Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

‘Where do you put the money you take?’

‘Into an association, and it pays my wage.’

‘Where do you take it from?’

‘All over the place. Wherever the fat cats are hiding it. I go into their numbered bank accounts and take a percentage.’

‘You never get caught?’

‘I’ve only had one scare in the ten years I’ve been doing it, and that was three months ago, because I was rushing things. I’ve had to cover my tracks and I’ve nearly finished.’

‘You should never rush things,’ Clementine opined. ‘But for him it’s special, he’s only got six weeks. Mustn’t forget that.’

Adamsberg contemplated in amazement this internet pirate, the little hacker sitting alongside him: a tiny frail old woman whose fingers trembled. With the old-fashioned name of Josette.

‘Where did you learn to do it?’

‘You can teach yourself if you’ve got the touch. Clementine told me you were in trouble. And for Clementine’s sake, perhaps I can help you.’

‘Josette,’ interrupted Adamsberg. ‘Would you be able to get inside a solicitor’s files for instance? His client’s business?’

‘It’s a database like any other,’ the little voice replied. ‘The files would have to be computerised of course.’

‘Could you unlock their access codes and get through their passwords? Have you got some kind of way through?’

‘Yes,’ replied Josette modestly.

‘Like a ghost,’ Adamsberg concluded.

‘Just as well,’ said Clementine. ‘Because what the commissaire’s got on his back is a real ghost. And he’s got his claws in your neck, hasn’t he? Josette, I’ve asked you before not to play with your food. It’s not so much that I mind, but I was brought up not to do it.’

Sitting on the old chintz sofa in his tweed suit, with bare feet, Adamsberg got out his new phone to call Danglard.

‘Excuse me,’ said Josette, ‘but are you telephoning somebody you can trust? Is the line safe?’

‘It’s a new line, Josette. And I’m using a new mobile.’

‘Well, it’s true that that makes it harder for them, but if you’re going to be more than eight to ten minutes, you’d do well to change the frequency. I’ll lend you mine, it’s already fixed up. Watch the time, and change frequency: you press this button. I’ll fix yours up for you tomorrow.’

Impressed, Adamsberg accepted Josette’s hi-tech mobile.

‘Danglard, I’ve got six weeks. I managed to get on the right side of Brezillon.’

Danglard whistled his astonishment.

‘I thought he had two wrong sides.’

‘No, there was a pathway through and I used my ice-axe. I’ve got a gun, a new badge and partial and unofficial lifting of the wanted status. I can’t tell whether there are phone taps, and I can’t move about freely. If I get caught, Brezillon will go down with me, he’s taking that risk. He’s allowing me a bit of line on this short-term basis. And anyway, he puts out his fag with his thumb without burning himself. Good guy. So I can’t compromise him, I can’t just breeze in to check the files.’

‘I take it you want me to do that then?’

‘And past records. We need to check the period between the judge’s death and Schiltigheim. That is find out whether there were any murders with some kind of trident during the last sixteen years. Think you could do that?’

‘Look for the disciple, all right.’

‘Send the results by email, capitaine. Wait a minute.’

Adamsberg pressed the frequency button.

‘What’s that buzzing?’ asked Danglard.

‘I just changed frequency.’

‘Sophisticated, huh,’ said Danglard. ‘Who’s supplying your phones, the Mafia?’

‘I’ve had to change addresses and keep different company now, capitaine. I’m merging into the background.’

* * *

Late in the night, under the rather light quilts, Adamsberg gazed into the embers of the fire through the darkness, evaluating the immense possibilities opened up by having an aged electronic wizard in the house. He tried to remember the name of the solicitor who had arranged the sale of the manor in the Pyrenees. He used to know it in the old days. Fulgence’s lawyer must have been sworn to total secrecy. Someone who had committed some youthful indiscretion which Fulgence had covered up for him. And who had then fallen through the trapdoor and become a vassal of the judge for life. What the devil was his name? He could see the brass plate shining on the facade of a solid stone-built house, when he had gone to ask the solicitor the date when the Manor had been bought. He remembered a youngish man at the time, about thirty. With any luck he was still practising.

The brass plaque mingled with the glowing ashes in the grate. He thought it was a sort of unpleasant name, a bit like ‘deceiving’ or ‘disservice’. He ran through the alphabet and came up with it. Desseveaux, Maitre Jerome Desseveaux, solicitor, conveyancer, house purchases. With his balls held tight in the iron grip of Judge Fulgence.

XLIV

FASCINATED BY JOSETTE’S UNSUSPECTED DEXTERITY AND EXPERTISE, Adamsberg sat alongside her and watched her operate the computer, her tiny wrinkled hands trembling over the keyboard. On the screen, an endless series of numbers and letters flashed up in quick succession, and Josette responded with equally hermetic contributions of her own. To Adamsberg, the computer now seemed no longer an everyday tool, but a sort of gigantic Aladdin’s lamp, from which a genie might emerge at any time and offer him three wishes. But one had to know the secrets of operating it, whereas in the old stories, any ignorant boy could come along with a rag and shine up the lamp. Things were certainly more complicated these days, if you wanted to make a wish.

‘Your man is very protected,’ Josette commented, in her quavery voice, which had however lost its timidity once she was on her own ground. ‘All these extra codes and passwords seem excessive for a country solicitor’s office.’

‘It’s no ordinary solicitor’s office. A ghost’s got him by the balls.’

‘Ah, in that case.’

‘Can you get in, Josette?’

‘There are four levels of protection. It’s going to take some time.’

Like her hands, the old woman’s head was shaky, and Adamsberg wondered whether these effects of age hampered her reading of the screen. Clementine, who was still intent on fattening up the commissaire, had come in with a plate of cookies and maple syrup. Adamsberg looked at Josette’s clothes: an elegant beige ensemble, combined with an old pair of tennis shoes.

‘Why do you wear those shoes? So as not to make any noise when you tiptoe into secret passages?’

Josette smiled. Maybe. A burglar’s equipment, flexible and practical.

‘She just likes to be comfortable, that’s all,’ said Clementine.

‘In the old days,’ said Josette, ‘when I was married to my shipbuilder, I wore court shoes. With twin-sets and pearls. Real ones.’

‘Very chic,’ commented Clementine approvingly.

‘He was rich?’ asked Adamsberg.