Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XVII

THREE CARS BELONGING TO THE RCMP PARKED IN FRONT OF THE building next day. They were easily recognised by their gleaming white doors marked with the head of a bison, looking half placid and half determined, surrounded by maple leaves and surmounted by the British Crown. Three men in uniform were waiting for the visitors. One of them, whom Adamsberg recognised by his epaulettes as the superintendent, leaned towards his neighbour.

‘Which one would you say was the commissaire?’ he asked his colleague.

‘The little guy, in the black jacket.’

Adamsberg could more or less hear what they were saying. Brézillon and Trabelmann would have been pleased: the little guy. At the same time, his attention was distracted by some small black squirrels hopping about in the street, as lively and unperturbed as sparrows.

‘No kidding,’ said the superintendent, ‘the one who’s dressed like a hobo?’

‘That’s the one. Don’t let it get to you.’

‘Not the big slouch with the good suit?’

‘No, it’s the dark one. And he’s a big shot over there. So no personal remarks.’

Superintendent Aurèle Laliberté nodded and moved towards Adamsberg, holding out his hand.

‘Welcome, commissaire principal! Not too jet-lagged?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ replied Adamsberg carefully. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

They shook hands all round in an embarrassed silence.

‘Sorry about the weather,’ Laliberté said in his booming voice, with a big grin. ‘Frosts’re early this year. In you get, it’s a ten-minute drive up to HQ. We’re not going to kill you with work today,’ he added, inviting Adamsberg to sit beside him. ‘Just a little looksee.’

The RCMP base was situated in a wooded park which seemed to stretch as far into the distance as a French forest. Laliberté drove slowly, and Adamsberg almost had time to study all the trees.

‘You’ve got a pretty big place here,’ he said, impressed.

‘Yup. As we say here, we’ve not got a lot of history, but we sure have plenty of geography.’

‘Are those maples?’ he asked, pointing out of the car window.

‘Sure are.’

‘I thought they had red leaves.’

‘Not red enough for you, eh, commissaire? They’re not like the one on the flag, they come in all colours, red, yellow, orange. Or it’d be boring. So, you’re the boss of the group, right?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Say, for a commissaire principal, you don’t put on a lot of style. They let you go round dressed like that in Paris?’

‘In Paris, the police isn’t the army.’

‘No need to take offence, Jean-Baptiste. I call ’em as I see ’em, better you know that right off.’ Laliberté had started to call Adamsberg by his first name already. ‘Here’s the RCMP, this is where we get out,’ he said, applying the brakes.

The Paris contingent stood in a group in front of the giant cubes of brand new brick and glass, surrounded by flaming red trees. A black squirrel was guarding the door, nibbling at something. Adamsberg lagged behind to have a word with Danglard.

‘Do they all use first names round here?’

‘Yes, it’s their normal way of speaking.’

‘Should we do the same?’

‘Do what you feel comfortable with. People adapt.’

‘He called you “a big slouch”. What did he mean?’

‘A sloppy-looking character.’

‘I see. As he says, he calls ’em as he sees ’em.’

‘So it seems,’ Danglard agreed.

Laliberté showed the French team into a huge meeting room – the equivalent of the Council Chamber – and did some rapid introductions. The Québécois team consisted of Mitch Portelance, Rhéal Ladouceur, Berthe Louisseize, Philibert Lafrance, Alphonse Philippe-Auguste, Ginette Saint-Preux and Fernand Sanscartier. Then the superintendent spoke firmly to his officers. ‘You’re each gonna link up with one of the members of the Paris squad. We change partners every two or three days. Get stuck in, but no need to break any records. They’re not dummies, but they’re on a steep learning curve, this is new to them, so no rushing at it. And no snarky jokes if they don’t understand, or don’t speak the way we do. Just because they’re French doesn’t mean they’re not up to the job. I’m counting on you.’

It was in fact, much the same kind of pep-talk Adamsberg had given his team a few days earlier.

