Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

II

ADAMSBERG CAME ACROSS VIOLETTE RETANCOURT AT THE COFFEE machine. He stood back, waiting for his heftiest officer to take her cup from the machine’s udder – since in his mind the drinks dispenser was a kind of dairy cow, tethered inside the Crime Squad’s offices, like a silent mother watching over them all, the reason he was so fond of it. But Retancourt slipped away as soon as she saw him. Hey ho, thought Adamsberg, putting his plastic cup under the spout, it really isn’t my day.

His day or not, Lieutenant Retancourt was a rare bird. Adamsberg had absolutely no complaints about this statuesque woman of thirty-five, 1.79m tall, and weighing 110 kilos, who was as intelligent as she was strong, and capable, as she had reminded him, of channelling her energy in any direction. And indeed, the range of actions which Retancourt had accomplished in the past year, displaying a striking force of terrifying proportions, had made her one of the pillars of the squad, its all-purpose 4 × 4 war-machine, whether for brainpower, tactics, administration, combat or marksmanship. But Violette Retancourt did not care for Adamsberg. She showed him no hostility; she simply avoided him.

Adamsberg picked up his plastic beaker of coffee, patted the machine gently as a sign of filial gratefulness, and returned to his office, hardly allowing Danglard’s outburst to enter his mind. He did not intend spending hours of his time calming his deputy down, whether it was over Camille or a Boeing 747. He would simply rather not have learnt that Camille was in Montreal, something which he hadn’t known, and which now cast a slight shadow over the Quebec trip, to which he had been looking forward. He would rather Danglard had not revived those images which he had expelled into the corners of his eyes, into the gentle miasma of oblivion, where the sharp jawline, the childlike lips and the pale skin of Camille, daughter of the north, had become greyed-over and misty. He would rather his deputy had not revived the memory of a love which he was gradually and gently allowing to fall apart in favour of the different landscapes offered by other women. There was no getting away from it, Adamsberg was a compulsive chaser after girls, a collector of young bodies, and, naturally, that was something that upset Camille. He had often seen her put her hands over her ears after one of his escapades, as if her melodious lover had scratched his nails on a blackboard, introducing an unbearable dissonance into the delicate scoring laid out for him. Camille was a musician, which explained it.

Sitting sideways on his office chair, he blew on his coffee, looking at the noticeboard covered with reports, urgent messages and, in the centre, notes about the objectives of the Quebec expedition. Three sheets of paper, neatly lined up and attached with three red drawing pins. Genetic fingerprints, sweat, urine, computers, maple leaves, forests, lakes, caribou. Tomorrow he would sign the mission orders, and in a week’s time he would be taking off for Canada. He smiled and sipped his coffee, feeling settled and even happy.

Then suddenly, he experienced once more that cold sweat on the back of his neck, the same dread coming over him, the cat jumping on to his shoulders. He bowed his head under the shock, and carefully put the coffee cup on the table. The second sudden turn in less than an hour, an alien feeling of trouble, like the unexpected arrival of a stranger setting off an alarm or a panic button. He forced himself to stand up and take a few steps. Apart from the shock and sweat, his body seemed to be behaving normally. He ran his hands over his face, relaxing the skin and massaging his neck. A sort of convulsive defence reflex. The sharp bite of some distress, a warning of a threat, making his body react to it. And now he was able to move more easily, but was still left with an inexpressible feeling of sorrow, like a dark sediment that the wave leaves behind when it ebbs.

He finished his coffee and put his chin in his hands. He had many times failed to understand his actions, but now for the first time he felt he had lost touch with himself. It was the first time that he had reeled for a few seconds, as if some stowaway had slipped into his head and taken charge. For of that he was certain. There was a clandestine passenger aboard. Any sane person would have explained that this was absurd, and suggested he was coming down with flu. But Adamsberg diagnosed something very different, the brief intrusion of a dangerous unknown being, who wished him no good.

He opened the cupboard and took out an old pair of trainers. This time a short walk and a few moments daydreaming would not help. He would have to run, for hours if necessary, straight down towards the Seine, then along the embankment. And as he ran, he would try to shake off his pursuer, throwing him into the waters of the river, or perhaps transferring him to someone else, why not?