Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

VII

THE ELUSIVE HEATING REPAIRMAN HAD ARRIVED, AND SO TOO HAD FOUR photographs from Trabelmann. One of them showed the wounds of the victim very clearly, taken from directly above. Adamsberg had worked out how to use his computer, but he couldn’t enlarge the images without Danglard’s help.

‘What’s all this?’ muttered Danglard, sitting down at Adamsberg’s screen.

‘Neptune,’ said Adamsberg with a half-smile. ‘Leaving his mark on the blue of the sea.’

‘But what is it?’ asked Danglard again.

‘You always ask me questions, but you don’t like my answers.’

‘I prefer to know what I’m dealing with.’

‘These are the three wounds of Schiltigheim, the three marks left by the trident.’

‘Neptune again? Is this some kind of obsession?’

‘No, it’s a case of murder. A girl has been killed with three stab wounds from a carpenter’s awl.’

‘Trabelmann sent these to us? Has he been taken off the case?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘So…?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I won’t know anything until I can get this picture enlarged.’

Danglard frowned as he set about working on the images. He did not at all like that ‘Well, I don’t know’, one of Adamsberg’s most used expressions, which had many times led him off on to meandering paths, sometimes into complete quagmires. For Danglard, it presaged the quicksands of thought, and he had often feared that one day Adamsberg would be swallowed up into them without trace.

‘The papers say that they’ve got the killer,’ Danglard pointed out.

‘Yes. With the murder weapon and his prints all over it.’

‘So what’s bothering you?’

‘Call it a childhood memory.’

This reply did not have the same calming effect on Danglard as it had had on Trabelmann. On the contrary, the capitaine felt his apprehension growing. He made the maximum enlargement of the image and sent it to print. Adamsberg was watching as the page emerged in stops and starts from the machine. He picked it up by a corner, waved it quickly in the air to dry, then switched on the desk lamp to examine it closely. Danglard watched, puzzled, as he reached for a long ruler, took measurements one way then the other, drew a line, marked the centre of each wound with a dot then drew another parallel line and took more measurements. Finally, Adamsberg put down the ruler and paced round the room, still holding the photograph. When he turned round, Danglard saw on his face an expression of pain and astonishment. And while Danglard had seen this expression many times in his life, it was the first time he had encountered it on the normally phlegmatic face of his superior officer.

The commissaire took a new file out of the cupboard, put his newspaper cutting and photograph in it, and wrote on the outside ‘Trident no. 9’, followed by a question mark. He would have to go to Strasbourg to see the body. This would hinder the urgent steps to be taken for the Quebec trip. He decided to entrust these to Retancourt, since she was well ahead of everyone else on the project.

‘Come back to my place, Danglard. If you don’t see what I’m going to show you, you won’t understand.’

Danglard went back to his office to pick up his bulky leather briefcase, which made him look like a British schoolteacher or perhaps a priest in civvies, and followed Adamsberg across the Council Chamber. Adamsberg stopped beside Retancourt.

‘Can I see you at the end of the day?’ he said. ‘I’d like you to relieve me for something.’

‘No problem,’ said Retancourt, scarcely lifting her eyes from the filing cabinet. ‘I’m on duty till midnight.’

‘Fine, see you later then.’

Adamsberg was already out of the door when he heard the silly laugh of Brigadier Favre and his nasal voice saying:

‘He needs her to relieve him, does he? Big night tonight, Retancourt, the deflowering of the violet! The boss is from the Pyrenees, so he likes mountains. The bigger the better.’

‘One minute, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg holding back his deputy.

He returned to the Council Chamber with Danglard behind him, and went straight over to Favre’s desk. There was a sudden silence. Adamsberg caught hold of the metal table and gave it a violent shove. Papers, reports, photographic slides went flying with a crash as it toppled over. Favre, still holding a beaker of coffee, sat stock still, without reacting. Adamsberg took the back of the chair and tipped it backwards, so that the coffee spilled over the brigadier’s shirt.

‘Take back what you just said, Favre, apologise, and say you regret it. I’m waiting.’

‘Oh, shit,’ thought Danglard putting his hand over his eyes. He saw from his stance how tense Adamsberg was. In the last two days, he had seen more new emotions overtake his boss than in years of working together.

‘I’m waiting,’ Adamsberg repeated.

Favre leaned forward to try and recover a little of his lost dignity in front of his colleagues, who were by now stealthily moving towards the epicentre of the confrontation. Only Retancourt, the butt of Favre’s insulting words, had not budged. But she had stopped filing papers.