During the rather tedious tour of the premises, Adamsberg took care to locate the drinks machine, which supplied ‘soups’, but also cups of coffee about the size of a glass of beer. He scanned the faces of his temporary colleagues. He felt an immediate rapport with Sergeant Fernand Sanscartier, the only unpromoted officer, whose chubby pink face, with its wide-open innocent-looking brown eyes, seemed to mark him out as a number one good guy. He would have liked to be partnered with him, but for the first three days, hierarchy had to be observed, so he would be working with the energetic Aurèle Laliberté. The French visitors were allowed to leave at six, and shown out to their official cars, which were equipped with snow tyres. Only the commissaire had a car to himself.

‘So why do you wear two watches?’ asked Laliberté, as Adamsberg seated himself in the driving seat.

Adamsberg hesitated.

‘Because of the time difference,’ he explained suddenly. ‘I’ve got to follow some enquiries back home in France.’

‘Can’t you do it in your head like everyone else?’

‘It’s quicker this way,’ Adamsberg prevaricated.

‘Suit yourself. OK, welcome to Canada, man, and see you tomorrow, nine sharp.’

Adamsberg drove slowly, looking at the trees, the streets, the people. Once out of Gatineau Park, he entered Ottawa’s twin town of Hull, which he would not personally have called a town: it was spread over kilometres of flat land, divided up in a grid plan of clean and deserted streets, lined with wood frame houses. There was nothing old or decrepit in sight, not even the churches, which looked like the icing sugar ornaments on wedding cakes rather than Strasbourg Cathedral. No one seemed to be in a hurry, and most people seemed to drive around in big pick-up trucks, capable of carrying several cubic metres of timber.

There appeared to be no cafes, restaurants or department stores. Adamsberg spotted a few isolated shops, all-purpose corner stores, which sold a bit of everything, one of them a hundred metres from their residence. He enjoyed walking over to it, feeling the snow crunching under his feet, and watching the squirrels which did not move away at his approach. A significant difference from sparrows.

‘Where will I find a bar or a restaurant?’ he asked the cashier at reception.

‘All the late-night stuff’s downtown,’ she replied kindly. ‘It’s about five kilometres, you’ll have to take the car. Bye, have a nice evening now.’

The downtown area was not large and Adamsberg had walked round it in under a quarter of an hour. He went into a cafe called the Quatrain, but found he was interrupting a poetry reading attended by a silent and intense audience, so he tiptoed out again, closing the door carefully. One to tell Danglard about. In the end he went into an American bar called Les Cinq Dimanches, a huge overheated saloon, decorated with the stuffed heads of caribou and bear, and sporting Québécois flags. The waiter brought him some food in a leisurely way, chatting about this and that. The plateful was big enough for two. Everything’s bigger in Canada, and more easy-going.

At the far end of the bar, a hand waved to him. Ginette Saint-Preux, carrying her plate, came and sat down at his table without embarrassment.

‘Do you mind if I sit here, Jean-Baptiste?’ she asked. ‘I’m dining alone too.’

Ginette, who was very pretty, chatty and vivacious, started firing questions at him. What did he think of Quebec? Was it very different from France? Flatter? Oh really? What was Paris like? What was work like there? Fun? And what about you? Oh, really? She had children and ‘hobbies’, especially music. But for a good concert, you had to go to Montreal, would that interest him? Did he have any hobbies? Oh really? Drawing, walking, dreaming? Funny hobbies. How could you do those in Paris?

At about eleven o’clock, Ginette asked about his two watches.

‘Poor you,’ she said, getting up. ‘Of course with the time difference, it’s five o’clock in the morning for you now.’

Ginette had left on the table a green brochure, which she had been rolling up and unrolling during their conversation. Adamsberg unfolded it sleepily, his eyes drooping with fatigue. Some Vivaldi concerts in Montreal, between 17 and 21 October, a string quintet, with flute and harpsichord. Ginette must have some energy, to drive four hundred kilometres, just to listen to a quintet.