Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

VI

THE MEETING OF THE EIGHT DESIGNATED MEMBERS OF THE QUEBEC mission took place in a temperature of 8 degrees, in a gloomy atmosphere rendered even more sluggish by the cold. The whole project might have foundered had it not been for the crucial presence of Lieutenant Violette Retancourt. Without gloves or hat, she gave no sign of discomfort. Unlike her colleagues, whose clenched teeth made their voices tense, she spoke in her usual strong and well-tempered tones, heightened by the interest she considered the Quebec mission to represent. She was backed up by Voisenet, from behind a thick scarf, and young Estalère, who professed an admiration without reserve for the versatile lieutenant, as if devoting himself to some powerful goddess, a mighty Juno combined with Diana the huntress and twelve-armed Shiva. Retancourt spoke eloquently, cajoling, giving examples and concluding. Today she had visibly channelled her energy into persuasion, and Adamsberg, with a smile, let her take the lead. In spite of his disturbed night, he felt relaxed and back on form. He didn’t even have a hangover from the gin.

Danglard observed the commissaire, who was tilting his chair backwards, apparently quite restored to his usual nonchalance and having forgotten both his irritation of the previous day and even their nocturnal conversation about the god of the sea. Retancourt was still speaking, challenging negative arguments, and Danglard felt he was losing ground: an irresistible force was propelling him in through the doors of a Boeing condemned to be hit by a flock of starlings.

Retancourt won the day. At ten past midday, the decision to go on the RCMP course in Gatineau was carried by seven to one. Adamsberg closed the session and went to convey their decision to the prefect of police. He caught up with Danglard in the corridor.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold the string. I’m good at it.’

‘What string?’

‘The one that holds the plane up,’ Adamsberg explained, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.

Adamsberg gave a nod to confirm his promise and walked off. Danglard wondered if the commissaire was mocking him. But he had looked serious, as if he really thought he could hold the strings to keep planes in the air and stop them crashing. Danglard touched his pompom, which had now become a calming talisman. Curiously, the idea of the piece of string and Adamsberg holding it, brought him some reassurance.

On one street corner near the office was a large brasserie where the atmosphere was cheery, but the food was terrible, while on the opposite side was a small cafe where the seating was less comfortable, but the food was good. The fairly crucial choice between the two was faced almost every day by the staff of the Crime Squad, who were torn between eating well in a dark and draughty restaurant, and the comforting warmth of the old brasserie, which had kept its 1930s-style seats but had hired a disastrous new chef. Today the heating question won out over any other considerations, so about twenty officers headed for the Brasserie des Philosophes, a rather incongruous name since about sixty Paris flics, little given to conceptual acrobatics, ate there most days. Noting the direction taken by the majority, Adamsberg took himself to the under-heated cafe known as Le Buisson. He had eaten hardly anything in twenty-four hours, since abandoning his Irish meal when the tornado had struck.

As he finished the day’s special, he pulled out of his inside pocket the crumpled page from the newspaper and spread it on the table, curious about the murder in Alsace which had provoked such a tumult in his head. The victim, Elisabeth Wind, twenty-two years old, had probably been killed at about midnight, when she was returning home on her bike from Schiltigheim to her village, about three kilometres away, a trip she made every Saturday night. Her body had been found in undergrowth about ten metres from the road. The first indications were that she had been knocked unconscious and the cause of death was the three stab wounds in the abdomen. The young woman had not been sexually assaulted, nor had any of her clothing been removed. A suspect was being held, one Bernard Vétilleux, unmarried and of no fixed address, who had quickly been discovered a few hundred metres from the scene of the crime, dead drunk, and fast asleep by the side of the road. The gendarmes reported that they had conclusive proof against Vétilleux, but according to the accused man, he had no memory of the night of the murder.

Adamsberg read through the article twice. He shook his head slowly, looking at the blue sweater, punctured by three holes. It was impossible, absolutely impossible. He, of all people, was well placed to know that. He ran his hand over the article, hesitated, then took out his mobile phone.

‘Danglard?’

His deputy replied from the Brasserie des Philosophes, his mouth full.

‘Can you get me the name of the commandant of gendarmes for Schiltigheim in the Bas-Rhin département?’

Danglard had the names of all the police chiefs of every town in France at his fingertips, but was less good on the gendarmerie.

‘Is this as urgent as the Neptune business?’

‘Not quite, but let’s say it’s not far off.’

‘I’ll call you back in about fifteen minutes.’

‘While you’re at it, don’t forget to call that heating engineer again.’

Adamsberg was finishing a double espresso, much less impressive than the kind from the office dairy cow, when his deputy called him back.

‘Commandant Thierry Trabelmann is the name. Have you got a pen?’

Adamsberg wrote the telephone number on the paper tablecloth. He waited until after two o’clock had struck on the old clock in Le Buisson before calling the Schiltigheim gendarmerie. Commandant Trabelmann sounded somewhat distant. He had heard of Commissaire Adamsberg, some good, some not so good, and was hesitating over how to handle him.

‘I have no intention of trying to take this case over, Commandant Trabelmann,’ Adamsberg assured him at once.

‘That’s what they always say, and we all know what happens. The gendarmes do all the dirty work and as soon as it gets interesting, the flics come in and take over.’

‘All I want is to check something.’

‘I don’t know what bee you’ve got in your bonnet, commissaire, but we’ve got our man, and he’s firmly under lock and key.’

‘Bernard Vétilleux?’

‘Yes, and it’s rock solid. We found the murder weapon a few metres away from the victim, just chucked into the grass. It corresponded exactly to the wounds, and it had Vétilleux’s fingerprints on the handle, clear as daylight.’

Clear as daylight. As simple as that. Adamsberg asked himself quickly whether he was going to follow this up or beat a retreat.

‘But Vétilleux denies it?’

‘He was pissed out of his mind when my men brought him in. Could hardly stand up straight. He can deny it all he likes, it won’t make a blind bit of difference. He can’t remember a thing about the night, except that he’d drunk himself silly.’

‘Does he have a record? Any violence in the past?’

‘No. But everything has to start somewhere.’

‘The newspaper said there were three stab wounds. With a knife?’

‘A carpenter’s awl.’

Adamsberg was silent for a moment.

‘Bit unusual?’

‘Well, not all that. These homeless characters carry all kinds of tools around with them, an awl can be handy for opening tins or forcing locks. Don’t get worked up, commissaire, we’ve got our man, I’ll guarantee you that.’

‘One last thing, commandant,’ said Adamsberg rather quickly, sensing Trabelmann’s impatience. ‘Was the tool brand new?’

There was a silence from the other end.

‘How did you know?’ asked Trabelmann suspiciously.

‘It was new, then?’

‘Affirmative. But what difference does that make?’

‘Trabelmann, can you do me a big favour? Send me the photographs of the body, close-ups of the stab wounds.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because I’m asking you nicely.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘I’m not trying to take over from you,’ said Adambserg. ‘You have my word.’

‘So what’s eating you?’

‘A childhood memory.’

‘Oh, in that case,’ said Trabelmann, suddenly respectful, and dropping his guard, as if childhood memories were a sacred reason and an unquestionable open sesame.