Fred Vargas - An Uncertain Place

On the warm breeze, a faint animal sound like a whimper from beyond the gate reached him from time to time, perhaps fifty metres further on. Some woodland creature? A rat or a stoat? Something no bigger than that. He leaned against the tree, and flexed his legs, trying not to fall asleep. He imagined how Émile would get here, walking, hitching lifts with truck drivers who weren’t fussy if he offered to buy them a drink. What was Émile wearing? That morning he had worn a greasy jacket with ragged sleeves on top of his blue overalls. He pictured Émile’s hands before some words came back to him. Two hands making the shape of the dog. ‘No bigger than that.’ Adamsberg dropped to one knee and listened more carefully to the distant whining. No bigger than that. The dog?

Cautiously, he made his way towards the sound. From about three metres away he saw a small white shape, the dog, running in panicky movements round a body on the ground.

‘Émile! Shit!’

Adamsberg raised him by the shoulder and felt the side of his neck with his fingers. There was a pulse. Through the torn clothes, the dog was anxiously licking the man’s stomach, then moving to his thigh, and making its tiny whimpering sound. It stopped to look up at Adamsberg, and made a different kind of yelp that seemed to say: glad to have some help, friend. Then it returned to its task, tearing away the cloth of the trousers, licking the thigh, trying to make it as wet as possible. Adamsberg switched on his torch and shone it on Émile’s face, now smeared with mud and glistening with sweat. Émile the Basher, felled, beaten, money doesn’t buy you happiness.

‘Don’t try to talk,’ Adamsberg told him. Holding Émile’s head in his left hand, he gently explored the back of the skull with his fingers. No wound there.

‘Blink for yes. Can you feel your foot? – I’m pressing it.’

Yes .

‘And the other one?’

Yes .

‘See my hand? Know who I am?’

‘ C-commissaire .’

‘Yep. You’re hurt, stomach and leg. What happened? Did you get into a fight?’

‘Not a fight, gun. Four shots. Two got me. See the water tower?’

Émile raised his left hand slightly. Turning off the torch, Adamsberg peered into the darkness. The water tower was about a hundred metres away, near the wood through which Émile must have dragged himself to get to the gate, which he had almost reached. Whoever did the shooting might still be there.

‘No time to call an ambulance, we’re getting out of here.’

He felt all over Émile’s back.

‘You’re in luck. The bullet exited your side, didn’t touch the spine. I’m going to get my car. Two minutes. Tell your dog to shut up.’

‘Shush, Cupid.’

Adamsberg stopped the car, without headlights, as near Émile as he could manage and lowered the front passenger seat. An official beige raincoat had been left in the back of the car, probably Froissy’s since she always took care to dress the part. With his knife, he cut off the sleeves to make two long strips, and found himself bumping against the pockets, which were bulging with objects. He shook the coat and out fell a couple of tins of pâté, some dried fruit, biscuits, half a bottle of water, a few sweets, a 25ml carton of wine and three miniature bottles of brandy, like you get on trains. He had a moment’s sympathy for Froissy, then offered up thanks. Her eating disorder was helpful.

The dog was now quiet and stood aside letting Adamsberg take over. He shone the torch on the stomach wound which was now clean, the dog’s tongue having licked it all over, pulled away the shirt and removed the mud.

‘Your dog’s been busy.’

‘Dog’s saliva. Antiseptic.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Adamsberg, binding the wounds with the fabric strips as best he could.

‘Don’t know a lot, do you?’

‘What about you, eh? Bet you don’t know how many arms Shiva has. And I knew how to find you here. I’m going to carry you now, try not to yell.’

‘Thirsty.’

‘Later.’

Adamsberg installed Émile in the car, carefully arranging his legs.

‘Guess what,’ he said. ‘We’ll let the dog come too.’

‘Ah,’ said Émile.

Adamsberg drove the first few kilometres along the lanes without lights, then stopped, keeping the engine running. He opened the bottle of water, but halted his hand in mid-air.

‘No, I daren’t let you drink,’ he said, ‘in case your stomach’s been touched.’

He set off again and reached a minor road.

‘Another twenty kilometres to Châteaudun and the hospital. Think you can make it?’

‘Keep me talking, gonna pass out.’

‘Keep looking ahead. Guy who shot you, did you see anything?’

‘No, behind the water tower. Must have been waiting for me. Four shots. Like I said. Just the two got me. Not a pro. I go down and I hear him coming. So I pretend to be dead. He goes for me pulse, see if that’s it. He’s panicking, right. Could have put in a couple more though. Make sure.’

‘Take it easy, Émile.’

‘This car come up the crossroads. He runs off, fast as he can. I wait a bit. Then I try to crawl up to the farm. If I’ve had it, monsieur, don’t want Cupid to wait for ever. Waiting. No way to live. Don’t know your name.’

‘Adamsberg.’

‘Right, Adamsberg. No way to live, eh? Ever do that? Wait a long time?’

‘Wait? Yeah, I think so.’

‘A woman?’

‘You could say so.’

‘No way to live, eh?’

‘Right,’ said Adamsberg.

Émile gave a spasm of pain and gripped the door.

‘Only eleven kilometres to go.’

‘You talk. I’m all in.’

‘Stay with me, Émile, I’ll ask you questions, you just say yes or no. Like in the game.’

‘No, not like the game,’ Émile whispered. ‘In the game, you don’t say yes or no.’

‘No, OK, you’re right. So. This guy was waiting for you, right? You tell anyone you were going to the farm?’

‘No.’

‘Only old Vaudel and me, we were the only people knew where you kept the dog?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But Vaudel might have told someone? Like his son?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It wouldn’t do him any good to kill you, because your share wouldn’t go to him anyway if you died. It’s in the will.’

‘Angry.’

‘With you? Yes, probably. Have you made a will?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve got no one who would inherit from you? No kids – you’re sure about that?’

‘ Yeah .’

‘The old man didn’t give you anything? Papers, letters, files, confessions, anything he was guilty about?’

‘No. Hey, someone could’ve followed you ,’ Émile gasped.

‘Only one person knows,’ said Adamsberg, shaking his head. ‘An old Spanish man, with one arm and no car. Anyway, they shot you before I got here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Only three kilometres. You could have been followed too, from the hospital in Garches. Three police cars – that told people you were there. You stayed inside the hospital?’

‘Two hours.’

‘Where.’

‘A & E. Waiting room. Lotta people.’

‘Nice one. Nobody following you when you came out?’

‘No. Maybe. Motorbike.’

Adamsberg parked by the emergency room, pushed open the plastic curtain, alerted an exhausted intern, and flashed his badge to hurry things up. A quarter of an hour later, Émile was on a trolley, with a tube in his arm.

‘Can’t keep the dog, sir,’ said a nurse, giving him a plastic bag holding Émile’s clothes.

‘No, I know,’ said Adamsberg, disentangling Cupid from Émile’s legs. ‘Émile, listen to me. No visitors, no one at all. I’ll tell them in reception. Where’s the surgeon?’