said. ‘With his back to us, at that table, I’m sure it’s him.’

The lieutenant looked at the silhouette of the man Adamsberg pointed to. That back could indeed only belong to his brother. Adamsberg’s grip tightened on her arm.

‘Go in on your own,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the car. But I’d like to see him.’

‘Raphaël?’

‘Yes, Raphaël.’

Adamsberg pushed the glass door, his legs still feeling stiff. He went over to Raphaël and put his hands on his shoulders. The man with his back turned didn’t jump. He looked at the brown hands one after the other.

‘So you found me?’ he said

‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad.’

From the other side of the narrow street, Retancourt watched as Raphaël got up, and the two brothers embraced, looking at each other with their arms intertwined, holding each other tightly. She took a small pair of binoculars from her bag and focussed on Raphaël Adamsberg, whose forehead was now touching his brother’s. Same body, same face. But whereas Adamsberg’s elusive beauty was a miraculous combination emerging from his chaotic features, his brother’s was altogether more regular and obvious. They were like twins who had grown from the same root, one into a shapely plant, the other into an engaging disorder. Retancourt refocussed on Adamsberg whose three-quarters profile was towards her. But she quickly dropped the binoculars, mortified at having trespassed too far on to another’s emotion. Once they had sat down, the two Adamsbergs still did not let go of each other’s arms, but clasped them, forming a closed circle. Retancourt sat down in the car again with a slight shiver. She put the binoculars away and closed her eyes.

By ten o’clock, Raphaël had found them something to eat and settled them on a sofa in his flat, with some coffee, Adamsberg having fetched his lieutenant in from the car by rapping on the window. The two brothers did not move more than a few inches away from each other, Retancourt noted.

‘Will Jean-Baptiste be found guilty? Are you sure?’ Raphaël asked her.

‘Sure as I can be,’ Retancourt stated. ‘The only way out is to make a run for it.’

‘With about a dozen cops watching the hotel,’ added Adamsberg.

‘It’s do-able,’ Retancourt said.

‘So what’s your plan, Violette?’ asked Raphaël.

Raphaël had argued that since he was neither a flic nor a soldier he was not going to call the lieutenant by her surname.

‘We go back to Gatineau tonight,’ she explained. ‘We get to the Hotel Brébeuf in the morning at about seven, and walk in quite openly, for them to see us. You, Raphaël, will follow us three and a half hours later. Can you do that?’

Raphaël nodded.

‘You get to the hotel at about ten-thirty. What do the cops see? Just another guest arriving at the hotel. They’re not bothered about you, they’re looking for someone leaving, and there’s plenty of toing and froing at about that time. The two who followed us last night won’t be on duty again in the morning, so none of the police on duty will recognise you. You check in under your own name and go to your room.’

‘OK.’

‘Have you got a suit? A smart business suit with shirt and tie?’

‘Three, two grey, one blue.’

‘Perfect. Wear one and bring the other, both the grey ones. And bring two coats and two ties.’

‘Retancourt, don’t get my brother in the shit over this,’ pleaded Adamsberg.

‘No, it’s just the Gatineau cops who will be. You, commissaire, as soon as we arrive, clear your room with signs of haste, as if you were going to make a break for it. We’ll get rid of your stuff. You haven’t got much, so that’s handy.’

‘What do we do, cut it up and eat it?’

‘No, just dump it in the waste bin on the landing.’

‘Everything, clothes, books, razor?’

‘Yes, everything, including your service revolver. We chuck your clothes, and we save your skin. Keep your wallet and keys.’

‘The holdall won’t go in the bin.’

‘We’ll leave it in my wardrobe, empty, as if it was mine. Women have lots of luggage as a rule.’

‘Can I keep my watches?’

‘Yes.’

The brothers were both looking intently at Retancourt, one with a mild and gentle expression, the other mobile and alert. Raphaël Adamsberg had the same peaceful suppleness as his brother, but his movements were more lively, his reactions sharper.

‘The cops will be expecting us at the RCMP headquarters at nine,’ Retancourt went on, looking from one to the other. ‘When we still haven’t turned up after about twenty minutes, no longer, I guess, Laliberté will try to phone the commissaire at the hotel. No reply. Alarm raised. The cops downstairs will rush up to your room. Empty, the bird has flown. That’s the impression we have to give. That their suspect has disappeared, he’s already slipped between their fingers. At about nine twenty-five, they’ll come to my room, in case I’m hiding you.’

‘Where could you have hidden me?’ Adamsberg asked anxiously.

Retancourt raised her hand.

‘The Québécois are more prudish than the French,’ she said, ‘they don’t have naked women all over their magazine covers or hanging about on the lake shores. We’re going to bank on this shyness. On the other hand,’ she said, turning towards Adamsberg, ‘you and I are going to have to abandon any embarrassment, because this is not the moment for it. And if it bothers you, just remember that it really is a matter of life and death.’

