Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

forest. He knew it was there. Walking around at night, out of his mind with drink, obsessed with the judge and the need to find his brother. Then glimpsing Noella, who must have been watching out for him on the path. The ball of hate explodes, the path to his brother opens, the judge gets inside his skin. He rushes away and grabs the fork. Who else could there be on the deserted path? He creeps back, hits the girl on the head and she falls unconscious. He takes off the belt which stops him getting at her stomach, and throws it away. He kills her with the trident. He breaks the ice on the pool, pushes the dead woman in and throws stones in on top of her. Exactly as he had done with the screwdriver for Raphael thirty years earlier. The same gestures. He throws the trident into the Ottawa River, which carries it off over the falls on the way to the St Lawrence. Then he wanders about, bangs his head and passes out into willed oblivion. When he wakes up, the whole thing has been buried in the inaccessible depths of his memory.

Adamsberg felt cold suddenly and pulled the quilt over him. Running away, close combat, clinging on, naked, to that woman’s body. Extreme circumstances. Escaping and living like a murderer wanted by the police. Maybe even being one.

Change your perspective for a moment, start thinking like a policeman again. There was one question he had asked Retancourt, but had then forgotten, as the catastrophic contents of the green file had swept over him. Now it came back into his mind. How had Laliberte found out that he had no memory of the night of the 26th? Someone must have told him. But only Danglard knew about it. And who had suggested to the superintendent the obsessive nature of his quest? Danglard was the only person who knew how the judge had taken over his life. Danglard, who had been angry with him for a year, over the business with Camille. Danglard who had chosen the side he was on in this split, who had spat out an insult at him. Adamsberg closed his eyes, groaned, and put his arm across his face. Adrien Danglard, his incorruptible second-in-command. His noble and faithful deputy.

At six in the evening, Raphael came into the room. He watched his brother sleeping for a while, observing the face in which all his childhood was summed up. Sitting on the bed, he gently shook Adamsberg awake.

The commissaire sat up.

‘Time to go, Jean-Baptiste.’

‘Time to run for it,’ said Adamsberg, looking for his shoes in the dark.

‘It’s all my fault,’ said Raphael, after a silence. ‘I’ve ruined your life.’

‘Don’t say things like that. You didn’t ruin anything at all.’

‘I did, I ruined everything for you.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. And now you’re down in the mud of the Torque with me.’

Adamsberg was slowly putting his shoes on.

‘Do you really think it’s possible?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I could have killed her?’

‘What about me? Do you think I could have killed her?’

Adamsberg looked at his brother.

‘Like I told you, you could never have struck three blows in a straight line.’

‘Remember how pretty Lise was. She was as light and lovely as the wind.’

‘But I wasn’t in love with Noella, and there was also a fork lying around. I could have done it.’

‘Just possibly.’

‘Possibly or very possibly? Very possible or very true, Raphael?’

Raphael put his chin in his hands. ‘My answer is your answer.’

Adamsberg put his other shoe on.

‘Remember once when you had a mosquito in your ear for two hours?’

‘Do I?’ Raphael grimaced. ‘I nearly went mad, with the buzzing.’

‘We were afraid you really would go mad before it died. So what we did was make the house quite dark and hold a lighted candle near your ear. It was the priest’s idea, Father Gregoire: “We’ll exorcise it with bell, book and candle,” he said. Typical priest talk. Remember? And the mosquito crawled out your ear towards the flame, then it burnt its wings with a little hiss. Remember that little hiss?’

‘Yes, Father Gregoire said, “the devil’s roasting in hell now”. Typical priest.’

Adamsberg pulled on his sweater and reached for his jacket.

‘Do you think it’s possible or very possible?’ He went on, ‘to tempt our devil out of the tunnel with a little light?’

‘If he’s in your ear.’

‘He is, Raphael.’

‘I know it. I hear him at night too.’

Adamsberg put on the jacket and sat down by his brother. ‘Think we can get him out?’

‘If he exists, Jean-Baptiste. If we’re not the devils ourselves.’

‘Only two other people believe this devil exists. A sergeant that everyone else thinks is stupid, and an old woman who’s a bit crazy.’

‘And Violette.’

‘I don’t know whether Retancourt is doing all this out of duty or conviction.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just do what she says. What a magnificent woman!’

‘What do you mean? You think she’s beautiful?’ asked Adamsberg, astonished.

‘Well, that too, of course.’

‘Do you think her plan can work?’

As he whispered this last sentence, it was as if he and his brother were boys back in the village, plotting some adventure from their mountain den. Who would be able to dive deepest into the Torque, or play a trick on the grocer, or scratch horns on the judge’s gate, slipping out at night without waking anyone?

Raphael hesitated.

‘So long as Violette is strong enough to take your weight.’

The two brothers shook hands, thumbs entwined, as they had when they were small boys, before they dived into the river.

XXXVI

ADAMSBERG AND RETANCOURT TOOK IT IN TURNS TO DRIVE ON THE return journey, with Lafrance and Ladouceur tailing them. The commissaire woke Retancourt as Gatineau came into sight. He had let her sleep as long as possible, so worried was he that she would be unable to take his weight.

‘This Basile,’ he said, ‘are you sure he’ll take me in? I’ll be arriving on my own before you.’

‘I’ll give you a note for him. You just explain you’re my boss and that I’ve sent you. Then we’ll call Danglard to get some false papers as soon as possible.’

‘Not Danglard. Don’t call him. Not under any circumstances.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Nobody else knew about my memory loss.’

‘But Danglard is the most loyal person in the world,’ said Retancourt, shocked. ‘He’s devoted to you, he’d never give you away to Laliberte.’

‘Yes, he might, Retancourt. He’s been angry with me for a whole year. I’m not sure how far it goes.’

‘You mean because of the business with Camille?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, nothing much gets past the Chat Room. It’s a gossip factory, everyone’s love life gets talked about. You can pick up some good ideas too. But Danglard never says anything there, he’s totally loyal.’ She frowned.

‘I’m not sure of course,’ said Adamsberg. ‘But don’t call him all the same.’

By seven forty-five, Adamsberg’s room had been cleared, and the commissaire, clad only in his boxer shorts and two watches, was having his hair cut by Retancourt. She carefully flushed the clippings down the lavatory, so as to leave no traces.

‘Where did you learn to cut hair?’