Fred Vargas - Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

‘You couldn’t have mentioned it a bit earlier, could you?’ Danglard asked. ‘Before I’d typed out the whole report?’

‘It only came to me in the night,’ said Adamsberg, abruptly closing the newspaper. ‘I was thinking about Rembrandt.’

He folded the paper up hastily, thrown off balance by a sick feeling that had suddenly come over him, something like when a cat jumps on to your shoulders with its claws out. A feeling of shock and fright, sending sweat down the back of his neck, despite the cold air of the office. It would pass, surely, it was passing already.

‘In that case,’ said Danglard, picking up the report, ‘we’ll have to stay here to clear this up. There’s no choice really, is there?’

‘Mordent can take care of it while we’re away, he’s very reliable. And where are we now anyway with the Quebec expedition?’

‘The prefect of police is waiting for a reply from us by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,’ said Danglard, grimacing with anxiety.

‘Good. Call a meeting of the eight officers scheduled to do the course for ten-thirty in the Chapter Room. Danglard,’ Adamsberg went on after a pause, ‘you don’t have to come with us, you know.’

‘Oh no? The prefect has drawn up a list of people supposed to go, and I’m number one on the list.’

Just then, Danglard didn’t look like one of the outstanding members of the squad. Fear, as well as cold, had removed his usual dignified air. Ugly and ill-served by nature – his own verdict – Danglard normally chose to compensate for his shapeless features and stooping shoulders by dressing with faultless elegance, hoping to impart some kind of English charm to his bulky outline. But today, wearing a tense expression, a fur-lined jacket, and a sailor’s cap, he was making no attempt at style. Particularly since the cap, which must have belonged to one of his five children, had once had a pompom on top; Danglard had done his best to remove it, but you could still see its ridiculous red woolly stump.

‘You could always say you’d caught a chill because the heating broke down,’ Adamsberg suggested.

Danglard blew into his gloved hands.

‘I’m coming up for promotion in a couple of months,’ he muttered, ‘and I can’t afford to miss it. I’ve got five kids to feed.’

‘Show me the map of Quebec, then. Where is it we’re going?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ replied Danglard, unfolding a map. ‘Here,’ he said pointing to a spot several kilometres outside Ottawa. ‘To some godforsaken place called Hull-Gatineau, where the GRC has put one of its annexes of the National DNA Data Bank.’

‘The GRC?’

‘Told you that as well,’ repeated Danglard. ‘Gendarmerie royale du Canada , or if you prefer, RCMP: Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Mounties. They’re on horseback, with boots and red coats, like in the good old days when the Iroquois were still a force to reckon with on the banks of the St Lawrence.’

‘They still wear red coats?’

‘Just for the tourists these days. If you’re so impatient to get there, you ought to know what you’re getting into.’

Adamsberg gave a broad smile and Danglard dropped his eyes. He didn’t like Adamsberg smiling when he himself had decided to be in a bad mood. Because, as they said in the Chat Room (the broom cupboard that contained the coffee machine and snack dispenser), Adamsberg’s smile pulverised objections and would melt the ice of the Arctic. And Danglard felt himself melting too, just like a girl, which since he was over fifty, put him out of temper.

‘I do know that the Mounties or whatever you call them have a base on the Ottawa River,’ Adamsberg remarked. ‘And that you get wild geese there.’

Danglard swallowed a mouthful of white wine and smiled grimly.

‘Canada geese, I expect you mean,’ he pointed out. ‘And the Ottawa isn’t really a river. It may be much bigger than the Seine, but it’s just a tributary, a feeder for the St Lawrence.’

‘Well, all right, a feeder. You know too much about it to back out now, Danglard. You’re part of the expedition, and you’ll come with us. But just reassure me it wasn’t you that sabotaged the heating system the other night, or murdered the repairman to stop him getting here.’

Danglard looked up indignantly.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘To petrify our energy and freeze our intentions of going on a Canadian adventure.’

‘Me? Sabotage? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Just a little mini-sabotage. Better a broken-down boiler than a midair explosion. That’s the real reason you don’t want to come, isn’t it?’

Danglard suddenly banged his fist on the table and drops of wine splashed on to the reports. Adamsberg jumped. Danglard could mutter, grumble and sulk in silence, all very controlled ways of expressing his disapproval, if he had to, but he was above all a courteous and polite colleague, whose goodwill was both limitless and discreet. Except on one topic, and Adamsberg stiffened in anticipation.

‘My real reason?’ said Danglard bitterly, his fist still clenched on the table. ‘What the fuck do you care about my real reason? I’m not in charge of this squad, it’s not me that’s taking us all over there to fool about in the snow like idiots, for Christ’s sake.’

Adamsberg nodded. It was the first time in all their years that Danglard had said ‘fuck’ to his face. OK. He wasn’t upset, thanks to his own abnormally mild and unconcerned nature, which some people called indifference and lack of interest, and which could get on the nerves of anyone who tried to penetrate the cloud.

‘Let me remind you, Danglard, that this is an exceptional chance to collaborate with one of the best systems in the world. The Canadians are light years ahead of us on this one. We’d look like idiots if we turned it down now.’

‘Don’t make me laugh. Don’t tell me it’s your professional work ethic that’s making you take us out to the icefields.’

‘Of course it is.’

Danglard downed the rest of the wine in a gulp and glared at Adamsberg with an aggressive tilt of his chin.

‘What other reason would there be?’ Adamsberg asked, softly.

‘Your reason. Your real reason. Let’s hear about that, instead of accusing me of sabotage. What about your sabotage?’

Aha, thought Adamsberg. We’re getting there at last.

Danglard stood up abruptly, opened a drawer, took out the wine bottle and poured another large helping into his plastic cup. Then he began to pace round the room. Adamsberg folded his arms and waited for the storm to break. It would be no use arguing with this combination of anger and wine. The anger was about to explode, one year on.

‘Come on, Danglard, out with it.’

‘OK, you asked for it. Camille. Camille is in Montreal, and you know it. And that’s the only reason you want us to fly the fucking Atlantic.’

‘That’s what all this is about?’

‘Precisely.’

‘It’s none of your business, capitaine.’

‘Oh no?’ shouted Danglard. ‘A year ago, Camille disappeared. She flew out of your life, thanks to one of those diabolical acts of sabotage that you’re so good at. And who wanted to find her? Who was it? You or me?’

‘Me.’

‘And who tracked her down? Found her? Gave you her address in Lisbon? You or me?’

Adamsberg got up and closed the office door. Danglard had always venerated Camille, whom he protected and cherished as if she were a work of art. There was no way he would stop doing that. And his protective adoration was on a collision course with Adamsberg’s dishevelled way of life.

‘You,’ he replied, calmly.

‘Exactly. So it is my business.’