‘I’ll remember.’

‘Well, this is how we do it. When the cops burst in, I’ll be in my bathroom and in fact in the bath, with the door open. We haven’t much choice.’

‘And Jean-Baptiste?’ asked Raphaël.

‘Will be hidden behind the open door. When the cops catch sight of me, they’ll retreat into the bedroom. I’ll start shouting and tearing them off a strip for walking into my room like that. They’ll call out their apologies from the bedroom, they’ll be embarrassed and say they were looking for the commissaire. I say what’s all this about, I don’t know where he is, he just told me to wait at the hotel, while he went to headquarters. They want to search my room. OK, but can you please just allow me to put something on? Yes, of course, they retreat further, and allow me to get out of the bath and close the door. You with me so far?’

‘Yes,’ said Raphaël.

‘I put on a bathrobe, a very big one, down to the ground. Raphaël will have to go out and buy me one, I’ll give you the size.’

‘Any particular colour?’ asked Raphaël.

This considerate question interrupted Retancourt’s strategic briefing and she thought a moment.

‘Cream-coloured, if you can find one.’

‘OK, cream-coloured. What next?’

‘Now, we’re in the bathroom, both of us and the door’s shut. The cops are in the bedroom. You see where we are, commissaire?’

‘No, I’m lost now. Because in the hotel bathrooms there’s just a cabinet with a mirror, a towel cupboard and nothing else. Where are you going to put me, in a Hollywood-style bubble-bath?’

‘No, on me, like I said. Or rather behind me. We’ll be one person standing up. I allow them in once I’ve got the robe on and stand looking shocked, in the corner, with my back to the wall. They aren’t stupid, so they’ll look over the bathroom thoroughly, including behind the door, and they’ll feel under the water in the bath. I’ll make them even more embarrassed by letting the robe gape open a bit. They won’t dare look hard at me, they won’t want to be taken for peeping toms. They’re predictable that way, and that’s our one advantage. OK, nothing in the bathroom, they go out and let me get dressed, with the door closed again. While they’re still searching the bedroom, I come out, fully dressed by now and naturally, I leave the bathroom door open. You’re back behind the door by then.’

‘Lieutenant, I haven’t grasped exactly what you mean by “we will be one person”.’

‘Have you ever done close combat training? When someone jumps you from behind?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll show you how it’s done,’ said Retancourt, getting up. ‘Let’s be as impersonal as we can. You have one person standing. Me. Big fat person, luckily for you. And we have another individual, who’s lighter and smaller. You. You are hidden under the bathrobe. Head and shoulders buried in my back, arms tight round my waist, invisible under the robe. To hide your legs, you’ll have to have your feet off the ground and twined round my calves, again shielded by the robe. I’ll stand in the corner, arms folded, feet apart, to maintain my centre of gravity. Do you follow?’

‘Christ Almighty, Retancourt, you want me to flatten myself to your back like a monkey?’

‘Or like a flatfish even. Flatten is the right word. It will last only a few minutes, two maximum, I’d say. It’s a tiny bathroom, they won’t take long to check it out. They won’t be looking at me, I won’t be moving. Nor will you.’

‘They’ll see me, Retancourt, it’s too awkward.’

‘No they won’t. I’m a big woman. I’ll be wrapped up in my bulky robe, wedged into the corner, looking out. My skin will be wet, so I’ll put a belt on underneath for you to hold on to, then you won’t slip. You can fix your wallet on it too.’

‘I’ll be too heavy,’ said Adamsberg shaking his head. ‘I weigh 72 kilos, you know. It’s madness. It’ll never work.’

‘It will work, commissaire, because I’ve done it before. Twice. For my brother, when the cops were after him for one thing or another. When he was nineteen, he was about your size, and he weighed 79 kilos. I put on my father’s dressing gown, and he clung on to my back. We managed four minutes. If that helps to reassure you.’

‘Well, if Violette thinks it will work…’ said Raphaël looking slightly panicky.

‘If she says so,’ Adamsberg said.

‘We have to agree on one thing. If this is going to work, we can’t cheat, and risk getting discovered. Total realism is our best bet. I really will be naked in the bath, naturally. So I really will be naked under the bathrobe. And you really will be clinging to my back. You can wear undershorts, but nothing else. Clothes make it more likely you would slip, and also they’d stop the robe looking natural.’

‘The folds would look awkward, you mean?’ said Raphaël.

‘Precisely. We can’t take that risk. I realise it’s embarrassing, but I really don’t think this is the moment to be prudish. We must be agreed on that before we start.’

‘It won’t bother me,’ said Adamsberg, ‘as long as it doesn’t bother you.’

