Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

matter?’ asked Danglard in alarm.

‘Seat-belt sign.’

‘Why are they putting on the seat-belt sign?’

‘Oh, just a bit of turbulence that’s all, it’s going to be a bit bumpy.’

Adamsberg prayed to the First Man on his mountain to see to it that the turbulence was minor. But the First Man obviously didn’t give a damn about him. Unfortunately the turbulence was particularly rough, making the plane plummet into air pockets several metres deep. Even the most blase passengers stopped reading their books, the cabin crew were obliged to take their seats, and a young woman screamed. Danglard had closed his eyes and was hyperventilating. Helene Froissy looked at him anxiously. On a sudden inspiration, Adamsberg turned to Retancourt who was sitting behind the capitaine.

‘Retancourt,’ he whispered, between the seats, ‘Danglard’s in a bad way. Can you do some kind of massage to send him off to sleep? Or can you think of any other way of knocking him out, or sedating him, or something?’

Retancourt nodded, which didn’t altogether surprise Adamsberg.

‘Yes, I can,’ she said, ‘as long as he doesn’t know it’s me.’

Adamsberg nodded.

‘Danglard,’ he said, taking his hand, ‘keep your eyes shut, one of the cabin staff is going to look after you.’

He signalled to Retancourt that she could start.

‘Undo his top three shirt buttons,’ she whispered, loosening her seat-belt.

Then, with her fingertips moving in a rapid pianistic dance, Retancourt set to work on Danglard’s neck, following the spinal column and moving to the temples. Observing the manoeuvre as the plane continued to lurch, Froissy and Adamsberg looked by turns at Retancourt’s hands and at Danglard’s face. The capitaine’s breathing seemed to slow down, then his features relaxed, and less than fifteen minutes later, he was asleep.

‘Did he take any sedatives?’ Retancourt asked, slowly removing her fingers from the capitaine’s neck.

‘A cartload,’ Adamsberg replied.

Retancourt looked at her watch.

‘He probably didn’t sleep a wink last night. He should sleep for at least four hours now, we can relax. By the time he wakes up we’ll be over Newfoundland. Being over land is more reassuring.’

Adamsberg and Froissy exchanged glances.

‘She is so amazing,’ whispered Froissy. ‘If she had boyfriend trouble, she’d just crush it like an insect underfoot.’

‘Love affairs are never insects, Froissy. They’re always walls, ten metres high. It’s no dishonour to find them hard to climb.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Froissy whispered.

‘You know, lieutenant, Retancourt doesn’t like me.’

Froissy did not dissent.

‘Has she ever said why?’ he asked.

‘No, she never says anything about you at all.’

A steeple of 142 metres can wobble, just because the incredible hulk Retancourt never finds it necessary to mention you, thought Adamsberg. He glanced at Danglard. Sleep was bringing the colour back to his cheeks and the turbulence was subsiding.

* * *

The plane was on its final approach when the capitaine woke up, looking surprised.

‘It was the flight attendant,’ Adamsberg explained. ‘She’s a specialist. Luckily, she’s going to be on the return flight too. We land in twenty minutes.’

Apart from two brief scares when the undercarriage came down and when the air brakes went on, Danglard, still under the effect of his soothing massage, managed to get through the ordeal of landing reasonably well. When they arrived, he was fresh and rested, whereas everyone else was looking rather dazed. Two and a half hours later, they had all been allocated rooms. Because of the time difference, the course was not scheduled to begin until two o’clock the following afternoon.

Adamsberg had been given a two-room apartment on the fifth floor, as clean and new as a show flat, with a balcony. A Gothic privilege. He leaned on it for a long moment to look down at the immense Ottawa River which flowed down below between its wild banks, and on the far side the lights of the skyscrapers of Ottawa city.

XVII

THREE CARS BELONGING TO THE RCMP PARKED IN FRONT OF THE building next day. They were easily recognised by their gleaming white doors marked with the head of a bison, looking half placid and half determined, surrounded by maple leaves and surmounted by the British Crown. Three men in uniform were waiting for the visitors. One of them, whom Adamsberg recognised by his epaulettes as the superintendent, leaned towards his neighbour.

‘Which one would you say was the commissaire?’ he asked his colleague.

‘The little guy, in the black jacket.’

Adamsberg could more or less hear what they were saying. Brezillon and Trabelmann would have been pleased: the little guy. At the same time, his attention was distracted by some small black squirrels hopping about in the street, as lively and unperturbed as sparrows.

‘No kidding,’ said the superintendent, ‘the one who’s dressed like a hobo?’

‘That’s the one. Don’t let it get to you.’

‘Not the big slouch with the good suit?’

‘No, it’s the dark one. And he’s a big shot over there. So no personal remarks.’

Superintendent Aurele Laliberte nodded and moved towards Adamsberg, holding out his hand.

‘Welcome, commissaire principal! Not too jet-lagged?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ replied Adamsberg carefully. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

They shook hands all round in an embarrassed silence.

‘Sorry about the weather,’ Laliberte said in his booming voice, with a big grin. ‘Frosts’re early this year. In you get, it’s a ten-minute drive up to HQ. We’re not going to kill you with work today,’ he added, inviting Adamsberg to sit beside him. ‘Just a little looksee.’

The RCMP base was situated in a wooded park which seemed to stretch as far into the distance as a French forest. Laliberte drove slowly, and Adamsberg almost had time to study all the trees.

‘You’ve got a pretty big place here,’ he said, impressed.

‘Yup. As we say here, we’ve not got a lot of history, but we sure have plenty of geography.’

‘Are those maples?’ he asked, pointing out of the car window.

‘Sure are.’

‘I thought they had red leaves.’

‘Not red enough for you, eh, commissaire? They’re not like the one on the flag, they come in all colours, red, yellow, orange. Or it’d be boring. So, you’re the boss of the group, right?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Say, for a commissaire principal, you don’t put on a lot of style. They let you go round dressed like that in Paris?’

‘In Paris, the police isn’t the army.’

‘No need to take offence, Jean-Baptiste. I call ’em as I see ’em, better you know that right off.’ Laliberte had started to call Adamsberg by his first name already. ‘Here’s the RCMP, this is where we get out,’ he said, applying the brakes.