An Uncertain Place

XIII

THE TINS OF PÂTÉ, THE BISCUITS, THE CARTON OF UNDRINKABLE wine and the mini-brandies – these were all Adamsberg could think about as he made his way back to the car park. Any other time, in any other place, he would have found the thought deeply off-putting, but just now they constituted a clear and beautiful promise of satisfaction on which all his energy was concentrated. Sitting in the back of the car, he spread Froissy’s treasures on the seat. The pâté could be opened with ring-pulls, there was a straw attached to the wine box – she really was a practical genius, lieutenant Froissy, the squad’s nonpareil sound engineer. He spread some pâté on a biscuit and gobbled it up: a peculiar sweet and sour mixture. Then one for the dog and another for himself, until he had emptied both tins. He had no problem with the dog. It was clear they had been through a campaign together, and their friendship needed no commentary or past. So Adamsberg forgave Cupid for stinking like a farmyard and smelling out the car. He poured a little water for the dog in the ashtray and opened the wine. This plonk, no other word for it, entered his organism etching in acid all the contours of his digestive system. He drank it all, welcoming the burn, since mild suffering makes life taste sweeter. And since he was happy, happy to have found Émile before he bled to death in the grass with his dog whimpering at his side. Happy, almost euphoric, and he took some time to admire the mini-brandies before pocketing them.

Relaxing in the seat, as comfortable as in a hotel lounge, he called Mordent. Danglard would still be preoccupied with his uncle and he didn’t want to wake Retancourt who had gone without sleep for two days. Mordent would no doubt welcome some action to distract him from his distress, which probably explained his otherwise absurd precipitation earlier in the day. Adamsberg consulted his two watches, only one of which was luminous. About 1.15 in the morning. It had been an hour and half since he had found Émile, but that made it about two and a half hours since he had been fired on.

‘Take your time to wake up, Mordent, I can wait.’

‘Go ahead, commissaire, I wasn’t asleep.’

Adamsberg put his hand on Cupid’s head to stop his yelping and listened to the slight background noise coming across on the phone. A sound of the outside world, not the interior of an apartment. Traffic, a truck rumbling past. Mordent wasn’t at home. He was on a vigil in a deserted avenue at Fresnes, looking up at the prison walls.

‘I’ve got Émile Feuillant, commandant. He’s taken two bullets and now he’s in hospital. The attack happened shortly before eleven, twenty kilometres outside Châteaudun, out in the country. Can you get a fix on Pierre Vaudel for me, see whether he’s back home yet?’

‘He should be, commissaire. He was due back in Avignon at about seven this evening.’

‘But we’re not sure about that or I wouldn’t be asking you to check. Can you do that now, before he has time to do anything else? Not by phone, he could have had his calls forwarded. Get the Avignon cops to go round there.’

‘With some excuse?’

‘He’s supposed to be kept under review, with a ban on leaving the country.’

‘He wouldn’t stand to gain by Émile’s death. By the terms of the will, Émile’s share would go to his mother if he died.’

‘Mordent, I’m just asking you to check and send me the information. Give me a call when you have.’

Adamsberg picked up the bag containing Émile’s clothes, and extracted the bloodstained overalls. From the right-hand back pocket, he pulled out a sheet of paper, still in one piece, folded into eight and stuffed down to the bottom. The writing was angular and well formed, that of Vaudel senior. An address in Cologne, Kirchstrasse 34, to a Frau Abster. Then: Bewahre unser Reich, widerstehe, auf dass es unantastbar bleibe. Then an incomprehensible word in capitals: KИCЛOBA. Vaudel had a German lady love. They had a special word, like teenagers. Adamsberg put the paper into his own pocket, disappointed, then lay back on the seat and went to sleep immediately, hardly registering that Cupid had settled on his stomach with his head on Adamsberg’s hand.