Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

XXXIII

FERNAND SANSCARTIER AND GINETTE SAINT-PREUX WERE THE accompanying officers this time. Adamsberg imagined that they might perhaps have volunteered to come to work on Sunday to give him some moral support. But his two former allies both seemed embarrassed and constrained. Only the squirrel, still on duty outside the door, with his girlfriend in tow, greeted him by wrinkling its muzzle. A faithful little buddy.

‘Right, Adamsberg, it’s your turn,’ Laliberté greeted him with a cordial expression. ‘Tell me all about it, what you’ve found out, what you know. OK?’

The approach friendly. Laliberté was using all the old techniques. Alternating between hostility and affability. It destabilises the suspect, first reassuring him, then scaring him again, and he becomes disoriented. Adamsberg stiffened his resolve. The superintendent was not going to make him run off course like a frightened animal, still less with Retancourt sitting behind him. He had an odd feeling that she was propping him up.

‘We’re friends today, are we?’ asked Adamsberg with a smile.

‘Today, I’m listening. Just tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘I warn you, Aurèle, it’s a long story.’

‘OK, man, but try not to drag it out too much.’

Adamsberg took his time in describing the judge’s bloody itinerary, from the 1949 murder to the reappearance at Schiltigheim. He omitted no details about the assassin’s technique, the scapegoats he set up, the measurements of the trident, the changing of the blades. Nor did he conceal his own inability to catch the judge, who was protected by the high walls of his power, his network of contacts and his ability to move around the country. The superintendent took notes, but with a degree of impatience.

‘Call me picky, but I see three flaws in the story,’ he said at the end, holding up three fingers.

‘Rigour, rigour and yet more rigour,’ thought Adamsberg to himself.

‘First, you want me to believe that this murderer’s been running round France for fifty years?’

‘Without getting caught, you mean? I told you about his influence and the way he changes the blades. Nobody has ever thought of challenging the judge’s reputation, nor has anyone ever linked these murders together, except me. Nine, counting Schiltigheim, ten counting Noëlla Corderon.’

‘What I mean is that this guy can’t be a spring chicken.’

‘Well, suppose he started when he was twenty. He’d still only be about seventy.’

‘Second of all,’ said Laliberté, putting a cross against his notes. ‘You went on at length about this trident thing and its crossbar. But the idea of the altered blades is just your own hypothesis. You’ve got no evidence.’

‘Yes I have, the measurements in all directions.’

‘Exactly. But this time, your maniac killer broke his usual practice. As you saw, the line of wounds is longer than your crossbar, 17.2 centimetres, not 16.9. So all of a sudden, the murderer changes his routine. Seventy isn’t the kind of age when a serial killer starts changing a ritual, so how do you explain that?’

‘I thought about that, and I can only come up with one explanation. The airport controls. He couldn’t have brought the original trident, he’d never have been allowed through security. He must have had to buy another over here.’

‘It wasn’t bought, Adamsberg, it was borrowed. It had traces of soil on it. It wasn’t brand new.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So now we’ve got some departures from routine, and not minor ones, for this so-called ritualistic murderer. Add to that that we didn’t find anyone roaming about dead drunk beside the victim, with a murder weapon in his hands. No fall guy. That makes a helluva lot of differences, if you ask my opinion.’

‘Changes of circumstance. Like all super-intelligent people, the judge is adaptable. He had to deal with the ice, since the victim was frozen in for three days before being found. And he had to deal with a foreign country.’

‘I was coming to that,’ said Laliberté, making another cross against his notes. ‘Isn’t there enough room for him back in the old country, your judge? Until now, he’s only been killing people in France, according to you.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I only told you about the French murders because those were the only ones where I could get hold of records. If he’s been off killing people in Sweden or Japan, I don’t know about it.’

‘Christ Almighty, you’re an obstinate bastard. You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?’

‘Isn’t that what you wanted? You wanted me to give you a lead to the murderer, didn’t you? Do you know many people who kill with a trident? Because what I say makes sense for the weapon, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, right, it was some kind of fork that killed her. But as for who was on the other end, that’s something else again.’

‘Judge Honoré Guillaume Fulgence. Guaranteed to use a trident. A man I’m going to get my hands on, I promise you.’

‘Well, I’d like to see your files then,’ said Laliberté tipping back his chair. ‘Your nine files.’

‘I’ll have them copied and sent over to you when I get back.’

‘No. I want them now. Can’t you ask one of your men to send them to me by fax or email?’

No choice, thought Adamsberg, as he followed Laliberté and his men into the computer room. He was thinking about Fulgence’s death. Sooner or later Laliberté was going to find out about it, as Trabelmann had. The most worrying aspect though, for the moment, was the file on his brother. It contained a sketch of the screwdriver which he had thrown into the Torque, and notes about his false alibi during the trial, which were strictly confidential items. Danglard was the only person who could help him out – if he realised that he should weed the files before sending them. But how was he going to tell him that while he was under the superintendent’s eagle eye? He would have liked an hour or so to think it through, but he was going to have to be quicker than that.

‘I just want to fetch something from my coat,’ he said, going out again.

