Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

that his car had driven him here, to steal an hour out of Camille’s life, and to receive a precious warning from the composer. Since he was apparently hearing from the dead, he might very well hear a whispered message from Antonio Vivaldi, and he was sure the Venetian musician had been good company. A guy who writes music of such beauty is bound to give you excellent advice.

It was only at the end of the concert that Adamsberg spotted Danglard, whose eyes were fixed on his protegee. The sight immediately destroyed all his pleasure. What the devil was Danglard up to now? Was he going to meet him at every turn? Interfering with his whole life? Obviously he knew all about the concerts and was faithfully at his post, the dependable, loyal and irreproachable Adrien Danglard. Well, shit. Camille didn’t belong to him, for God’s sake. So what was the capitaine planning with this close surveillance? Was he trying to creep into Adamsberg’s life? Real anger towards his deputy rose within him. The grey-haired benefactor, slipping in through the door left open by Camille’s heartbreak.

The speed with which Danglard then disappeared surprised Adamsberg. The capitaine had gone round the back of the church and was waiting at the artists’ entrance. To offer congratulations, no doubt. But no, Danglard was loading stuff into a car, and then taking the wheel, and Camille was with him. Adamsberg drove off behind them, anxious to see how far his deputy would take this secret solicitude. After a halt, then a further ten minutes’ drive, Danglard parked the car, then opened the door for Camille, who handed him a bundle wrapped in a blanket. The blanket, and the fact that the bundle made a noise, communicated to Adamsberg, in a spasmodic shock, the extent of the situation.

A child, a baby. And going by the small size of the bundle and the voice, perhaps no more than a month old. Motionless, he watched the door of the house close behind the couple. Danglard, the bastard, the thief in the night.

But Danglard reappeared quickly, gave Camille a friendly wave, and hailed a taxi.

Good God, a child, thought Adamsberg on the long drive back to Hull. Now that Danglard had been absolved from the role of treacherous bastard and had once more become the loyal and dependable friend – which by no means lessened his resentment towards him – his thoughts were concentrated on the young woman. How on earth had Camille ended up with a child? Inevitably, he thought with a pang, that meant some kind of connection with a man. If the baby was a month old, that meant nine plus one, say ten months. So Camille had waited only a few weeks before finding his successor. He trod on the accelerator, suddenly impatient to overtake the damned cars rolling peacefully along at the sacred speed of ninety kilometres an hour. Anyway, that was the situation, and Danglard must have been informed early on, and hadn’t breathed a word about it to him. Still, he understood why his deputy had spared him this news, which even now stung him deeply. But why? What had he, Adamsberg, been hoping? That Camille would weep for a thousand years and never forsake her lost love? That she would turn into a statue whom he could bring back to life whenever he wanted to? Like in a fairy story, as Trabelmann would have said. No, she had stumbled, but survived, and then met some other man, it was as simple as that. A harsh reality which he had to digest with difficulty.

No, he thought later, lying on top of his bed, no, he had never really taken on board that he would lose Camille when he lost Camille. It was logical enough after all, but he couldn’t handle it. And now there was this bastard of a new father, who was driving him out of the picture. Even Danglard had taken the side of the other man against him. He could easily imagine the capitaine walking into the maternity ward and shaking hands with the newcomer, who would be a reliable sort of chap, safe as houses, offering all his uprightness and benevolence in contrast to him, Adamsberg. A man of irreproachable habits and morality, a businessman, with a labrador, no, two labradors, and polished shoes with new laces.

Adamsberg hated him fiercely. That night, he would have massacred the man and his dogs, without hesitation. He, the flic, the cop, the pig, would have gladly committed murder. With a trident too, why not?

XXII

WAKING LATE ON THE SUNDAY, ADAMSBERG DECIDED NOT TO GO and look at the boss of the Canada geese, nor to go visiting lakes. He went straight to the portage trail. The young woman wouldn’t be working on Sunday, and there was a good chance he would find her sitting on her rock. And indeed, there she was, smoking her cigarette, with an ambiguous smile on her lips, and quite ready to go back to his room with him.

Her enthusiasm offered Adamsberg some partial comfort for the pain he had felt the night before. It was difficult to get rid of her in the early evening, though. Sitting naked on the bed, Noella was determined to spend the night there. Out of the question, Adamsberg explained gently, persuading her to get dressed, my colleagues will be back any minute. He had to push her into her jacket, before propelling her through the door.

Once Noella had left, his thoughts no longer remained with her, and he called Mordent in Paris. The commandant was a night owl and telephoning at quarter past midnight, French time, would not mean waking him up. Mordent combined his taste for rigorous bureaucracy with an old-fashioned liking for the accordion and cabaret songs, and he had just returned from a musical evening which he seemed to have enjoyed.

‘To tell you the truth, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg, ‘I’m not calling to give you any news. The whole thing’s going very smoothly, the team’s fine, nothing to report.’

‘What are the Canadian colleagues like?’ Mordent asked.

‘Correct, as they say here; pleasant and competent.’

‘Do you get evenings off, or is it lights out at ten?’

‘We’re free, but you’re not missing anything. Hull-Gatineau isn’t exactly jumping with cabarets and circuses. A bit flat, as Ginette says.’

‘But the countryside’s beautiful?’

‘Yes, very. No problems in the squad back there?’

‘Nothing serious. Object of your call, commissaire?’

‘Can you get hold of a copy of the Nouvelles d’Alsace for Friday 10 October. Or any other local paper, it could be.’

‘Object of the request?’

‘The murder committed in Schiltigheim on the night of Saturday 4 October. Victim, Elisabeth Wind. Handling the investigation, Commandant Trabelmann. Chief suspect, one Bernard Vetilleux. What I’m after, Mordent, is an article or just a little news item mentioning the visit by a Parisian detective, and any mention of a serial killer. Something along those lines. Friday 10 October, not any other day.’

‘The Parisian detective was you, was it?’

‘Correct.’

‘Confidential as far as the office is concerned, or is it OK to mention it in the Chat Room?’

‘Top secret, Mordent. This business is causing me nothing but grief.’

‘Urgent?’

‘Yes, top priority. Let me know when you turn something up.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘That’s important too. Just call me either way.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ said Mordent. ‘Can you send me an email every day about your activities with the RCMP? Brezillon’s expecting a precise report at the end of the mission and I dare say you’d like me to write it up.’

‘What would I do without you, Mordent?’

The report. He had completely neglected to do that. Adamsberg forced himself to write a record of the sampling process of the previous days, while he could still remember the efforts of Jules and Linda Saint-Croix. He was only just in time, since his recent preoccupation with Fulgence, with the new father and then with Noella had driven the collection cards, with their samples of sweat and urine, deeper into the past. He would not be sorry tomorrow to be rid of his tough and boisterous companion, and start working with Sanscartier the Good.

Late in the evening, he heard the brakes of a car in the parking lot. Looking down from his balcony, he saw the Montreal group, Danglard in front, bending their heads against a snow shower. He would like to give Danglard a piece of his mind, as the superintendent would have said.