Fred Vargas - This Night’s Foul Work

‘My lord, take heed to me. Am I so little worth ,

That anger without cause should drive me from my place?

Is this the fair welcome they told me I would face ,

And am I to suffer, for the land of my birth?’

Adamsberg tiptoed quietly up the last few steps, stupefied.

‘Is’t a fault, or a crime, to have first seen the light

So close to your valley? Am I not then allowed

To have rested my eyes on the same silver cloud?’

Veyrenc was leaning against the side of the cupboard, head lowered, auburn tears gleaming through his hair.

‘To have run as a child on the same mountain trails

Which the gods gave to you, and the same deepest vales.’

Adamsberg watched as his new colleague folded his arms and smiled briefly to himself.

‘I see,’ said the commissaire slowly.

The lieutenant gave a start.

‘It’s in my file,’ he said, by way of excuse.

‘Under what?’

Veyrenc ran his hands through his hair in embarrassment.

‘The commissaire at Bordeaux couldn’t stand it. Or the one at Tarbes, or the one at Nevers.’

‘And you couldn’t help it?’

‘Alas, I cannot, sire, though if I could I would ,

But my ancestor’s blood runs in my veins for good.’

‘How the hell do you do that? Waking? Sleeping? Hypnosis?’

‘Well, it runs in the family,’ said Veyrenc rather shortly. ‘I just can’t help it.’

‘Oh, if it runs in the family, that’s different.’

Veyrenc twisted his lip, and spread his hands in a fatalist gesture.

‘Perhaps you’d better come back to the office with me, lieutenant . Maybe the broom cupboard wasn’t good for you.’

‘That’s true,’ said Veyrenc, whose heart contracted suddenly as he thought of Camille.

‘You know Retancourt? She’s the one who’s in charge of your induction.’

‘Something’s cropped up in Clignancourt?’

‘It soon will have, if you can find some gravel under a table. She’ll tell you about it, and I warn you, she doesn’t like the assignment.’

‘Why not hand this one over to the Drug Squad?’ asked Veyrenc, as he came downstairs alongside the commissaire , carrying his books.

Adamsberg lowered his head without replying.

‘Perhaps you can’t tell me?’ the lieutenant persisted.

‘Yes. But I’m trying to think how to tell you.’

Veyrenc waited, holding the banister. He had heard too much about Adamsberg to be surprised at his odd ways.

‘Those deaths are a matter for us,’ Adamsberg finally announced. ‘Those two men were caught up in some web, some machination. There’s a shade hovering over them – they’re caught in the folds of its robe.’

Adamsberg looked in perplexity at a precise point on the wall, as if to search there for the words he needed to elaborate his idea. Then he gave up, and the two men continued down to the ground floor, where Adamsberg paused once more.

‘Before we go out on to the street, and before we become colleagues, can you tell me where you got the ginger streaks?’

‘I don’t think you’ll like the story.’

‘Very few things annoy me, lieutenant . And relatively few things upset me. Only one or two shock me.’

‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

‘It’s true.’

‘All right. I was attacked when I was a child, up in the vineyard. I was eight years old, and the boys who went for me were about thirteen to fifteen. Five young toughs, a little gang. They hated us.’

‘Who’s “us”?’

‘My father owned the vineyard, the wine was getting itself a reputation, it was competing with someone else’s. They pinned me down and cut my head with iron scraps. Then they gashed my belly open with a bit of broken glass.’

Adamsberg, who had started to open the door, stopped still, holding the handle.

‘Shall I go on?’ asked Veyrenc.

The commissaire encouraged him with a nod.

‘They left me there, bleeding from the stomach and with fourteen wounds to the scalp. The hair grew back afterwards, but it came out ginger. No explanation. Just a souvenir.’

Adamsberg looked at the floor for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet the lieutenant ‘s.

‘And what made you think I wouldn’t like the story?’

The New Recruit pursed his lips and Adamsberg observed his dark eyes, which were possibly trying to make him lower his own gaze. They were melancholy, yes, but not always and not with everyone. The two mountain dwellers stood facing each other like two ibex in the Pyrenees, motionless, horns locked in a silent duel. It was the lieutenant who, in a movement acknowledging defeat, looked down first.

‘Finish the story, Veyrenc.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s our job to finish stories. If you want to start them, go back to teaching. If you want to finish them, stay being a cop.’

‘I see.’

‘Of course you see. That’s why you’re here.’

Veyrenc hesitated, then raised his lip in a false smile.

‘The five boys were from the Gave de Pau valley.’

‘My valley.’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, Veyrenc, finish the story.’

‘I have finished it.’

‘No, you haven’t. The five boys came from the Gave de Pau valley. And they came from the village of Caldhez.’

Adamsberg turned the door handle.

‘Come along, Veyrenc,’ he said softly. ‘We’re going to look for a little stone.’

RETANCOURT SANK DOWN WITH ALL HER CONSIDERABLE WEIGHT ON AN OLD plastic chair in Emilio’s café.

‘Not wanting to be rude,’ said Emilio, ‘but if the cops turn up here too often, I might as well shut up shop.’

‘Just find me a little pebble, Emilio, and we’re out of here. Three beers, please.’

‘No, just two,’ said Estalère. ‘I can’t drink it,’ he said looking at Retancourt and the New Recruit to excuse himself. ‘I don’t know why, but it goes to my head.’

‘But Estalère, it goes to everyone’s head,’ said Retancourt, who never ceased to be surprised at the naivety of this twenty-seven-year-old boy.

‘Really?’ said Estalère. ‘It’s normal?’

‘Not only is it normal, it’s the whole point.’

Estalère frowned, not wishing at any price to give Retancourt any hint that he was reproaching her with anything. If Retancourt drank beer during working hours, it was not only permitted but obviously recommended.

‘We’re not on duty now.’ Retancourt smiled at him. ‘We’re looking for a little pebble. Quite different.’

‘You’re angry with him,’ observed the young man.

Retancourt waited until Emilio had brought their beer. She raised her glass to the New Recruit.

‘Welcome. I still haven’t got your name right.’

‘Veyrenc de Bilhc, Louis,’ said Estalère, pleased with himself for having remembered the whole name.

‘Let’s stick with Veyrenc,’ proposed Retancourt.

‘De Bilhc,’ said the New Recruit.

‘You’re attached to your fancy name?’

‘I’m attached to the wine. It’s the name of a vintage.’

Veyrenc moved his glass closer to Retancourt’s but without clinking it. He had heard a good deal about the extraordinary qualities of Violette Retancourt, but all he could see at present was a tall, very well-built blonde woman, rather down-to-earth and jolly, displaying nothing that enabled him to understand the fear, respect or devotion which she inspired in the squad.

‘You’re angry with him,’ Estalère repeated glumly.

Retancourt shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, I’ve nothing against going for a beer in Clignancourt. If that amuses him.’