This Night’s Foul Work

XV

BY TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING THE TOMBSTONE HAD BEEN RAISED, revealing a surface of smooth compacted earth. The attendant had been quite right: the soil was intact, and covered with the blackened remains of roses. The team of police, tired and disappointed, wandered around it in perplexity. What would old Anglebert have said if he had seen their demoralised state, Adamsberg wondered.

‘Take a few photographs anyway,’ he said to the freckled photographer, a talented and friendly lad whose name he regularly forgot.

‘Barteneau,’ whispered Danglard, one of whose self-imposed jobs was to remedy the social deficiencies of the commissaire.

‘Barteneau, take some photos. Close-ups as well.’

‘I told you,’ the attendant was muttering. ‘They didn’t do anything else. Not a scratch on the earth.’

‘There’s got to be something,’ Adamsberg replied. The commissaire was sitting cross-legged on the tombstone, chin on his hands. Retancourt moved away, leaned up against a nearby memorial statue and closed her eyes.

‘She’s taking a little nap,’ the commissaire explained to the New Recruit. ‘She’s the only one in our squad who’s capable of doing this, sleeping standing up. She explained to us once how she does it, and they all had a go. Mercadet almost managed it. But as soon as he dropped off, he fell over.’

‘Anyone would, wouldn’t they?’ whispered Veyrenc. ‘So she doesn’t fall over?’

‘No, that’s just it. Take a look – she really is asleep. You can talk in a normal voice. Nothing will wake her if she’s made up her mind.’

‘It’s a question of concentration,’ said Danglard. ‘She can channel her energy in any direction she likes.’

‘Still doesn’t work for the rest of us, though,’ remarked Adamsberg.

‘Maybe all they did was piss on the grave,’ suggested Justin, who was sitting near the commissaire.

‘That’s a lot of trouble and a lot of money, just to piss on someone’s grave.’

‘Sorry, I was just trying to relieve the tension.’

‘I’m not criticising you, Voisenet.’

‘Justin.’

‘I’m not criticising you, Justin.’

‘But it didn’t relieve the tension anyway.’

‘Only two things really relieve tension, laughing or making love. We’re not doing either at the moment.’

‘So I see.’

‘What about sleeping?’ asked Veyrenc. ‘Doesn’t that relieve the tension?’

‘No, lieutenant, that just allows you to rest. There’s a difference.’

The team fell silent and the attendant asked if it was finally all right for him to leave them. Yes, it was.

‘We ought to take advantage of the lifting equipment to put the stone back,’ Danglard proposed.

‘Not straight away,’ said Adamsberg, his chin still on his hands. ‘We keep looking. If we don’t find anything, the sodding Drug Squad will have the bodies from us by tonight.’

‘We’re not going to stay here for days just to stop Drugs getting them, are we?’

‘His mother said he didn’t touch drugs.’

‘Oh, mothers,’ said Justin, with a shrug.

‘You’re relieving the tension too much there, lieutenant. One should believe mothers when they say something.’

Veyrenc was coming and going off to one side, occasionally throwing an intrigued glance at Retancourt who was indeed fast asleep. From time to time, he spoke to himself.

‘Danglard, try and hear what the New Recruit is saying.’

The commandant took a casual stroll in the alleyways and came back.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I’m sure that will relieve the tension.’

‘Well, he’s muttering some lines of poetry, beginning with “O Earth”.’

‘What comes next?’ asked Adamsberg, feeling discouraged.

‘O Earth, when I query, why disdain to reply?

And of this night’s foul work all knowledge now deny?

Has the key been withheld, or are my ears too weak

To hear of thy suff’ring, a sin too great to speak?

And so on. I can’t remember it all. I don’t know who it’s by.’

‘That’s because it’s by him. He speaks in verse as easily as other people blow their noses.’

‘Odd,’ said Danglard, with a perplexed frown.

‘It runs in the family, like all odd things. Tell me the lines again, capitaine.’

‘They’re not very good.’

‘At least they rhyme. And they’re saying something. Tell me again.’

Adamsberg listened attentively, then stood up.

‘He’s right, the earth does know and we don’t. Our ears are too weak to hear what it’s telling us, and that’s the problem.’

The commissaire returned to the graveside, with Danglard and Justin at his sides.

‘If there’s a sound to be heard, and we’re not hearing it, it means we’re deaf. The earth isn’t dumb, but we’re not skilled enough. We need a specialist, an interpreter, someone who can hear the sound of the earth.’

‘What do you call one of those?’ asked Justin, anxiously.

‘An archaeologist,’ said Adamsberg, taking out his telephone. ‘Or a shit-stirrer, if you prefer.’

‘You’ve got one in the team?’

‘I have,’ Adamsberg started to say, as he tapped in the number, ‘a specialist who’s excellent at discovering…’ The commissaire paused, looking for the right word.

‘Fleeting traces of the past,’ suggested Danglard.

‘Exactly. You couldn’t put it better.’

It was Vandoosler Senior, a cynical retired detective, who picked up the phone. Adamsberg quickly explained the situation.

‘Stymied and snookered, are you?’ asked Vandoosler, with his cackling laugh. ‘Out for the count?’

‘No, Vandoosler, since I’m calling you. Don’t play games with me, I’m short of time today.’

‘OK. Which one do you want this time? Marc?’

‘No, I need the prehistoric expert.’

‘He’s in the cellar, working on arrowheads.’

‘Tell him to get up here as fast as he can, the cemetery in Montrouge. It’s urgent.’

‘Given that he’s working on something from 12,000 BC, he’ll tell you nothing’s urgent. It’s very hard to tear Mathias away from his flints.’

‘Look, it’s me, Adamsberg, Vandoosler. Don’t give me grief like this. If you don’t help me, the case is going over to Drugs.’

‘Oh, that’s different. I’ll send him right away.’