Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XIX

THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED TO MINUS 4 BY THE MORNING, AND Adamsberg hurried out to see his river. On the path, the edges of the little pools had frozen over, and he enjoyed crunching the ice with his stout shoes, under the vigilant gaze of the squirrels. He was about to go further, when the thought of Noëlla, stationed on her stone, restrained him like a noose. He turned back and sat on a rock to observe the competition going on between a colony of ducks and a gaggle of Canada geese. Wars and territory disputes everywhere. One of the geese was obviously the big boss, and repeatedly returned to the charge, spreading its wings and clacking its beak with despotic obstinacy. Adamsberg disliked this goose – or maybe gander. He distinguished it from the others by a mark on its plumage, with the idea of coming back next day to see whether it would still be running the show, or whether geese practised some kind of democratic pecking order. He left the ducks to their resistance and went up to his car. A squirrel had taken refuge underneath it and he could see its tail near the back wheel. He drove off gently in stops and starts, so as not to squash it.

Superintendent Laliberté was in a good temper once more, having learned that Jules Saint-Croix had performed his civic duty and filled a test tube, which was now inside a big envelope.

‘Semen is absolutely fundamental,’ Laliberté said loudly to Adamsberg, ripping open the envelope, without any consideration for the Saint-Croix couple, who were huddled in a corner of the room.

‘We’ve got two experiments to conduct, Adamsberg,’ Laliberté went on, shaking the test tube in the middle of the sitting room. ‘We need a warm sample and a dry one. The warm sample simulates semen taken from the victim’s vagina. Dried semen is more problematic. You have to use different ways of collecting it. Depends whether it’s on fabric, a road surface, vegetation or on a carpet, for instance. The worst surface of all is grass. You following me? We’ll have to distribute four doses in four strategic places: on the drive, in the garden, in the bed, and on the sitting room carpet.’

The Saint-Croix couple disappeared from the room like fugitives, and the morning was spent depositing drops of semen here and there, and surrounding them with chalk-marks so as not to lose sight of them.

‘While it’s drying, we can move to the toilet and tackle urine. Bring your card and kit.’

The poor Saint-Croix couple spent a difficult day, which filled the superintendent with satisfaction. He had made Linda cry, in order to collect her tears, and made Jules go running in the cold, to collect mucus from his nose. All the samples had been operationally usable, and he returned to the RCMP base a happy man, with all his cards and kits clearly labelled. There had been just one hold-up: the teams had had to be re-organised at the last minute, because two of the volunteers had refused to hand over semen samples to the all-women teams. This had sent Laliberté into a towering rage.

‘For Chrissakes, Louisseize,’ he yelled down the phone. ‘What do they think their semen is? Liquid gold? They’re happy enough to spread it around when they’re out chasing girls, but to oblige working women, oh no. Go tell him that, your damned volunteer.’

‘No I can’t, superintendent,’ said petite Berthe Louisseize. ‘He’s as stubborn as a mule. I’ll have to swap with Portelance.’

Laliberté had had to give in, but he was still snarling about it at the end of the day.

‘People can be as dumb as bison sometimes,’ he said to Adamsberg as they returned to HQ. ‘Now we’ve got all the samples, I’m going to give those stupid bastards a piece of my mind. The women in my squad know a damned sight more about their precious semen than that pair of dopes.’

‘Let it go, Aurèle,’ suggested Adamsberg. ‘They’re not worth bothering with.’

‘I’m taking it real personal, Adamsberg. You go off and find a woman tonight if you want, but I’m going out after supper to give them what for.’

That day, Adamsberg understood that the expansive jovial nature of the superintendent had another side, equally pronounced. The cheery, hail-fellow, tactless buddy could be a determined and ferocious bearer of grudges.

‘It wasn’t you that set him off, was it?’ Sergeant Sanscartier asked Adamsberg anxiously.

Sanscartier was speaking quietly, his whole bearing that of a mild-tempered man.

‘No, it was the two idiots who wouldn’t hand over their semen samples to the women’s teams.’

‘Just as well it wasn’t you. A word in your ear,’ he added, looking at Adamsberg with his big brown eyes. ‘He’s a good pal, our boss, but when he makes a joke, best to laugh and say nothing. What I mean is, don’t provoke him. Because when the boss gets going, he makes the ground shake.’

‘Does that happen often?’

‘If people cross him, or if he gets out of bed on the wrong side. Have you seen, we’re paired up for Monday?’

After a dinner for the whole group at the Cinq Dimanches to celebrate the end of the first short week, Adamsberg went back via the forest trail. He knew the way by now, and was able to avoid the potholes and sharp drops, spotting the sparkling of the pools alongside. He made better time than on the way out. He had stopped to retie a shoelace when a flashlight shone out at him.

‘Hey, man!’ shouted a gruff, threatening voice. ‘What are you doing there? Are you after something?’

Holding up his torch in return, Adamsberg found himself facing a burly man, dressed as a logger and wearing a cap with earflaps. He was standing looking at him, legs planted firmly apart.

‘What’s all this?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘Don’t hikers have the right to use the trail?’

‘Ah,’ said the man after a pause. ‘You’re from the old country, I guess. French?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought so,’ said the man, laughing this time, and coming closer. ‘Because you talk like a book. What are you doing here? Looking for a boyfriend?’

‘I could ask you the same.’

‘Now don’t be cheeky, I’m the site watchman. Can’t leave the equipment unguarded at night, it’s worth money.’

‘What site?’

‘Can’t you see?’ asked the man, waving his flashlight behind him.

In the section of forest above the path, Adamsberg could just make out through the darkness a pick-up truck, a mobile trailer, and various tools leaning against tree trunks.

‘What sort of site is it?’ he asked politely. It seemed to be expected in Quebec to make conversation.

‘Taking out dead trees and replanting more maples,’ the watchman explained. ‘I thought you were after the equipment. Sorry to challenge you, buddy, but, hell, it’s my job. Make a habit of walking here at night, do you?’

‘I just like it.’

‘You visiting?’

‘I’m a cop. I’m working with the Mounties at Gatineau.’

This admission removed the last suspicions of the watchman.

‘Hey, that’s fine. Want to come and share a beer in the cab?’

‘Thanks all the same, but I’ve still got work to do. Must get back.’

‘Too bad. So long, buddy.’

Adamsberg slowed down as he approached the Champlain tablet. Yes, Noëlla was there on her stone, muffled up in a bulky anorak. He could see the glowing tip of her cigarette. He climbed quietly back into the forest and made a long detour, reaching the path again about thirty metres further along, then hurried towards his residence. Damned girl, after all it wasn’t as if she was the devil. The devil suddenly reminded him of Judge Fulgence. You think your thoughts have gone to sleep, but there they are, planted right in the middle of your forehead, three holes in a line. They’re just veiled by a transitory Atlantic fog.