Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

‘Exactly. And that isn’t so complicated either. That’s why in virtually every case, the weapon found on the spot was an ordinary everyday one, and above all brand new. A brand new implement, belonging to a tramp, is that likely?’

Danglard rubbed his chin reflectively.

‘He didn’t do it that way for your brother’s girlfriend, did he? According to you, he stabbed her with the fork, then pushed the screwdriver into the wounds.’

‘Same thing for case number 4, where the scapegoat was another teenager, also in a small village. Probably the judge thought that finding a brand new weapon in the possession of a youngster might seem suspicious, and the trick would be discovered. So he chose an old screwdriver, longer than the prongs on the trident, and mutilated the wounds with that.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Danglard said.

‘It makes sense, because it fits together like a jigsaw. Same man, same implement. Because I checked, Danglard. When the judge moved out, I went and searched the Manor. Most of the garden tools were still in the barn, but not the fork. He’d taken his precious instrument with him.’

‘But if all this is so obvious, why on earth wasn’t he found out before this? You said you were after him for fourteen years?’

‘For four reasons, Danglard. First of all, forgive me, but everyone reasoned exactly the same way you’re doing, and stopped right there. The weapons were different and so were the wounds, so there was no connection between these murders. Secondly, the geographical regions of each inquiry were quite far from each other, and as you know, communication between different police forces isn’t all it might be. And next, because every time, there was an ideal suspect ready on hand, with the evidence sitting right beside him. Finally, don’t forget that the judge was powerful and virtually untouchable.’

‘OK, but when you put this dossier together, why weren’t you listened to?’

Adamsberg gave a wry smile.

‘Because I had zero credibility. Every magistrate on these cases knew I had a personal axe to grind, and they thought my accusations were obsessive and subjective. They all thought that I would have dreamed up any scenario to clear Raphael’s name. And you think that too, don’t you, Danglard? And what was more, my whole hypothesis implicated this powerful man. I was never allowed to get anywhere. “Adamsberg, just get it into your head that it was your brother that killed that girl. His disappearance proves it, if nothing else.” Then I would be threatened with a libel suit.’

‘Right, so you were blocked,’ Danglard summed up.

‘What about you, capitaine, are you convinced? Do you understand that the judge had already killed five other victims before he attacked Lise, and two more afterwards. Eight murders, stretching over some thirty-four years. He’s no ordinary serial killer, he has a cold-blooded, meticulous plan, stretching over an entire lifetime, measured, programmed, scheduled. I found out about the first five crimes by searching the police records, and I may have missed something. As for the next two after Lise, by then I was following the judge’s movements and watching the press. Fulgence knew I would never give up, so I forced him to keep moving. But he kept slipping through my fingers. And you must see, Danglard, that it’s not over. Fulgence has risen from the grave to kill a ninth victim in Schiltigheim. It’s his signature, I know it. Three blows in a straight line. I’ll have to go there myself to check the measurements, but you’ll see, Danglard, the line won’t be longer than 16.9 centimetres. The weapon was brand new. The suspect is some poor old wino, a vagrant, and he can’t remember a thing. It’s all there.’

‘All the same,’ said Danglard, pulling a face, ‘if you include Schiltigheim in the sequence, that gives us a series of murders spread over what? Fifty-four years? I’d say that was unprecedented in the annals of crime.’

‘The Trident is an unprecedented character. A monster, exceptional in all respects. I don’t know how I can persuade you of that. You never met him.’

‘All the same,’ said Danglard again, ‘you’re suggesting he stopped in 1983 and then started again twenty years later. That just doesn’t make sense.’

‘Who says he hasn’t killed in the interval?’

‘You do. You said you had watched the press like a hawk. And then nothing happens for twenty years.’

‘That’s quite simply because I stopped looking in 1987. I told you I tracked him for fourteen years, but not for thirty.’

Danglard looked up in surprise.

‘But why? Did you get fed up? Did someone lean on you?’

Adamsberg stood up and walked about for a moment or two, his head hanging down towards his injured arm. Then he came back to the table, supported himself with his right hand and leaned forward towards his deputy.

‘Because in 1987, he died.’

‘What did you say?’

‘He died. Judge Fulgence passed away, about sixteen years ago, of natural causes, in Richelieu, the last place he was living, on 19 November 1987. The death certificate indicated a heart attack.’

‘Good God, are you sure?’

‘Of course. I heard about it straight away and I went to his funeral. The press was full of obituaries. I saw his coffin lowered into the grave and saw the monster buried under the earth. And on that terrible day, I despaired of ever being able to clear my brother’s name. The judge had got away from me for good.’

There was a long silence, which Danglard did not know how to break. Out of countenance, he automatically smoothed the files on the table with his hand.

‘Go ahead, Danglard, say something. Say what you’re thinking.’

‘Schiltigheim,’ murmured Danglard.

‘Precisely. Schiltigheim. The judge has come back from hell, and I’ve got a chance to catch him again. Do you understand? One more chance. And this time he isn’t going to get away with it.’

‘If I’m reading you right,’ Danglard said hesitantly, ‘he’s got a disciple, a son perhaps, or an imitator.’

‘No, that’s not it at all. He wasn’t married, he has no children. The judge is a solitary predator. Schiltigheim is his work, not some copycat crime.’

Anxiety stopped the capitaine speaking for a moment. He wavered, then opted for sympathy.

‘This recent murder has unsettled you. It’s a terrible coincidence.’

‘No, Danglard, no, it’s not.’

‘Commissaire,’ Danglard began carefully, ‘the judge has been dead for sixteen years. He’s nothing but dust and bones.’

‘So what? Do you think I give a damn? It’s the Schiltigheim girl that matters to me now.’

‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Danglard, running out of patience, ‘what do you believe in? The resurrection of the body?’

‘I believe in actions. It’s him all right and one more chance for me to catch him. And I’ve had signs too.’

‘What do you mean “signs”?’

‘Signs, warnings. The barmaid, the poster, the drawing pins.’

Danglard stood up as well now, this time really alarmed.

‘Great God in heaven, “signs”? Are you turning into a mystic? What are you chasing after, commissaire? A ghost? A zombie? And where does the creature live? In your mind?’

‘I’m going after the Trident. Who was living not far from Schiltigheim quite recently.’

‘But he’s dead! Dead!’

Under his capitaine’s thunderstruck gaze, Adamsberg started to put the files back in his briefcase, carefully, one by one.

‘The devil snaps his fingers at death, Danglard.’

Then he picked up his coat and, waving his good arm, said goodbye.

Danglard sat down again, in desperation, and raised the can of beer to his lips. Adamsberg was a lost soul, caught up in a spiral of folly. Babbling about drawing pins, a barmaid, a poster and a zombie. It had gone much further than he had realised. Mad, doomed, carried off by some evil wind.

After a few hours sleep, Danglard arrived late at the office. A note had been left on his desk. Adamsberg had taken the train to Strasbourg that morning and would be back the following day. Danglard spared a sympathetic