Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXX

BUT ADAMSBERG WAS WOKEN AT ONE IN THE MORNING BY A PHONE CALL from Brézillon.

‘Tell me, commissaire, is it usual for the Québécois to take no notice of the time difference when they telephone us?’

‘What’s happened? Something to do with Favre?’ asked Adamsberg, who woke up as quickly as he dropped off to sleep, as if for him the border between reality and dreams was not very clear.

‘Nothing to do with bloody Favre!’ shouted Brézillon. ‘What’s happened is that you’ve got to jump on a plane at 4.50 tomorrow afternoon. So get packing!’

‘Plane, sir? Where to?’ Adamsberg asked politely.

‘Where do you think? Montreal, for God’s sake. I’ve just had Superintendent Légalité on the line.’

‘Laliberté,’ Adamsberg corrected.

‘Whatever his name is. They’ve got some murder case, and they say they need you. Full stop. We’re not being offered any choice.’

‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t get it. We weren’t working on homicides with them, we were doing genetic fingerprinting. It’s not Laliberté’s first murder case.’

‘Well it’s the first time he needs you to solve it, for crying out loud.’

‘Since when does the Paris Serious Crime Squad have to take on murders in Quebec?’

‘Since they got a letter – anonymous if you please – saying you were the man for the situation. Their victim is French, and connected to some bloody file or other you’ve been handling over here. There’s a connection anyway, and they’re screaming for you.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Adamsberg, who was getting rattled in turn, ‘they can send me a report and I can send them any information they need from here. I can’t spend my life flying across the Atlantic and back.’

‘That’s what I said to him of course. But he insisted. He said they need your eyes. He won’t give up. He wants you to view the body.’

‘No, nothing doing. I’m up to my eyes in work here. The superintendent can send me the file.’

‘Listen, Adamsberg, to what I’m telling you. You don’t have a choice, I don’t have a choice. The Ministry had to lean on them very hard to get them to cooperate over the DNA stuff. They weren’t too keen at first. So we owe them one. Can’t wriggle out of it. Now do you get it? We just agree politely, and you take the plane tomorrow. But I’ve told Légalité I can’t let you go alone. You’re taking Retancourt along as assistant.’

‘I don’t need a guide, thanks, what’s the point?’

‘I dare say. But you’ll be accompanied, and that’s the end of it.’

‘What do you mean? Under escort?’

‘Why not? I’ve been told you’re chasing a dead man, commissaire.’

‘Ah,’ said Adamsberg, dropping his eyes.

‘Ah, yes indeed. I have a friend in Strasbourg who told me what you’ve been up to. I thought I told you to keep a low profile for a bit, remember?’

‘Yes, I do remember. So Retancourt has to keep an eye on me, does she? I’m going under orders and under supervision is that it?’

Brézillon’s voice softened.

‘Under protection is more like it.’

‘With what in mind exactly?’

‘It’s just that I don’t let any of my men go off unaccompanied.’

‘Well, give me someone else, Danglard for instance.’

‘No, Danglard will have to take over while you’re away.’

‘Well, Voisenet then. Retancourt doesn’t like me. Our relations are correct but cold.’

‘That’ll do. Retancourt it is. She’s a many-talented officer and can channel her energy in any direction.’

‘Yes, you don’t have to tell me. It’s practically become a myth round here in less than a year.’

‘I’m not going to hang about arguing, I want to get some sleep. You’re on a mission and you’ll do it. Your papers and tickets will be at the office by one o’clock. Bon voyage, get this thing sorted out, and get right back.’

Adamsberg sat on his bed, holding the receiver, still feeling dazed. So what, if the victim was French? It was still a matter for the Mounties. What was Laliberté playing at? Getting him to fly back across the Atlantic to see the corpse with his own eyes? If they wanted him to help with the identification, they could send him photos by email. What was Aurèle’s game – did he suppose he could act like the boss of the Canada geese?

He woke both Danglard and Retancourt to tell them they had to be on duty the next morning, Saturday, by orders of the divisionnaire.

‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ he said to Danglard next morning. ‘Does he think he’s top goose in Canada? Does he think I’ve nothing better to do than keep flying between Paris and Montreal?’

‘Honestly, you’ve got all my sympathy,’ said Danglard with genuine fellow-feeling. He would have been quite incapable of facing another flight.

‘What’s it all about? Any ideas, capitaine?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘My eyes? What’s so special about my eyes?’

Danglard said nothing. It was true that Adamsberg had unusual eyes. They reminded you of brown seaweed and could sometimes, like seaweed, sparkle in certain lights.

‘And with Retancourt what’s more,’ Adamsberg added.

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I’m beginning to think Retancourt’s an exceptional woman. She can channel her energy in any…’

‘Yes, Danglard, I know.’

Adamsberg sighed and sat down. ‘Since I’ve got no choice, as Brézillon shouted down the line at me, you’re going to have to do a bit of urgent research for me.’

‘OK, fire away.’

‘I don’t want to trouble my mother with this, you have to understand. She’s already got enough problems.’

Danglard screwed up his eyes, chewing the end of a pencil. He was well used to the non sequiturs of his commissaire’s conversations, but the current number of oddities and sudden leaps in subject were alarming him more and more every day.

‘So you’ll have to do it, Danglard. It’s right up your street.’

