Fred Vargas - An Uncertain Place

Adamsberg, stunned, looked at Danglard who seemed on the verge of tears. He felt in his pocket, found the cigarettes left behind by Zerk and lit one.

‘But,’ Danglard was going on, ‘the investigation opens and some disturbing facts begin to pile up, and the Émile-Adamsberg plot starts to unravel. First of all, why did this old Vaudel, who hates everyone, leave his money to Émile? Anomaly number one. Shortly afterwards, Vaudel dies. Anomaly number two. There is too much horse manure in the picture. Anomaly number three. On the Sunday, after Mordent had warned him, Adamsberg lets Émile escape. Anomaly number four. Then that very night, without telling anyone, Adamsberg knows exactly where to find Émile. Anomaly number five.’

‘You’re getting on my nerves with these anomalies.’

‘Adamsberg arrives just in time to save him, just after someone has taken a shot at him. Anomaly number six. Then a cartridge is found in the residence of Pierre Vaudel. Anomaly number seven. Very big anomaly. The cops start to think somebody is pulling a fast one somewhere, and they go through the flat with a toothcomb. What do they find? Some pencil shavings. Who benefits from this crime? Émile. Could Émile have forged the will? No. Has he got a friend who’s good with a pen, who could imitate handwriting? Yes, Adamsberg, who’s looking after him like a baby at the hospital, and who’s had him transferred to a secret location so the cops can’t question him, matter of national security. Anomaly number eight. Does Adamsberg make a habit of sharpening pencils? Yes. They compare the sample and it’s a one in a thousand chance, but it matches. When could Adamsberg have got to Avignon to hide the cartridge? Last night for instance. The commissaire disappeared last night, he only came into the office at half past twelve. Alibi? Yesterday he was with the doctor. This morning? He was with the doctor. He fainted, something which doesn’t ever happen. So the doctor’s in on it too. These three have concocted it between them, Adamsberg, Émile and Josselin. They only met three days ago so-called, but they seem to get on very well with each other. Anomaly number nine. Result: Émile gets life or at least thirty years for the murder of Vaudel senior and fraud relating to the will. Adamsberg gets the sack and falls off his pedestal, on account of forgery and complicity in homicide, and tampering with evidence. Twenty years. That’s it. Now Adamsberg has four days to try and save his skin.’

Adamsberg lit another cigarette off the first one. Good thing Josselin had put his boiler right that morning when he had been on the brink of a total emotional breakdown. Zerk and now Danglard, both of them living in fantasy land.

‘And who would believe that, Danglard?’ he said, carefully stubbing out the butt.

‘You’re smoking again?’

‘Only since you started talking.’

‘Better not. It’s a sign of changed behavioural patterns.’

‘Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, in a louder voice, ‘Who. Would. Believe. That?’

‘Nobody yet. But in four days, maybe three, Brézillon might and the Avignon police as well. Then the others. Because cartridge or not, Pierre Vaudel is not under arrest at the moment.’

‘And why would they believe all that?’

‘Because it was a set-up. It’s obvious, good grief.’

Danglard suddenly looked at Adamsberg with a disgusted expression.

‘You don’t think I b-believe this, do you? he said stuttering, which was rare for him.

‘How would I know, commandant ? You’re very convincing with your little scenario. I almost believe it myself.’

Danglard went out of the room again and returned with his wine glass full.

‘I am being very convincing,’ he said, detaching every word, ‘in order to convince you of what those who are being made to believe it will believe.’

‘Speak plain French, Danglard.’

‘I told you yesterday. Someone’s out to get you. Someone who will do anything to stop you finding the Garches murderer. Someone whose life will be ruined if you do. Someone with a long arm, someone way up in the hierarchy. Probably some relation of the real killer. You’ve got to be moved off the case, and someone else has to be the fall guy for the Zerquetscher . Simple, isn’t it? The first blunders in the investigation didn’t get you taken off the job. That’s why they moved on, and gave the supposed Zerquetscher ’s name to the press, so that he could escape. Then they planted the cartridge in Pierre’s kitchen with your pencil shavings. Now they’ve got you. Automatically. But to do all that, the man up in the hierarchy has to have an accomplice, someone who’s here on the spot. Who could have got hold of the pencil shavings? Someone in the squad. Who had access to the cartridges? Mordent and Maurel. Who has disappeared from circulation this morning, nervous breakdown, off sick, no visitors? Mordent. I warned you about this in the cafe, and you said I was having unworthy thoughts. I told you his daughter’s case was coming up in a couple of weeks. She’ll get off, you’ll see, and that’s all fine and dandy for her and for her father. But you’ll be under lock and key by then.’

Adamsberg blew out his smoke with more force than necessary.

‘Do you believe me?’ Danglard asked. ‘You see what’s going on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cricket,’ repeated Danglard, who took no interest in sport. ‘Catch the ball. Three or four days at the outside.’

‘SO IT MEANS WE HAVE TO FIND ZERK BY THEN,’ SAID Adamsberg.

‘Zerk?’

‘The Zerquetscher . Thalberg sent us his file.’

‘Yes, it’s here,’ said Danglard, lifting up his wine glass and pointing to a pink folder with a wet ring on it. ‘Sorry about the stain.’

‘If stains on files were all we had to worry about, Danglard, life would be a breeze. We could smoke fags and drink wine all day, and go fishing in your friend Stock’s loch. We could make as many wine stains as we liked on tables, we could go boating with your kids and my little Tom, and we could spend old Vaudel’s money with Émile and his dog.’

Adamsberg gave a broad smile, the kind that always reassured Danglard, however bad things seemed. Then he frowned.

‘But what on earth can they say about the Austrian murder? This person with the long arm – what can he say? Is Émile supposed to have committed that too? It won’t wash.’

‘They’ll just say that has nothing to do with it. They’ll say Émile carried out a copycat murder on the Austrian model, because he lacks imagination.’

Adamsberg reached out to take a mouthful from Danglard’s wine glass. Without Danglard and his relentless logic, he wouldn’t have seen this coming.

‘I’m going to London,’ Danglard announced. ‘The shoes will lead us to him.’

‘No, you’re not going anywhere, commandant . I’m going. And I need someone to take charge of the squad. Make your contacts with Stock by telephone or video link.’

‘No. Put Retancourt in charge.’

‘She’s too junior in rank, and I don’t have the right to promote her. We’ve got enough trouble on our hands as it is.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘You already said it: the shoes will lead us to him.’

Adamsberg showed him the postcard: a picturesque village against a background of mountains and blue skies. Then he turned it over. In Cyrillic script, in capital letters, the name KИCEЛEBO: Kisilova, the demon’s village. ‘Who was it that prowled at the edge of the wood? That’s what this word KИCEЛEBO means?’

‘Yes, Kiseljevo originally. But we already talked about that. Twenty years on, nobody will be able to remember the foot-chopper.’