XXIII
STRANGE HOW THREE DAYS ARE ENOUGH TO DISSIPATE FEELINGS OF disorientation, so that one slips readily into a routine, Adamsberg thought, as he parked in front of the RCMP buildings, a few metres from the diligent squirrel who was as usual guarding the doors. The feeling of strangeness was disappearing. Everything was beginning to find its niche in the new territory, shaping it to its own form, as a favourite armchair shapes itself round the body. So the whole group was back in position in the meeting room this Monday, listening to the superintendent. After the fieldwork the laboratory, with extraction of the samples, which were to be placed on paper discs two millimetres in diameter, then inserted into the ninety-six wells of the process plate. All these instructions Adamsberg noted approximately, for his report to Mordent.
Adamsberg let Fernand Sanscartier get out the cards, prepare the discs and switch on the robotic punch. Sitting in front of a white guardrail, they both watched the machine going to and fro. For two days now, Adamsberg had been sleeping badly and the monotonous movement of the synchronised scores of punches mesmerised him.
‘It makes you sleepy, doesn’t it? Shall I go and get us a regular?’
‘Make that a double regular, Sanscartier, as strong as you like.’
The sergeant returned, carrying the plastic cups carefully.
‘Watch out, it’s scalding hot,’ he said, passing one to Adamsberg.
The two men took up their positions, leaning on the rail.
‘Time’ll come, won’t it,’ said Sanscartier, ‘when a guy won’t be able to piss in the snow without setting off a barcode and three helicopters full of cops.’
‘Time’ll come,’ said Adamsberg echoing him, ‘when we won’t even need to question the guy.’
‘Time’ll come, when we won’t even need to
‘Time’ll come, when we’ll be totally pissed off.’
‘What do you think of the coffee?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘It’s not our specialty.’
‘Are you happy in your work, Sanscartier?’
The sergeant thought before answering.
‘What I’d really like is to be back out doing hands-on stuff. Where I can use my own eyes, and piss in the snow when I feel like it, if you get my meaning. Specially since my girlfriend lives in Toronto. But don’t tell the boss, or I’d get an earful.’
A red light flashed and the two men stayed still for a moment watching the machine come to a stop. Then Sanscartier moved heavily away from the rail.
‘Better get a move on. If the boss sees us taking a breather, he’ll start bawling at us.’
They emptied the plate and set to work on another set of cartons, discs and wells. Sanscartier activated the robotic process again.
‘Do you do a lot of hands-on work in Paris?’
‘As much as I can. And I walk a lot too, I just walk round the streets and think.’
‘You’re lucky. Do you work things out by shovelling clouds?’
‘In a way,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.
‘Got anything good on at the moment?’
Adamsberg pulled a face.
‘That’s absolutely the wrong word, Sanscartier. I’m shovelling earth with this one.’
‘Skull and crossbones, eh?’
‘Worse than that. I’ve come across a whole skeleton. But he’s not the victim, he’s the murderer. A dead man, an old man who’s still going round killing people.’
Adamsberg looked at Sanscartier’s brown velvety eyes, almost as round as the ones on children’s toys.
‘Ah,’ said Sanscartier. ‘So if he’s going round killing people, he can’t be entirely dead.’
‘Well yes, he is,’ Adamsberg insisted. ‘He really died, I have to tell you.’
‘In that case, he’s fighting it then,’ said Sanscartier, ‘he’s struggling like a devil in holy water.’
Adamsberg leant on the rail. At last, someone prepared to stretch out an innocent hand towards him, like Clementine.
‘You’re an inspired cop, Sanscartier, you really should be doing hands-on stuff.’
‘Think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head, ‘time’ll come, when you’ll get your hand caught in a mangle with this devil. If you’ll allow me to give you some advice, you’d be wise to watch out. Some people will say you’ve completely flipped.’
‘Flipped?’
‘Lost the plot, making stuff up.’
‘Oh, that’s already happened, Sanscartier.’
‘Then you’d better clam up, and don’t try to convince them. But in my book, you’ve got what it takes, so you should follow your hunches. Keep chasing your damn killer, but until you collar him, lie low.’
Adamsberg remained leaning on the rail, feeling the comfort and relief brought by the words of this warm- hearted colleague.
‘Why don’t you think I’m crazy, Sanscartier? Everyone else seems to.’
‘Because you aren’t, that’s easy to see. How’s about lunch? It’s after twelve.’
The following evening, after another day spent doing automatic DNA extraction, Adamsberg regretfully said goodbye to his kindly colleague.
‘Who are you working with tomorrow?’ asked Sanscartier, walking over to his car with him.
‘Ginette Saint-Preux.’
‘She’s a good pal. You’ll be in safe hands with her.’
‘But I’ll miss you,’ said Adamsberg as they shook hands. ‘You’ve done me a lot of good.’
‘How come?’
‘You just have, that’s all. Who are you working with?’
‘The whopper. What’s her name?’
‘The whopper?’
‘Well, er, the big fat one,’ said Sanscartier, embarrassed.
‘Ah, Violette Retancourt.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but when you do catch this dead man walking, even if it’s in ten years’ time, can you let me know?’
‘Are you that interested?’
‘Yes. And I’ve taken a shine to you.’
‘I’ll let you know. Even if it takes ten years.’
Adamsberg found himself going up in the lift with Danglard. His two days with Sanscartier the Good had calmed him down, and he postponed his decision to pick a bone with his deputy.
‘Going out tonight, Danglard?’ he asked in a neutral voice.
‘No, I’m knackered. I’m going to have a bite to eat, then go to bed.’
‘How are the children? Everything OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ replied the