‘Withdraw what?’ Favre said hoarsely. ‘It was the truth, wasn’t it? You are an ace mountain climber, aren’t you?’

‘Favre, I’m waiting,’ said Adamsberg once more.

‘Oh bollocks,’ muttered Favre, starting to get to his feet.

Adamsberg grabbed Danglard’s black briefcase, took out a bottle of wine and smashed it against the metal table leg. Splinters of glass and wine flew all over the room. He took a step towards Favre, the broken bottle neck in his hand. Danglard tried to hold back the commissaire, but Favre had pulled out his service revolver and was pointing it at Adamsberg. Dumbstruck, the rest of the squad had frozen in their tracks, staring at the brigadier who had dared to level a gun at his boss. And staring too at their commissaire principal, whom they had seen angry only twice in the whole year, and then it had blown over very quickly. Everyone was searching for a quick way to defuse the confrontation, hoping that Adamsberg would recover his usual detached manner, drop the bottle and walk away with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Drop the gun, you fucking idiot,’ said Adamsberg.

Favre threw down the revolver with an insolent look, and Adamsberg lowered the bottle. He had the unpleasant feeling of having gone over the top, the secret certainty that he had looked ridiculous, without being sure whether he or Favre had come off worst in that respect. He loosened his fingers. At that moment, the brigadier, in a furious outburst, straightened up and threw the jagged base of the wine bottle at him, cutting Adamsberg’s left forearm as cleanly as a knife.

Favre was quickly overpowered, put on a chair and held fast. Then faces turned to the commissaire, waiting for his instructions in this unprecedented situation. Adamsberg made a gesture to stop Estalère who was reaching for a telephone.

‘It’s not deep, Estalère,’ he said, his voice back to its usual calm, and holding his arm up against his body. ‘Just tell the police doctor to come over, he can handle it.’

He nodded to Mordent and gave him the top half of the broken bottle.

‘Put this in a plastic bag, Mordent. It’s evidence that I started the fight. Attempt to intimidate a subordinate. Pick up his Magnum and the base of the bottle, as evidence for a charge of aggression without intention to…’

Adamsberg ran his other hand through his hair trying to think of the right words.

‘Yes, there bloody was intention,’ shouted Favre.

‘Shut up, you dope!’ cried Noël. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself. You’ve done enough damage.’

Adamsberg looked at Noël in surprise. Normally Noël would smile and back up the crude sallies his colleague came out with. But a gap had opened up between Noël’s tolerance and Favre’s aggression.

‘Without intention to cause grievous bodily harm,’ Adamsberg went on, making a sign to Justin to take down his words. ‘Motive for the confrontation, Brigadier Joseph Favre’s insulting remarks regarding Lieutenant Violette Retancourt and defamation of character.’ Adamsberg looked round to count the number of officers in the room.

‘Twelve eye-witnesses,’ he added.

Voisenet had made him sit down, pulled back the sleeve from his left arm and was applying first aid.

‘Confrontation proceeded as follows,’ Adamsberg continued in a tired voice. ‘Superior officer issued a reprimand, accompanied by a show of violence and intimidation, without making physical contact or injuring any part of the body of the said Joseph Favre.’

Adamsberg clenched his teeth while Voisenet pressed a cotton pad on his arm to stop the bleeding.

‘Brandishing of service weapon and sharp implement on the part of the brigadier, occasioning slight injury caused by a piece of glass. You can do the rest, write the report without my signature, and send it to the disciplinary tribunal. Don’t forget to photograph the state of the room.’

Justin got up and came over to the commissaire.

‘What shall we say about the bottle of wine,’ he whispered. ‘Do we say you took it out of Danglard’s bag?’

‘We say I picked it up off the table.’

‘Reason for the presence of a bottle of wine in the office at three-thirty in the afternoon?’

‘A little party at midday,’ suggested Adamsberg, ‘to celebrate the squad’s decision to go to Quebec.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Justin in relief. ‘Good idea.’

‘What do we do about Favre?’ asked Noël.

‘Suspension from duty and confiscation of his gun. The magistrate can decide whether he was an aggressor or whether it was a case of self-defence. We’ll deal with the rest when I get back.’

Adamsberg rose to his feet, leaning on Voisenet’s arm.

‘Be careful,’ Voisenet said to him. ‘You’ve lost an awful lot of blood.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I’m going to the police doctor right away.’

Leaning on Danglard’s arm, he went out leaving his officers stupefied, unable to collect their thoughts or, for the moment at least, to pass judgment on what had happened.