This Night’s Foul Work

XLIX

VEYRENC HAD NOT COME TO PARIS IN ORDER TO BECOME ABSORBED IN THE day-to-day affairs of the Serious Crime Squad. But at nine-thirty that night, having swallowed down his hospital supper hours before, he could no longer concentrate on the TV film. With an irritable gesture, he reached for the remote control and switched it off. Lifting his leg with both hands, he swivelled on the bed, grabbed his crutch and made his way slowly to the telephone in the corridor.

‘Commandant Danglard? Veyrenc de Bilhc here. What’s the latest?’

‘We’ve found her, thirty-eight kilometres outside Paris, by following the cat.’

‘The cat? What do you mean?’

‘The… cat… wanted… to… find… Retancourt. Get it?’

‘OK, OK,’ said Veyrenc, sensing that his colleague was stressed-out.

‘She’s more dead than alive. We’re on the road to Dourdan and she’s in a para-lethal state of suspension.’

‘Can you explain a bit what’s happened? I need to know.’

Why, I wonder? thought Danglard.

Veyrenc listened to Danglard’s account, which was much less coherent that it would normally be, and hung up. He pressed the wound on his thigh, exploring the degree of pain with his fingers, and imagined Adamsberg leaning over Retancourt, trying desperately to find a means of bringing his stalwart lieutenant back into the land of the living.

The one who in the past had brought you back to life

Lies now in sore distress, victim of deadly strife.

Do not surrender, lord, to the call of despair,

The gods may look kindly, if you venture to dare,

And letting fall their wrath, will forthwith grant her breath,

If with courage and strength you draw her back from death.

‘What, not asleep yet? Come on, time for bed,’ said a nurse, taking him by the arm.