‘I brought up my four brothers, and in extreme circumstances I think embarrassment is a luxury. These are extreme circumstances.’

‘But damnit, Retancourt, even if they leave you and your room without finding anything, they’re not going to give up the search. They’ll go through the Hotel Brébeuf with a toothcomb.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So even after this vanishing trick, I won’t be able to leave the hotel.’

‘No, Raphaël will leave,’ said Retancourt, pointing to his brother. ‘Or in other words, you will leave, as him. You leave the hotel at eleven o’clock, wearing his suit, shirt and tie, and shoes. I’ll cut your hair in advance, to look like his. It’ll work because from a distance, you’re very alike. But they’ll be looking for you, dressed in your usual scruffy style. They’ve seen a smart businessman in a suit enter the hotel at ten-thirty. If he goes out again at eleven, they won’t bother about him. The businessman, that’s you commissaire, will just go to his car.’

Both Adamsbergs, sitting side by side were listening attentively to the lieutenant, almost subjugated. Adamsberg was beginning to take in her plan, based on two elements which were usually in contradiction: audacity and finesse. Together they made up an unpredictable force, like a battering ram with the delicacy of a needle.

‘What then?’ he asked, as the plan began to revive him.

‘You take Raphaël’s car, you drive to Ottawa, and park it at the corner of North Street and Laurier Boulevard. You take the eleven-forty bus to Montreal. The real Raphaël will leave much later, in the evening, or even next morning, depending when the cops give up watching the hotel. He’ll pick up his car from Ottawa and go back to Detroit.’

‘But why not do it more simply?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘If Raphaël were to arrive before Laliberté’s phone call, I could take his suit and car, and get away before they raise the alarm. He could leave straight away by bus. Then we don’t do all the close combat stuff in the bathroom. When they turn up, we’ll both have gone.’

‘Except that his name will be on the register, or if he has just come as a visitor, his brief visit will be noticed. We’re not complicating things for fun, commissaire, but so as not to drop Raphaël in the shit. If he arrived before the alarm, he’d certainly be traced. The cops will ask the receptionist and hear either that Raphaël Adamsberg came in, but left immediately, or else that a “visitor” asked for you. Either way it’ll alert them. They’ll quickly realise about the substitution and pick Raphaël up in Detroit, and arrest him for helping you escape. But if he arrives after the rooms have been searched and you’ve been reported missing, he won’t be noticed among the arrivals, and can’t be held responsible for anything. In the worst-case scenario, if the cops check and find his name later, all they can accuse him of is coming on a return visit to see his brother, and to his surprise finding he’s missed him, which isn’t a crime.’

Adamsberg looked at Retancourt.

‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Raphaël must come later, I should have thought of that. I’m a cop myself, so why can’t I think clearly any more?’

‘You can’t think like a cop for now,’ Retancourt replied gently. ‘You’re reacting like a criminal on the run, who tends to panic, not like a policeman. You’ve changed your territory, you’re on the wrong side, and the sun’s in your eyes. You’ll revert to form once you’re back in Paris.’

Yes, thought Adamsberg, a wanted criminal whose reflexes just tell him to run, without being able to see the big picture or follow through on details.

‘But what about you? When will you get away?’

‘When they’ve finished searching the area and realise they’ve lost you. They’ll stop searching and put out an alert to the roads and airports. I’ll join you in Montreal as soon as they’re off the premises.’

‘Where in Montreal?’

‘With a pal of mine. I’m afraid I don’t have holiday romances, but I do try to have a friend in every port, because I like it and because you never know when you might need a little help from your friends. Basile will provide us with a safe house.’

‘Perfect,’ murmured Raphaël, ‘absolutely perfect.’

Adamsberg nodded silently.

‘Raphaël,’ said Retancourt, getting up. ‘Can you find me somewhere to sleep? I’d like to rest, we’ll be driving all night again.’

‘You’d better get some sleep too,’ Raphaël told his brother. ‘I’ll go out and buy this bathrobe.’

Retancourt wrote down her measurements.

‘I don’t think the two cops will follow you,’ she said. ‘They’re more likely to stay on watch outside the building. But come back with some food bags, bread, vegetables and so on, it’ll look more convincing.’

