Fred Vargas - The Three Evangelists

‘She made some kind of proposition to Louise?’ asked Vandoosler, putting three cards down, one of them face up.

‘Yes. Raymond doesn’t know what it was, but Louise was secretive about having a date with someone, and she was “bloody pleased with herself”. What a business! She was about to get bumped off in a car in Maisons-Alfort. Poor old Louise. Your call.’

‘No clubs. I’m discarding. What does the police doctor have to say?’

‘He thinks it fits, because of the teeth. He would have thought the teeth would have survived better. But the ancient Louise had hardly any left. So that explains it. Maybe that was why Sophia picked her. I’m taking your hearts, and I’m harpooning the jack of diamonds.’

Marc pocketed the bread and put a couple of apples in his other pocket. He wondered what strange game the two policeman were playing. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t finished walking yet. Nor had he got used to the idea yet. Going out again, he went down the other side of rue Chasle, passing the Western Front. It would soon be dark.

He walked around for another two full hours. He left one apple core on the parapet of the Saint-Michel fountain, and the other on the plinth of the Belfort Lion on the place Denfert-Rochereau. It was hard getting close to the lion and climbing up onto the plinth. There’s a little rhyme that says that the Belfort Lion comes down at night and pads around Paris. At least you can be sure that that really is a fairy story. When Marc jumped down again, he felt a lot better. He came back to rue Chasle, with his head aching a bit still, but calmer. He had digested the idea. He knew where Sophia was now. He had taken some time to work it out.

He came into the darkened refectory, feeling composed. Half-past eleven. Everyone must be asleep. He put on the light and and picked up the kettle. The horrible photo was no longer on the table. Instead there was a bit of paper with a message from Mathias: ‘Juliette thinks she knows where she is. I’m going to Dourdan with her. I’m afraid she might be going to help her run away. I’ll call Alexandra if I need to. Caveman greetings. Mathias.’

Marc put the kettle down with a bang. Oh God, the idiot!’ he muttered. ‘The bloody idiot.’ He ran up to the third floor, four steps at a time. ‘Lucien, get dressed!’ he shouted, shaking his friend by the shoulder.

Lucien opened his eyes, ready to retort something.

‘No, don’t ask, don’t start talking. I need you! Hurry!’

Marc rushed up to the fourth floor and shook Vandoosler awake.

‘She’s going to get away!’ Marc said, panting. ‘Quick! Juliette and Mathias have gone! That idiot Mathias doesn’t realise the danger. I’m going with Lucien. Go and get Leguennec out of bed, and make him bring his men to Dourdan, number 12 allée des Grands-Ifs!’

Marc rushed out again. His legs ached from all the walking he had done. Lucien was coming downstairs, drowsy from sleep, pushing his feet into his shoes, a tie in his hand.

‘Come and find me in front of Relivaux’s house,’ said Marc, pushing past him.

Hurtling down the steps, he ran across the garden and shouted up at Relivaux’s house. Relivaux appeared at the window, looking wary. He was only lately returned, and the news about the name Dompierre had written on the car had apparently left him in a state of collapse.

‘Throw me the keys to your car!’ yelled Marc. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’

Relivaux did not stop to think. A few seconds later, Marc caught the keys as they sailed over the gate. Say what you like about Relivaux, he was good at throwing.

‘Thanks,’ Marc yelled.

He turned on the ignition, moved off, opening the passenger door to pick up Lucien. Lucien tied his tie carefully, put a small flat bottle on his thigh, adjusted the angle of his seat backwards and settled comfortably.

‘What’s in the bottle?’ asked Marc.

‘Cooking rum. Just in case.’

‘Where d’you get that?’

‘It’s mine. Got it to make cakes.’

Marc shrugged. That was Lucien for you.

Marc drove fast, gritting his teeth. In Paris at midnight you could generally get through very quickly. But it was Friday night and the traffic was heavy. Marc was sweating with anxiety, overtaking, jumping traffic lights. Only when he got out of Paris and onto the empty main road did he feel able to talk.

‘What the hell does Mathias think he’s playing at?’ he exclaimed. ‘He believes he can manage a woman who’s already liquidated tons of people. He doesn’t realise. He’s worse than a bison!’

As Lucien didn’t reply, Marc glanced across at him. The dope was fast asleep again.

‘Lucien!’ Marc shouted. ‘Come on, look lively!’

But there was nothing to be done. Once he had decided to go to sleep, you couldn’t wake him if he didn’t want you to. Same as with the Great War. Marc put his foot down even harder.

He braked to a halt in front of number 12 allée des Grands-Ifs at one o’clock in the morning. The big wooden gate to Sophia’s house was closed. Marc hauled Lucien out of the car and propped him up.

‘Atten-shun!’ he shouted at him.

‘OK, OK, don’t shout so loud,’ said Lucien. ‘I’m awake. I always wake up if I know I’m really needed.’

‘Hurry up,’ said Marc. ‘Give me a leg-up like the other time.’

‘Take your shoe off then.’

‘Good grief, Lucien! We may be too late already. Just help me up, never mind the shoes.’

Marc put his foot on Lucien’s linked hands and hauled himself to the top of the wall. He had to make an effort to get astride it.

‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘Bring that dustbin over, and stand on it and grab my hand.’

Lucien found himself alongside Marc, astride the wall. The sky was cloudy and it was pitch dark. Lucien jumped down, with Marc behind him. Once on the ground, Marc tried to find his bearings. He thought of the well. He had been thinking about the well for some time. The well, water. Mathias. The well, the place where so many medieval crimes were committed. Where was the fucking well? Over there, a pale patch. Marc ran towards it, with Lucien behind him. He couldn’t hear anything, no sound except his own footsteps and Lucien’s. He was beside himself with fear. Frantically, he pulled away the heavy planks across the coping. Shit, he hadn’t brought a torch. Anyway, it was ages since he had owned a torch. Two years? Yes, about two years. He leaned over the coping and called Mathias’ name.

No reply. Why was he so sure about the well? Why was he not going to the house or the wood behind it? No, he was absolutely certain it had to be the well. It’s easy, it’s clean, it’s medieval, and nobody ever finds out. He lifted up the heavy zinc bucket and lowered it gently down. When he heard it touch the surface of the water, far below, he wedged the chain and put one leg over the coping.

‘Make sure the chain stays in place,’ he told Lucien. ‘Don’t move away from the goddamn well. And, whatever you do, take care. Don’t make a sound, don’t alert her. Four, five, six corpses, she’s past counting. Give me the rum.’

Marc began the descent. He was scared. The well was narrow, dark, slimy and cold, like all wells. But the chain was strong. He thought he had gone down about six or seven metres when he felt the bucket, and icy water on his ankles. He let himself slide in up to his thighs and his skin almost burst with the cold. He felt the inert mass of a body against his legs and wanted to scream.

He called him, but Mathias didn’t reply. Now that Marc’s eyes were used to the darkness, he lowered himself further into the water, up to the waist. With one hand, he felt the body of the hunter-gatherer, who had allowed himself to be tipped into the well, like a complete cretin. His head and knees were still above water. Mathias had managed to press his long legs against the walls of the well. It was lucky the well was so narrow. He had succeeded in wedging himself in place, but how long had he been in this freezing water? How long had he been here, sliding, centimetre by centimetre, downwards, till he was swallowing that black water?