Fred Vargas - An Uncertain Place

‘Just a minor thing,’ said Adamsberg, with a slight gasp of surprise. ‘A spider bite that itched.’

‘He’ll be itching for ever,’ said the doctor fatalistically. ‘Because it’s in there,’ he said, tapping his forehead, ‘etched into the neurones. They still don’t understand that the arm’s gone. It lasts for years, and knowing why makes no difference.’

‘So what’s the point of knowing why?’

‘It reassures people, which is something.’

Lucio was on his way back with three glasses arranged between his fingers and a bottle clutched under his stump. He put it all down on the shed floor, and took a long look at the kitten, now firmly clamped on to its mother’s teat.

‘She’s not going to burst now, is she, from feeding too much?’

‘No,’ said the doctor.

Lucio nodded, filled the glasses and invited them to toast the kitten’s health.

‘The doctor knew about your arm and the itch,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Naturally,’ said Lucio. ‘Spider bite, that’ll go on itching till kingdom come.’

‘THAT GUY,’ SAID LUCIO, ‘MAY BE AN ACE, BUT I WOULDN’T want him touching my head. He’d have me back sucking like a baby.’

Exactly what he was doing at that moment, Adamsberg reflected, as Lucio sucked the edge of his glass with a sound like a newborn child. Lucio much preferred to drink straight from the bottle. He had only brought out glasses for the occasion because they had company. The doctor had gone an hour since, and they were sitting in the shed, finishing off the bottle and watching the litter of kittens, now fast asleep. Lucio took the view that you finished a bottle once you had opened it, because the wine would go off. Either you finish or you don’t start.

‘No, I wouldn’t like to have him come near me again either,’ agreed Adamsberg. ‘He just put his finger here’ (he showed the place on the back of his neck) ‘and it seemed something funny happened. “Interesting case” he called it.’

‘In doctor language, that means something’s wrong.’

‘Yes.’

‘If you agree with the funny stuff, you don’t need to worry.’

‘Lucio, can you imagine for a minute you’re Émile?’

‘OK,’ said Lucio who had never heard of Émile till this moment.

‘You’re someone who likes a fight. You’re compulsive, fifty-three years old, not unreasonable, but you fly off the handle now and then, you’ve been rescued from a life of crime by an old eccentric who hires you as a handyman, which includes playing giant games of noughts and crosses, over a glass of Guignolet.’

‘Stop there,’ said Lucio. ‘Can’t stand Guignolet.’

‘But you have to imagine you’re Émile, and that’s what the old man gives you.’

‘If you say so,’ said Lucio reluctantly.

‘OK. Forget the Guignolet, imagine something else. It doesn’t really matter.’

‘Right.’

‘Now imagine your old mother’s in a home, and your dog’s been boarded out at a farm, because you’ve been in and out of jail, total of eleven years, all in all. And imagine that every Saturday you get in your van, and first you take your mother out for a meal, then you go and see your dog, taking it some meat for a treat.’

‘Wait a minute, I can’t see the van.’

Lucio poured out the last of the wine.

‘Blue, curved corners, battered paintwork, back window dirty and a rusty ladder on the roof rack.’

‘Got it.’

‘Now, suppose you always wait for the dog outside this farm, he jumps the gate and comes to eat with you, and you spend some of the night with him in the back of the van, then you have to leave at four in the morning.’

‘Wait a minute. Can’t see the dog.’

‘What about the mother, you can see her?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘The dog’s long-haired, off-white with a few patches, floppy ears, and it’s quite small, about the size of a football, a mongrel with big eyes.’

‘Got it.’

‘Now imagine the old boy’s been murdered, and he’s left lots of money to you , cutting out his son. So you’re suddenly rich. Imagine the cops suspect you could have killed him, and they want to pull you in.’

‘No need to imagine that, it’s what they’d do, for sure.’

‘OK. Now suppose you kick one of these cops in the balls, you hit another one, breaking a rib, and you make off like a shot.’

‘All right.’

‘What do you do about your mother?’

Lucio sucked his glass.

‘I’m not going to see her, the cops are sure to be watching her home. So I’ll send her a letter in the post to tell her not to worry.’

‘And what do you do about the dog?’

‘Do the cops know where the dog’s shacked up?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then I can go and see him, tell him that I’ve got to lie low, he might not see me for a bit but, not to worry, I’ll be back.’

‘When?’

‘When will I be back?’

‘No, when will you go and see the dog?’

‘Right away, of course. They might catch me, so I’ve got to tell the dog first. But my mother – I suppose my mother’s still got her marbles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Well, if I was in prison, the cops would tell her anyway. But they won’t tell the dog. No way. None of them would think to do that… So yeah, telling the dog, I’ve got to do that, and the sooner the better.’

Adamsberg stroked Charm’s silky belly, emptied his glass into Lucio’s, and got up, brushing the seat of his trousers.

‘Now then, hombre ,’ said Lucio, ‘if you’re going to try and see this guy before he sees the dog and before the dog sees the cops, you’d better put your skates on.’

‘I didn’t say that’s what I’d do.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

Adamsberg drove slowly, aware that fatigue and the wine had made inroads on his energy. He had switched off his mobile and the car’s GPS in case there was a police officer somewhere with the same thought processes as Lucio – which was not likely, even in Mordent’s stories and legends. He had no clear plan what to do about the violent Émile. Except what Lucio had suggested: to get to Châteaudun before the cops thought of the dog. Why? Because of the different kinds of horse manure? No. He hadn’t known about them when he had let Émile go – if that was what he really had done. So? Was it because Mordent had come galumphing in like a buffalo across his path? No. Mordent was going off his rocker, that was all. Because Émile was a decent guy? No. Émile wasn’t a decent guy. Because Émile might starve to death in the sticks somewhere, because a depressed cop had acted stupidly? Maybe. But fetching him back to prison, was that any improvement on dying in the sticks?

Adamsberg was not good at the complications of ‘maybe’, whereas Danglard loved them, and would go out on a limb in his delight, drawn by the dark abyss of anticipation. Adamsberg was simply heading for the farm, that was all, praying none of the others had overheard his conversation that morning with Émile the Basher, Émile the Lucky Heir Apparent, now owner of houses in Garches and Vaucresson. While Danglard was at that very moment arguing with himself in the Channel Tunnel, getting drunk on champagne, and all because he had this idea that, maybe , some lunatic had cut off his uncle’s feet, or perhaps the feet of his uncle’s cousin, in some faraway mountain village. Meanwhile, Mordent was staring up at the walls of Fresnes prison, and what in the name of all that was holy could they do for Mordent?

Adamsberg parked on the verge, in the shelter of a wood, and went the last five hundred metres on foot, gingerly, trying to get his bearings. The dog was supposed to jump some gate, but which one? He walked for about half an hour around the outskirts of the farm – three-quarters dairy, one-quarter beef – and his legs were getting tired by the time he located the most likely gate. In the distance, other dogs were barking loudly at his approach, and he flattened himself against a tree, standing as still as he could, while checking his bag and his gun. There was a smell of dung in the air, which he found reassuring, as everyone does. Now he must not drop off to sleep, but wait, and hope that Lucio was right.