Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXXVI

ADAMSBERG AND RETANCOURT TOOK IT IN TURNS TO DRIVE ON THE return journey, with Lafrance and Ladouceur tailing them. The commissaire woke Retancourt as Gatineau came into sight. He had let her sleep as long as possible, so worried was he that she would be unable to take his weight.

‘This Basile,’ he said, ‘are you sure he’ll take me in? I’ll be arriving on my own before you.’

‘I’ll give you a note for him. You just explain you’re my boss and that I’ve sent you. Then we’ll call Danglard to get some false papers as soon as possible.’

‘Not Danglard. Don’t call him. Not under any circumstances.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Nobody else knew about my memory loss.’

‘But Danglard is the most loyal person in the world,’ said Retancourt, shocked. ‘He’s devoted to you, he’d never give you away to Laliberté.’

‘Yes, he might, Retancourt. He’s been angry with me for a whole year. I’m not sure how far it goes.’

‘You mean because of the business with Camille?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, nothing much gets past the Chat Room. It’s a gossip factory, everyone’s love life gets talked about. You can pick up some good ideas too. But Danglard never says anything there, he’s totally loyal.’ She frowned.

‘I’m not sure of course,’ said Adamsberg. ‘But don’t call him all the same.’

By seven forty-five, Adamsberg’s room had been cleared, and the commissaire, clad only in his boxer shorts and two watches, was having his hair cut by Retancourt. She carefully flushed the clippings down the lavatory, so as to leave no traces.

‘Where did you learn to cut hair?’

‘In a hairdresser’s, before I took up massage.’

Retancourt had probably lived several lives, Adamsberg thought. He allowed her to move his head about, soothed by the light touches and the regular sound of the scissors. At ten past eight she took him over to look in the mirror.

‘Pretty good, eh?’ she said with the pride of a little girl passing a test.

Yes, it was exactly like Raphaël’s. Raphaël’s hair was shorter than Jean-Baptiste’s, and neatly layered at the back. Adamsberg thought he looked different now, more severe and conventional. Yes, when he was wearing a suit and tie, for the few yards’ walk across the parking lot, his appearance ought not to alert the police. By eleven o’clock in any case, they’d be certain he had long since fled the hotel.

‘It was easy,’ said Retancourt, still smiling. The immediate operational future did not seem to be worrying her.

By ten past nine, the lieutenant was sitting in her bath, while Adamsberg was behind the door, both in complete silence.

Adamsberg raised his arm slightly to look at his watches: nine twenty-four and a half. Three minutes later, the police burst into the room. Retancourt had told him to breathe slowly and he was doing his best to comply.

The Mounties’ fast retreat, on seeing the bathroom door open, and Retancourt’s furious reaction all happened as planned. She banged the door in their faces and less than twenty seconds later, the close contact position, body against body, had been assumed. In a voice indicating contained anger, Retancourt gave the Mounties permission to come in and get on with it, for God’s sake. Adamsberg clung on tight to her waist and belt, his feet off the ground, his cheek pressed into her wet back. He had been sure his lieutenant would stagger when he took his feet off the ground, but nothing of the kind happened. Retancourt, as she had said, had turned herself into a pylon. He felt as if he were clinging to a maple tree. She didn’t even wobble or lean against the wall. She stood up straight, arms folded in the ample bathrobe, without a tremor. The sensation of total solidity stupefied Adamsberg and left him strangely calm all at once. He felt he could have stayed there for an hour quite safely. But by the time he had absorbed this feeling of stability, the cop had completed his quick check of the bathroom and gone out, shutting the door behind him. Retancourt quickly dressed and went back into the bedroom, where she continued to yell at the three Mounties for walking into her room like that and surprising her in her bath.

‘We did knock first, ma’am,’ said the voice of one he didn’t recognise.

‘Well, I didn’t hear you!’ Retancourt retorted. ‘And stop messing up my stuff. I’ve already told you, the commissaire told me to stay here. He wanted to see the super on his own this morning.’

‘When did he say that?’

‘When we parked in front of the hotel, seven o’clock this morning. He must be over in Laliberté’s office by now.’

‘Nope, no way. He’s not over in the RCMP base, he’s not in his room. Your boss has done a runner!’

From behind the door, Adamsberg understood that Retancourt was reacting with a shocked silence.

‘No, no, he was due there at nine,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s sure to be over there. Don’t try and tell me any different.’

‘Christ, woman, don’t you understand? He’s fooled us and gone AWOL.’

‘No, that can’t be right. He won’t have gone without me, we’re supposed to work together, we’re a team. Something must have happened to him.’

‘Wake up, lieutenant! Your fucking boss is the devil on skates, and he’s fooled you too.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Retancourt muttered obstinately. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

The voice of another cop – it sounded like Philippe-Auguste, Adamsberg thought – broke in.

‘Nothing in here.’

‘Nope, nothing,’ came the dry voice of Portelance.

‘Don’t worry,’ said the first voice. ‘When we catch him, he can do his explaining to you, if you’re his “team-mate”. Come on, we’ve got to search the rest of the hotel.’

He shut the door, apologising again for bursting in rudely.

At eleven, wearing a grey suit, white shirt and tie, Adamsberg walked calmly over to his brother’s car. There were police all over the place, but he didn’t glance at them. At eleven-forty, his bus left for Montreal. Retancourt had told him to get off one stop before the terminus. All he had in his pockets was Basile’s address and a note from Retancourt.

As he watched the trees go past the bus window, he thought he had never been sheltered so solidly and securely as against Retancourt’s gleaming white body. Better than the mountain crannies where his great-uncle had taken refuge. How on earth had she managed it? It was a complete mystery. One that all Voisenet’s chemistry would never be able to explain.