Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

Adamsberg through red-rimmed eyes.

‘They don’t give me nothing in here.’

Adamsberg had come forearmed, with a small hip flask of brandy in his pocket. He looked meaningfully at Vetilleux, indicating the officer on guard at the cell door.

‘Ah,’ said Vetilleux, catching on.

‘Wait a minute,’ mouthed Adamsberg, silently.

Vetilleux got the message immediately and nodded.

‘Come on, I’m sure your memory’s not that bad,’ Adamsberg continued. ‘Tell me about this other man.’

‘Oldish,’ said Vetilleux, ‘but kind of youngish too. Can’t say exactly what I mean. He wasn’t decrepit. But old.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Looked just like any other wino on the streets, wanting a place to shelter. Old coat, scarf, couple of woolly hats, gloves, tucked up against the cold, you gotta, haven’t you, unless you want your balls to freeze off.’

‘Glasses? Beard?’

‘Nah, no glasses, could see his eyes under his cap. No beard neither, but he hadn’t shaved for a bit. He didn’t smell, mind.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I wouldn’t share a kip with a guy who smells, it’s just a thing with me. I go to the showers twice a week, I don’t like smelling bad. And I don’t piss in the kids’ playground either. Just because I like a drink don’t mean I’m going to be nasty to kids, does it? They’re nice, they talk to me. They say “ain’t you got no mummy or daddy?” They’re OK, kids are, till the grown-ups get at them. So I don’t piss in their playground. They respect me, I respect them.’

Adamsberg turned to the duty guard.

‘Officer,’ he said, ‘would you mind fetching me a couple of aspirin and some water. It’s for the pain,’ he added, lifting the bandaged arm.

The officer nodded and went out. Vetilleux shot out his hand to snatch the hip flask, and put it in his pocket. When, a minute or so later, the officer came back with a plastic cup of water and the aspirin, Adamsberg forced himself to swallow them.

‘Now then,’ said Vetilleux, pointing to Adamsberg’s cup. ‘That reminds me. The guy who shared with me, he did something funny. He had a cup just like that. And he had his bottle, and I had mine. He didn’t drink it straight from the bottle, see. So he was a bit la-di-da, bit of a toff.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yeah, course I am. And I said to myself, he’s seen better days, I’ll bet. There’s people like that, you know. Some woman chucks ’em out, they start drinking, then it’s downhill all the way. Or their business goes bust or something. No guts. Giving up just because you’ve lost your woman or your job. Me, I’d carry on. But then me, it’s different, s’not that I haven’t got guts. But no way I could go downhill, see, ’cause I was already bottom of the pile. It’s not the same, is it?’

‘No, I see,’ Adamsberg agreed.

‘Mind you, I’m not setting myself up to judge anyone, but there’s a difference. And when my Josie left me, maybe it did give me an extra push. But I was already drinking by then, and that’s why she left me, you wanna know. Can’t blame her, I’m not judging her. Or anyone really. Except for those rich buggers who never even throw me a coin. Yeah, I’ve gone and dumped sometimes on their doorsteps, people like that. But I wouldn’t do it in the kids’ playground.’

‘Are you sure this other man had seen better days?’

‘Oh yeah, easy to see. And not so long ago, I’d say. ’Cause once you’re down and out, you don’t go round with your own cup for long. Maybe you hang on to it for three, four months, then you just drink from any old bottle like everyone else. Except I won’t drink with guys who smell bad, that’s different, that’s just me, I don’t like smells, I’m not judging them.’

‘So you think he hadn’t been on the streets that long? Three or four months?’

‘How would I know? But I’d say not long. My guess is some woman’s chucked him out, he finds himself with nowhere to go, something like that.’

‘Did you talk to him much?’

‘Nah, not a lot. Just stuff like nice drop of wine, bloody cold outside, that sort of thing.’

Vetilleux had his hand resting on his thick sweater, over the shirt pocket where he had slipped the flask.

‘Did he stay long?’

‘Don’t ask me that, time don’t mean much to me.’

‘What I’m saying is, did he go away again? Or did he sleep there, same place as you?’

‘No idea. That’s when I must have passed out. Or gone walkies, I don’t know.’

‘And after that?’

Vetilleux opened his arms and dropped them again.

‘Found myself on the road, in the morning, gendarmes all over me.’

‘Did you dream? Remember seeing anything, smelling anything, any sensations at all?’

The man frowned, looking puzzled, his hand on his worn old sweater, and his long nails scratching at the wool. Adamsberg turned to the guard, who was stamping his feet to keep his circulation going.

‘Officer,’ he said, ‘could you fetch me my briefcase? I need to make some notes.’

With the rapidity of a reptile, Vetilleux abandoned his slouched pose, whipped out the flask, undid the top, and swallowed several mouthfuls. By the time the officer was back, the whole thing was back under the pullover. Adamsberg admired such skill and dexterity. Practice had perfected the reflexes. Vetilleux was not stupid.

‘There was one thing,’ he said, with a little more colour in his cheeks. ‘I dreamed I was in a nice comfortable place all warm, ready to doze off. But I was fed up because I couldn’t use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I wanted to throw up.’

‘Does that usually happen? Do you throw up often?’

‘Nah, never!’

‘Do you usually dream you’re in a warm place?’

‘Listen, mate, if I spent every night dreaming I was warm, I’d be in heaven.’

‘Do you own a carpenter’s awl?’

‘No, how would I, not unless that guy gave it me. The one who’d seen better days. Or maybe I pinched it? How do I know? All I know is I must’ve killed that poor girl with it. Maybe she fell off her bike in the road, and I thought she was a bear or something and went for her, how do I know?’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘They say my prints are on it, and I was right there, near her.’

‘But why would you have dragged the bear, and the bicycle, off the road?’

‘Someone like me, when I’ve drunk that much, who knows what’s going on in my head? All I know is I’m really sorry, because personally I wouldn’t hurt a soul. I don’t hurt animals, why would I hurt people, know what I mean? Even if I was a bear. Not even afraid of bears. Lot of bears in Canada. They go round the dustbins, like I do. Wouldn’t mind that, going round the dustbins with the bears.’

‘Vetilleux, if you want to know something about bears…’

Adamsberg bent close to Vetilleux and whispered in his ear.

‘Don’t say anything, don’t confess,’ he hissed. ‘Just keep mum, nothing but the truth, you can’t remember a thing. Promise me.’

‘Hey!’ said the guard. ‘Sorry, commissaire, but no whispering to the detainee.’

‘My apologies, officer. I was just telling him a risque joke about bears. Poor guy hasn’t much to distract him.’

‘Even so, commissaire, I can’t permit it.’

Adamsberg gave Vetilleux a silent look, and made a sign indicating ‘Understood?’

Vetilleux nodded.

‘Promise?’ Adamsberg mouthed.

Another wink, from those red-rimmed but watchful eyes. This cop had given him a hip flask, he was on his