Lying on his brother’s bed, Adamsberg found he was unable to sleep. His night of 26 October was jabbing into him like a physical pain. Drunk, on the path, furious with Noëlla and with the rest of the world too. Furious with Danglard, Camille, the new father, Fulgence, a great ball of hate which he could no longer control, and which had been inside him for some time already. Then coming across a forester’s fork. What better implement for digging up saplings? He could have seen one when he was talking to the watchman or when he was walking through the forest. He knew it was there. Walking around at night, out of his mind with drink, obsessed with the judge and the need to find his brother. Then glimpsing Noëlla, who must have been watching out for him on the path. The ball of hate explodes, the path to his brother opens, the judge gets inside his skin. He rushes away and grabs the fork. Who else could there be on the deserted path? He creeps back, hits the girl on the head and she falls unconscious. He takes off the belt which stops him getting at her stomach, and throws it away. He kills her with the trident. He breaks the ice on the pool, pushes the dead woman in and throws stones in on top of her. Exactly as he had done with the screwdriver for Raphaël thirty years earlier. The same gestures. He throws the trident into the Ottawa River, which carries it off over the falls on the way to the St Lawrence. Then he wanders about, bangs his head and passes out into willed oblivion. When he wakes up, the whole thing has been buried in the inaccessible depths of his memory.

Adamsberg felt cold suddenly and pulled the quilt over him. Running away, close combat, clinging on, naked, to that woman’s body. Extreme circumstances. Escaping and living like a murderer wanted by the police. Maybe even being one.

Change your perspective for a moment, start thinking like a policeman again. There was one question he had asked Retancourt, but had then forgotten, as the catastrophic contents of the green file had swept over him. Now it came back into his mind. How had Laliberté found out that he had no memory of the night of the 26th? Someone must have told him. But only Danglard knew about it. And who had suggested to the superintendent the obsessive nature of his quest? Danglard was the only person who knew how the judge had taken over his life. Danglard, who had been angry with him for a year, over the business with Camille. Danglard who had chosen the side he was on in this split, who had spat out an insult at him. Adamsberg closed his eyes, groaned, and put his arm across his face. Adrien Danglard, his incorruptible second-in-command. His noble and faithful deputy.

At six in the evening, Raphaël came into the room. He watched his brother sleeping for a while, observing the face in which all his childhood was summed up. Sitting on the bed, he gently shook Adamsberg awake.

The commissaire sat up.

‘Time to go, Jean-Baptiste.’

‘Time to run for it,’ said Adamsberg, looking for his shoes in the dark.

‘It’s all my fault,’ said Raphaël, after a silence. ‘I’ve ruined your life.’

‘Don’t say things like that. You didn’t ruin anything at all.’

‘I did, I ruined everything for you.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. And now you’re down in the mud of the Torque with me.’

Adamsberg was slowly putting his shoes on.

‘Do you really think it’s possible?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I could have killed her?’

‘What about me? Do you think I could have killed her?’

Adamsberg looked at his brother.

‘Like I told you, you could never have struck three blows in a straight line.’

‘Remember how pretty Lise was. She was as light and lovely as the wind.’

‘But I wasn’t in love with Noëlla, and there was also a fork lying around. I could have done it.’

‘Just possibly.’

‘Possibly or very possibly? Very possible or very true, Raphaël?’

Raphaël put his chin in his hands. ‘My answer is your answer.’

Adamsberg put his other shoe on.

‘Remember once when you had a mosquito in your ear for two hours?’

‘Do I?’ Raphaël grimaced. ‘I nearly went mad, with the buzzing.’

‘We were afraid you really would go mad before it died. So what we did was make the house quite dark and hold a lighted candle near your ear. It was the priest’s idea, Father Grégoire: “We’ll exorcise it with bell, book and candle,” he said. Typical priest talk. Remember? And the mosquito crawled out your ear towards the flame, then it burnt its wings with a little hiss. Remember that little hiss?’

‘Yes, Father Grégoire said, “the devil’s roasting in hell now”. Typical priest.’

Adamsberg pulled on his sweater and reached for his jacket.

‘Do you think it’s possible or very possible?’ He went on, ‘to tempt our devil out of the tunnel with a little light?’

‘If he’s in your ear.’

‘He is, Raphaël.’

‘I know it. I hear him at night too.’

Adamsberg put on the jacket and sat down by his brother. ‘Think we can get him out?’

‘If he exists, Jean-Baptiste. If we’re not the devils ourselves.’

‘Only two other people believe this devil exists. A sergeant that everyone else thinks is stupid, and an old woman who’s a bit crazy.’

‘And Violette.’

‘I don’t know whether Retancourt is doing all this out of duty or conviction.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just do what she says. What a magnificent woman!’

‘What do you mean? You think she’s beautiful?’ asked Adamsberg, astonished.

‘Well, that too, of course.’

‘Do you think her plan can work?’

As he whispered this last sentence, it was as if he and his brother were boys back in the village, plotting some adventure from their mountain den. Who would be able to dive deepest into the Torque, or play a trick on the grocer, or scratch horns on the judge’s gate, slipping out at night without waking anyone?

Raphaël hesitated.

‘So long as Violette is strong enough to take your weight.’

The two brothers shook hands, thumbs entwined, as they had when they were small boys, before they dived into the river.