This Night’s Foul Work

LV

WHILE HIS COLLEAGUES WERE CHECKING THE AREA SURROUNDING LE BOSC des Tourelles, Adamsberg had been hospital visiting. He had seen both Veyrenc, who was now hobbling around at Bichat, and Retancourt, who was still asleep at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Veyrenc was due to be discharged the next day, and Retancourt’s sleep appeared to be more like a natural state. She’s returning to the surface quite fast, Lavoisier had said. He was taking quantities of notes on the polyvalent goddess. Veyrenc, once he had been brought up to date on the rescue of the lieutenant and the cross inside the stag, had formulated some advice which Adamsberg was chewing over as he walked back to the headquarters.

Her strength brought from the brink one who was close to death.

But another’s weakness threatens her every breath.

Make haste, the time draws near. The great stag died at last,

The virgin is at risk, her hour is almost past.

‘We’ve got a Francine Bidault here,’ said Mordent, passing over an index card to Adamsberg. ‘Aged thirty-five. Lives outside Clancy, a hamlet, population two hundred, seven kilometres from the edge of the Bosc des Tourelles. The other two nearest women live fourteen or nineteen kilometres away, and they’re both closer to another forest, La Chataigneraie, which is big enough to have deer in it. Francine lives alone, in an isolated farmhouse, almost a kilometre away from the nearest neighbours. Her garden wall is easy to climb, and the house is very old. Rickety wooden doors, simple locks, easy to force.’

‘Right,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Does she go out to work? Does she have a car?’

‘She’s got a part-time job, cleaning in a pharmacy in Evreux. She goes there by bus every day except Sunday. Any attack would most likely come between seven at night and one the next afternoon, which is when she leaves home.’

‘And she’s a virgin? They’re sure about that?’

‘Well, according to the priest at Otton, yes. “A little cherub,” he calls her. Pretty, childlike, not quite all there, according to some other reports. Mind you, the priest says there’s nothing really wrong with her head, but she’s afraid of almost everything, specially creepy-crawlies. She was brought up by her father after her mother died, and he was a brute. He died a couple of years back.’

‘There’s a problem,’ said Voisenet, whose positivist credentials had been been severely dented when Adamsberg had guessed at the existence of a bone in the heart of a deer, simply by shovelling clouds. ‘Devalon’s found out we’re operating in Clancy, and why. He’s looking bad, because he failed to spot that Elisabeth and Pascaline had been murdered. He’s insisting that his outfit take charge of protecting Francine Bidault.’

‘All the better,’ said Adamsberg. ‘As long as Francine’s under police guard, that’s all we’re asking. Call him, Danglard. Tell Devalon he’s got to have three men in shifts, armed, between seven at night and one p.m. next day, without leaving her unprotected for a moment. They should begin tonight. The guard should be inside the house and, if she doesn’t object, in the bedroom. We’ll send Evreux a photograph of the nurse. Who’s been checking the van-hire firms?’

‘I did,’ said Justin, ‘with Lamarre and Froissy. Nothing so far in the whole Ile-de-France region. Nobody remembers a woman of seventy-five hiring a van that big. They’re quite positive.’

‘And the blue stains?’

‘Yes, they’re definitely shoe polish.’

‘Retancourt came out with something else this afternoon,’ said Estalère, ‘but it didn’t amount to much.’

Intrigued faces turned towards him.

‘Did she quote Corneille again?’ Adamsberg asked.

‘No, she talked about shoes. She said, “Send some shoes to the caravan.” ’

The men looked at each other in puzzlement.

‘The big girl’s losing it again,’ said Noël.

‘No, Noël. She promised this lady, who lives in a caravan, that she’d give her another pair of shoes to replace the blue ones she took away, the nurse’s. Lamarre, can you take care of that? You’ll find the address in Retancourt’s files.’

‘After all she’s been through, that’s the first thing she thinks about telling us?’ said Kernorkian.

‘That’s the way she is,’ said Justin with a shrug. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Yes, she said: “But he needn’t give a damn. Tell him that. He needn’t give a damn.” ’

‘Does she mean about this lady? And her shoes?’

‘No, no,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She wouldn’t say that about the lady.’

‘Who’s “him”?’

Estalère jerked his chin towards Adamsberg.

‘Yeah, probably,’ said Voisenet.

‘But what?’ murmured Adamsberg. ‘What is it that I needn’t give a damn about?’

‘Well, I reckon she’s losing it,’ said Noël, anxiety in his voice.