In the superintendent’s now empty office, Retancourt was sitting looking half asleep, slumped in a chair. He took a little time to take a few bags out of his bulging coat pockets, and ambled back in a casual manner, to see the three officers.

‘Here,’ he said to Sanscartier, holding out the bags, with an unobtrusive wink, ‘there are six packs. Share them with Ginette if she likes it. If you need more, give me a call.’

‘What are you giving them?’ grumbled Laliberté. ‘French booze?’

‘Almond-scented soap. I’m not corrupting any public servants, it’s just balm for the soul.’

‘Christ, Adamsberg, less of the bullshit. We’re here on serious business.’

‘It’s after ten at night now in Paris. Danglard is the only one who can find the files. I’d better send him a fax to his home address. He’ll get it when he wakes up and you’ll gain a bit of time that way.’

‘OK, man, go ahead, write something for the big slouch.’

This concession enabled Adamsberg to send Danglard a handwritten message. The only idea he had come up with during the brief soap-fetching sortie was a schoolboy trick, but it might work. He would deform his handwriting, which Danglard knew by heart, by enlarging all the D’s and R’s, the beginning and end of DangeR. That was quite possible in a short message with the words Danglard, Dossier, Address, Adamsberg and Trident. He hoped that Danglard would be wide awake and understand it, or at any rate smell a rat before he scanned the papers in the files.

The fax went off, having been checked by the superintendent, carrying Adamsberg’s hopes with it along the sub-Atlantic cable. He now had to place his faith in the alert mind of his second-in-command. He thought of Danglard’s angel with the sword and for once prayed that in the morning his deputy would be in full possession of his logical faculties.

‘He’ll get it tomorrow. I can’t do any more for now,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

‘I’m not through yet,’ said Laliberté, raising another finger. ‘There’s a fourth point that intrigues me.’

Rigour and yet more rigour. Adamsberg sat down again by the fax machine. Laliberté remained standing. Another old police trick. Adamsberg tried to catch the eye of Sanscartier, who was standing still, clutching his bag of soap. And in those eyes which seemed still to beam out one and the same expression, that of goodness, he seemed to read something else. Trap ahead. Watch your step.

‘Didn’t you say you started chasing this guy when you were only eighteen?’ Laliberté asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Thirty years on the trail, doesn’t that seem a bit long?’

‘No more than fifty years killing people. We’ve each got our job. He keeps on going; I keep on going after him.’

‘Do you people ever have cases in France that you have to give up on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever personally had any files you’ve had to close, without finding the killer?’

‘Not many.’

‘Still, you have had some?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why didn’t you give up on this one?’

‘I told you, because of my brother.’

Laliberté smiled as if he had scored a point. Adamsberg glanced towards Sanscartier, and got the same signal.

‘So you were really that fond of your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted to avenge him?’

‘No, not to avenge him, Aurèle, to clear his name.’

‘Don’t mess with words, Adamsberg, it comes to the same thing. Do you know what this makes me think of, this inquiry of yours? That you’ve been carrying on for thirty years?’

Adamsberg did not reply. Sanscartier was looking at his boss, without any kindness in his eyes. Ginette was looking at the floor.

‘A pathological obsession,’ Laliberté declared.

‘In your book maybe, Aurèle, not in mine.’

Laliberté changed his position and line of attack.

‘OK, I’m speaking to you as one cop to another. Your travelling murderer, don’t you think it’s odd that he’s struck over here, at the very time when the guy tailing him is in Quebec? I mean you. The obsessive cop who’s been after him for thirty years. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence?’

‘More than a bit. Perhaps it’s not one at all. As I told you, since Schiltigheim, Fulgence knows I’m after him again.’

‘Jeez! Do you think he’d come all this way, just to bug you? If he had any sense at all, he’d wait till you were back home. A man who kills every four or five years can wait a fortnight, can’t he?’

‘I’m not inside his head.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder about that.’

‘What’s that meant to mean, Aurèle?’

‘I think you’re dreaming in technicolour. You’re seeing him everywhere, this Trident of yours.’

‘I don’t give a toss what you think, Aurèle. I’ve told you what I know and what I believe. If it’s no use to you, too bad. You do your investigation, and I’ll do mine.’

‘Well, see you tomorrow at nine,’ said the superintendent, smiling once more and holding out his hand. ‘We’ve still got a lot of work ahead. We’ll look through the dossiers together.’

‘No, you look at them,’ said Adamsberg, getting up. ‘You’ll need all day, and I know them by heart. I’m going to visit my brother. I’ll see you on Tuesday morning.’

Laliberté frowned.

‘I suppose I am free to come and go? Yes or no?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘Cool it, Adamsberg, of course you are.’

‘OK. So I’m going to visit my brother.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Detroit. Can I borrow a pool car?’

‘I guess so.’

Adamsberg set off to find Retancourt, who had remained sitting slumped in the superintendent’s office.

‘I know you’ve got your orders,’ Laliberté said with a grin. ‘But, don’t take this personally, I don’t know what good she’s going to be to you, your fatso lieutenant. She doesn’t look as if she could rub two sticks together. Wouldn’t want her in my squad.’