Fred Vargas - Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

Adamsberg was finishing a double espresso, much less impressive than the kind from the office dairy cow, when his deputy called him back.

‘Commandant Thierry Trabelmann is the name. Have you got a pen?’

Adamsberg wrote the telephone number on the paper tablecloth. He waited until after two o’clock had struck on the old clock in Le Buisson before calling the Schiltigheim gendarmerie. Commandant Trabelmann sounded somewhat distant. He had heard of Commissaire Adamsberg, some good, some not so good, and was hesitating over how to handle him.

‘I have no intention of trying to take this case over, Commandant Trabelmann,’ Adamsberg assured him at once.

‘That’s what they always say, and we all know what happens. The gendarmes do all the dirty work and as soon as it gets interesting, the flics come in and take over.’

‘All I want is to check something.’

‘I don’t know what bee you’ve got in your bonnet, commissaire , but we’ve got our man, and he’s firmly under lock and key.’

‘Bernard Vétilleux?’

‘Yes, and it’s rock solid. We found the murder weapon a few metres away from the victim, just chucked into the grass. It corresponded exactly to the wounds, and it had Vétilleux’s fingerprints on the handle, clear as daylight.’

Clear as daylight. As simple as that. Adamsberg asked himself quickly whether he was going to follow this up or beat a retreat.

‘But Vétilleux denies it?’

‘He was pissed out of his mind when my men brought him in. Could hardly stand up straight. He can deny it all he likes, it won’t make a blind bit of difference. He can’t remember a thing about the night, except that he’d drunk himself silly.’

‘Does he have a record? Any violence in the past?’

‘No. But everything has to start somewhere.’

‘The newspaper said there were three stab wounds. With a knife?’

‘A carpenter’s awl.’

Adamsberg was silent for a moment.

‘Bit unusual?’

‘Well, not all that. These homeless characters carry all kinds of tools around with them, an awl can be handy for opening tins or forcing locks. Don’t get worked up, commissaire , we’ve got our man, I’ll guarantee you that.’

‘One last thing, commandant,’ said Adamsberg rather quickly, sensing Trabelmann’s impatience. ‘Was the tool brand new?’

There was a silence from the other end.

‘How did you know?’ asked Trabelmann suspiciously.

‘It was new, then?’

‘Affirmative. But what difference does that make?’

‘Trabelmann, can you do me a big favour? Send me the photographs of the body, close-ups of the stab wounds.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because I’m asking you nicely.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘I’m not trying to take over from you,’ said Adambserg. ‘You have my word.’

‘So what’s eating you?’

‘A childhood memory.’

‘Oh, in that case,’ said Trabelmann, suddenly respectful, and dropping his guard, as if childhood memories were a sacred reason and an unquestionable open sesame.

THE ELUSIVE HEATING REPAIRMAN HAD ARRIVED, AND SO TOO HAD FOUR photographs from Trabelmann. One of them showed the wounds of the victim very clearly, taken from directly above. Adamsberg had worked out how to use his computer, but he couldn’t enlarge the images without Danglard’s help.

‘What’s all this?’ muttered Danglard, sitting down at Adamsberg’s screen.

‘Neptune,’ said Adamsberg with a half-smile. ‘Leaving his mark on the blue of the sea.’

‘But what is it?’ asked Danglard again.

‘You always ask me questions, but you don’t like my answers.’

‘I prefer to know what I’m dealing with.’

‘These are the three wounds of Schiltigheim, the three marks left by the trident.’

‘Neptune again? Is this some kind of obsession?’

‘No, it’s a case of murder. A girl has been killed with three stab wounds from a carpenter’s awl.’

‘Trabelmann sent these to us? Has he been taken off the case?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘So…?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I won’t know anything until I can get this picture enlarged.’

Danglard frowned as he set about working on the images. He did not at all like that ‘Well, I don’t know’, one of Adamsberg’s most used expressions, which had many times led him off on to meandering paths, sometimes into complete quagmires. For Danglard, it presaged the quicksands of thought, and he had often feared that one day Adamsberg would be swallowed up into them without trace.

‘The papers say that they’ve got the killer,’ Danglard pointed out.

‘Yes. With the murder weapon and his prints all over it.’

‘So what’s bothering you?’

‘Call it a childhood memory.’

This reply did not have the same calming effect on Danglard as it had had on Trabelmann. On the contrary, the capitaine felt his apprehension growing. He made the maximum enlargement of the image and sent it to print. Adamsberg was watching as the page emerged in stops and starts from the machine. He picked it up by a corner, waved it quickly in the air to dry, then switched on the desk lamp to examine it closely. Danglard watched, puzzled, as he reached for a long ruler, took measurements one way then the other, drew a line, marked the centre of each wound with a dot then drew another parallel line and took more measurements. Finally, Adamsberg put down the ruler and paced round the room, still holding the photograph. When he turned round, Danglard saw on his face an expression of pain and astonishment. And while Danglard had seen this expression many times in his life, it was the first time he had encountered it on the normally phlegmatic face of his superior officer.

The commissaire took a new file out of the cupboard, put his newspaper cutting and photograph in it, and wrote on the outside ‘Trident no. 9’, followed by a question mark. He would have to go to Strasbourg to see the body. This would hinder the urgent steps to be taken for the Quebec trip. He decided to entrust these to Retancourt, since she was well ahead of everyone else on the project.

‘Come back to my place, Danglard. If you don’t see what I’m going to show you, you won’t understand.’

Danglard went back to his office to pick up his bulky leather briefcase, which made him look like a British schoolteacher or perhaps a priest in civvies, and followed Adamsberg across the Council Chamber. Adamsberg stopped beside Retancourt.

‘Can I see you at the end of the day?’ he said. ‘I’d like you to relieve me for something.’

‘No problem,’ said Retancourt, scarcely lifting her eyes from the filing cabinet. ‘I’m on duty till midnight.’

‘Fine, see you later then.’

Adamsberg was already out of the door when he heard the silly laugh of Brigadier Favre and his nasal voice saying:

‘He needs her to relieve him, does he? Big night tonight, Retancourt, the deflowering of the violet! The boss is from the Pyrenees, so he likes mountains. The bigger the better.’

‘One minute, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg holding back his deputy.

He returned to the Council Chamber with Danglard behind him, and went straight over to Favre’s desk. There was a sudden silence. Adamsberg caught hold of the metal table and gave it a violent shove. Papers, reports, photographic slides went flying with a crash as it toppled over. Favre, still holding a beaker of coffee, sat stock still, without reacting. Adamsberg took the back of the chair and tipped it backwards, so that the coffee spilled over the brigadier ’s shirt.