Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

thought for Commandant Trabelmann and prayed he would be indulgent.

X

FROM A DISTANCE, ACROSS THE FORECOURT OF STRASBOURG RAILWAY station, Commandant Trabelmann looked short, thickset and tough. Setting aside the military haircut, Adamsberg concentrated on the commandant’s round face and detected in it both determination and a sense of humour. There was perhaps some chink of hope there for opening the impossible dossier he was bringing. Trabelmann shook hands, giving a brief laugh, for no reason. He spoke loudly and distinctly.

‘Battle wound?’ he said, pointing to the arm in the sling.

‘A difficult arrest,’ Adamsberg confirmed.

‘How many does that make?’

‘Arrests?’

‘Scars.’

‘Four.’

‘I’ve got seven. There’s not a flic in the regular police who can beat me for stitches,’ concluded Trabelmann of the gendarmerie. ‘So, commissaire, you’ve brought along your childhod memory, is that it?’

Adamsberg pointed to his briefcase with a smile.

‘It’s all in here. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

‘Well. It costs nothing to listen,’ said the other, opening his car door. ‘I’ve always enjoyed fairy stories.’

‘Even ones about murder?’

‘Do you know any other kind?’ asked Trabelmann, as he started the engine. ‘Cannibalism in Little Red Riding Hood, attempted infanticide in Snow White, the ogre in Tom Thumb.’

He braked at a traffic light and laughed again.

‘Murders, nothing but murders everywhere,’ he went on. ‘As for Bluebeard, he was the original serial killer. What I used to like in the Bluebeard story was the fatal spot of blood on the key, that would never come off. It was no use trying to wash it or scrub it off, it kept coming back like a mark of guilt. I often think about that when a criminal gets away. I say to myself, all right, my boy, run all you like, but the bloodstain will come back and then I’ll catch up with you. Don’t you do that?’

‘The story I’ve got here is a bit like Bluebeard. There are three bloodstains in it that are wiped out and then keep coming back. But it’s like in the stories: only people who believe in them can see them.’

‘I’ve got to go round by Reichstett to pick up one of my men, so we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us. Why don’t you start telling me your story now? Once upon a time there was a man…’

‘Who lived alone in a huge manor with two dogs,’ Adamsberg went on.

‘A good start, commissaire, I like it!’ said Trabelmann with a fourth burst of laughter.

By the time they had reached the small car park in Reichstett, the commandant was looking more serious.

‘All right. Your story’s got some convincing elements, I won’t deny that. But if it was your man who killed our Mademoiselle Wind – and I’m saying if, please note – that would mean he’s been going round the country with this all-purpose trident for fifty years or more. Do you realise that? How old was your Bluebeard when he started on his killing spree – still in short pants?’

Different style from Danglard, thought Adamsberg, but the same objection; naturally.

‘Not quite.’

‘Come on, commissaire, out with it, what’s his date of birth?’

‘That I don’t know,’ Adamsberg prevaricated. ‘I don’t know anything about his family.’

‘Yeah, but come on, he can’t be a young man by now, can he? He’s got to be between seventy and eighty minimum, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do I have to tell you how strong you’ve got to be to overcome an adult, and then stab them with a weapon?’

‘The trident gives the blow extra power.’

‘Maybe so, but the killer then dragged the victim – and her bike – off into the fields, about ten metres off the road, and there was a ditch to cross and a bank to climb over. You know what it’s like pulling a deadweight along, don’t you? Elisabeth Wind weighed 62 kilos.’

‘Last time I saw this man, he wasn’t young, but he still seemed very strong physically. He really did, Trabelmann. He was over one metre eighty-five, and he gave an impression of vigour and energy.’

‘An “impression” you say, commissaire,’ said Trabelmann, opening the back door for the gendarme, and saluting him briefly in military style. ‘And when might that have been?’

‘Twenty years ago.’

‘Well, you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg, I’ll say that for you. Mind if I call you Adamsberg?’

‘Feel free.’

‘We’re going straight to Schiltigheim, bypassing Strasbourg. Pity about the cathedral, but I guess you won’t be bothered about that.’

‘Not today, no.’

‘I’m not bothered about it, full stop. All that old stuff’s not for me. I’ve seen it a million times, mind you, but it’s not my kind of thing.’

‘What is your kind of thing, Trabelmann?’

‘My wife, my kids, my work.’

Simple.

‘And fairy stories. I do like stories.’

Not quite so simple, Adamsberg corrected himself.

‘But stories are old stuff too, aren’t they?’ he said.

‘Yeah, even older than your madman. But keep going.’

‘Can we stop at the mortuary?’

‘You want to get out your tape measure, I suppose. No problem.’

Adamsberg had reached the end of his story by the time they reached the Medico-Legal Institute. When he forgot to stand up straight, as at this moment, he and the commandant were about the same size.

‘What?’ shouted Trabelmann, stopping dead in the middle of the hall. ‘Judge Fulgence? He’s your man? Commissaire, you must be out of your mind.’

‘You’ve got a problem with that?’ asked Adamsberg calmly.

‘For crying out loud, you know who he is, don’t you? Fulgence? This isn’t a fairy story. It’s as if you told me Prince Charming had started spitting fire instead of the dragon!’

‘He’s as handsome as Prince Charming, yes. But it doesn’t stop him spitting fire.’

‘You realise what you’re saying, Adamsberg? There’s been a book written about Fulgence’s cases. It isn’t every judge in France gets a book written about him, is it? Respected, famous, a pillar of the justice system.’

‘Not fond of women or children, though. Not like you, Trabelmann.’

‘I’m not going to compare myself with him. An eminent man like that. Everyone in the profession looked up to him when he was on the bench.’

‘Feared, rather, Trabelmann. He handed down heavy sentences.’

‘Well, justice has to be done.’

‘He had a long arm too. When he was in Nantes, he could strike the fear of God into the assizes at