‘Do what?’

‘Find my brother.’

Danglard bit off a large splinter of the pencil which stuck between his teeth. He could do with a glass of white wine right now, at nine o’clock in the morning. Find his brother.

‘Er, where?’ he asked delicately.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Cemeteries?’ murmured Danglard, spitting out the bit of wood.

‘What do you mean?’ said Adamsberg, startled.

‘What I mean is, you’re already looking for a murderer, who’s been dead for sixteen years, and I don’t buy it.’

Adamsberg looked down, disappointed.

‘You’re deserting me, Danglard. You’re not with me any more.’

‘Well, where am I expected to go with you?’ Danglard said, raising his voice. ‘Digging up graves?’

Adamsberg shook his head.

‘You’re not with me, Danglard. You’re turning your back on me, whatever I say. Because you’ve decided you’re on his side. The other guy.’

‘It’s nothing to do with any “other guy”.’

‘Well, what is it then?’

‘I’m fed up chasing after the dead.’

Adamsberg shrugged wearily.

‘Too bad, Danglard. If you won’t help me, I’ll have to do it myself. I’ve got to see him and talk to him.’

‘And just how will you do that?’ asked Danglard through clenched teeth. ‘By table-turning?’

‘Table - turning? What do you mean?’

The capitaine looked at the astonished expression on Adamsberg’s face.

‘But your brother’s dead!’ he shouted. ‘Dead! How are you going to fix up an interview?’

Adamsberg seemed to freeze on the spot and the light went out of his eyes.

‘Dead?’ he repeated in a low voice. ‘How do you know?’

‘Christ Almighty, because you told me! You said you’d lost your brother. That he committed suicide after the trial.’

Adamsberg leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.

‘Aaah, you really scared me, mon vieux! I thought you’d had news of him… Yes, I did say I lost my brother, thirty years ago. I meant he went away, and I’ve never seen him since. But goddamnit, he’s still alive as far as I know, and I have to see him. No tables to turn, Danglard, just some hard disks to spin. You’re sure to be able to find him on the internet: Mexico, the US, Cuba, somewhere. He went travelling, different cities, different jobs, at least at the beginning.’

The commissaire was moving his finger in vague curves over the table, tracing the wanderings of his brother. Speaking with difficulty, he went on:

‘Twenty-five years ago, he was a pedlar in Chihuahua province, near the US border. He sold coffee, china, linen, mescal, brushes. And he used to do portraits in the street. He was always pretty good at drawing.’

‘Sincerely, commissaire, I beg your pardon,’ said Danglard. ‘I’d completely misunderstood. You spoke of him as if he were no longer here.’

‘Well, he is no longer here.’

‘Do you have any more precise information, anything more recent?’

‘We avoid the subject at home, my mother and I. But when I was in the village about four years ago, I found a postcard he’d sent her from Puerto Rico. Love and kisses. Last known sighting.’

Danglard noted this on a sheet of paper.

‘What’s his full name?’

‘Raphaël Félix Franck Adamsberg.’

‘Date of birth, place, parents’ names, schooling, what does he like doing?’

Adamsberg gave him the necessary information.

‘Will you do it, Danglard? Will you look for him?’

‘Yes, all right,’ muttered Danglard, still feeling guilty at having buried Raphaël before his time. ‘At least I’ll try, but with all this backlog of paperwork, it’s not a priority.’

‘It’s getting urgent. The river’s burst its banks, I told you.’

‘Well there are other urgent things to do as well,’ said Danglard grudgingly. ‘And it’s a Saturday.’

The commissaire found Violette Retancourt dealing in her usual manner with the photocopier, which had jammed again. He told her about their mission and the time of the flight. Brézillon’s order forced an unaccustomed look of surprise on her face. She undid her short ponytail and did it up again, with automatic gestures. Her way of taking time to think. So it was possible, after all, to catch her unawares.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know either, Retancourt, but we’ve got to go back there. They say they need my eyes. I’m really sorry, but the divisionnaire says you’ve got to come too. It’s meant to be protection, according to him.’

Adamsberg was in the departure lounge half an hour before take-off, sitting silently alongside his large blonde lieutenant, when he saw Danglard arrive, flanked by two airport security guards. The capitaine looked tired and was out of breath. He’d evidently been running. Adamsberg would never have believed that possible.

‘These guys nearly drove me mad,’ he puffed, pointing to the guards. ‘They didn’t want to let me through. Here you are,’ he said, handing Adamsberg an envelope. ‘Good luck.’

Adamsberg had no time to thank him properly, because the guards were already escorting his capitaine back to the public zone. He looked down at the brown envelope in his hand.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Retancourt. ‘It seemed to be urgent.’

‘It is. But I’m hesitating.’

With trembling fingers, he opened the envelope. Danglard had provided an address, in Detroit, USA, and a job: taxidriver. He had also put in a photograph from the internet, taken from a website of illustrators. Adamsberg looked at the face he had not seen for thirty years.

‘Is that you?’ asked Retancourt.

‘My brother,’ said Adamsberg quietly.

Who still looked like him. An address, a job, a photo. Danglard was extremely skilled at finding missing persons, but even so he must have been hard at it to come up with the results and get them to him in a few hours. He closed the envelope with a shiver.