Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

DANGLARD HAD DRIVEN OUT OF PARIS AND WAS NOW CAREFULLY negotiating the three-lane highway through patches of thick fog. He was talking to himself, cursing himself for not having been able to clap hands on the judge. No ID on the car, no possibility of roadblocks. At his side, Adamsberg seemed indifferent to their failure to thwart the judge’s getaway: he was alone still on the portage trail. In the space of a night, the certainty of having committed the crime had wrapped itself round him like the bands of a mummy.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Danglard,’ he said at last in a flat voice. ‘Nobody can catch the judge, I already told you.’

‘I had him in arm’s reach, for God’s sake.’

‘I know. It’s happened to me too.’

‘I’m a cop, I was armed.’

‘Me too. Doesn’t alter anything. He runs away like sand.’

‘He’s heading for his fourteenth murder.’

‘How did you come to be there, Danglard?’

‘You read things in people’s eyes, in their voices, in their movements. I go by the logic of the word.’

‘I didn’t tell you anything.’

‘On the contrary, you had the excellent intuition to send me a warning.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You called me about the child. You said “There’s something I want to know first.” First before what? Going to see Camille? No, you’d already paid her a visit when you were drunk. I phoned Clementine. I got a quavery little voice on the other end – is that your hacker?’

‘Yes, Josette.’

‘She told me you’d gone out with your bullet-proof vest and your gun, and said you’d be back, before you kissed them goodbye. Gun, kisses and reassurance all pointed to your being uncertain. About what? About a fight to the death. It had to be with the judge of course. And the only way to do that was to expose yourself to him on your own territory. The old stakeout technique, with yourself as the goat.’

‘Well, the technique was for a mosquito, in fact.’

‘A goat surely?’

‘Whatever you say, Danglard.’

‘Well the goat generally gets eaten. Crunch, gone. As you knew.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t really want that to happen, because you warned me. So from Saturday I kept watch from the basement in the house opposite. I had a good view from the basement window, across to your main door. I thought the judge would strike at night, probably after eleven. He’s a symbolist.’

‘Why were you alone?’

‘Same reason as you. Didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I was wrong, I took on too much. We could have cornered him.’

‘No, six men wouldn’t have caught him.’

‘Retancourt would have blocked him.’

‘Yes, she’d have stood in his way, and he’d have killed her.’

‘He wasn’t armed.’

‘Yes, he was. His walking stick – it’s a sword-stick, a third of a trident. He’d have stabbed her.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Danglard rubbing his chin. Adamsberg had given him some of Ginette’s yellow ointment to treat it.

‘No, he really would have. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘I left the lookout during the day and came back in the evening. He appeared soon after eleven. Looking very relaxed, and so tall, so old, that I couldn’t mistake him. I came up behind him and waited at your door. I got his confession on tape.’

‘And you heard him deny that he committed the crime on the path.’

‘Yes, that too. He raised his voice when he said, “I don’t follow people, Adamsberg, I go ahead of them.” I took advantage of that to open the door.’

‘Well, you saved the goat anyway. Thanks, Danglard.’

‘You’d called me. It was my duty.’

‘And it’s your duty now to hand me over to Canadian justice. We’re on our way to the airport, aren’t we?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where a fucking cop from the RCMP is waiting for me, right?’

‘Yes.’

Adamsberg leaned back and shut his eyes. ‘Don’t drive too fast in this fog, capitaine.’

LXII

DANGLARD TOOK ADAMSBERG TO ONE OF THE CAFES IN THE TERMINAL building and chose a table off to one side. Adamsberg sat down. His body felt as if it didn’t belong to him, and his eyes were fixed on the silly pompom on Danglard’s cap, a mocking and ridiculous ornament. Retancourt would have grabbed him, and got him over the border, she would have helped him escape. It was still possible. Danglard had been discreet and avoided handcuffs. He could still jump up and run for it, because his capitaine wouldn’t be able to keep up with him. But the image of himself stabbing Noella paralysed his capacity to move. What was the point of running, if he couldn’t even walk? Frozen with fear in case he was capable of striking again, finding himself staggering over a corpse on the ground. He might just as well end it here, with Danglard who was morosely sipping a coffee laced with cognac. Hundreds of travellers went past, departing or arriving, with their consciences as spotless as fresh linen. While his own conscience felt repulsive to him, a shred of cloth, stiff with dried blood.

Danglard suddenly waved to someone. Adamsberg made no attempt to look round. The triumphant face of the superintendent was the last thing he wanted to see.

Two large hands landed on his shoulders.

‘I told you we’d catch the sonofabitch,’ he heard someone say.

Adamsberg turned to find himself looking into the face of Fernand Sanscartier. He jumped up and instinctively grabbed his arms. Oh God, why had they done this? Sent Sanscartier to take delivery of the culprit?

‘They gave you this mission?’ he asked, in despair.

‘Just doing what I was told,’ said Sanscartier without losing his benign smile. ‘And we’ve got a lot to talk about,’ he went on, sitting down opposite them.

He shook hands warmly with Danglard.

‘A good job well done, capitaine. Greetings. Jeez, it sure is warm over here,’ he said taking off his padded jacket. ‘Here’s your copy of the file, and the sample.’

He shook a little box in front of Danglard, who nodded approval.

‘We’ve already analysed it. The comparison ought to clinch it.’

‘A sample of what?’ Adamsberg asked.

Sanscartier plucked a hair from Adamsberg’s head.

‘Hair,’ he said. ‘Giveaway stuff, hair. It falls like autumn leaves. But we had to shift six cubic metres of leafmould to find it. Think of that. Just to find a few hairs. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘You didn’t need it. You already had my prints on the belt.’

‘Yeah, but not his.’

‘What do you mean, not his?’

Sanscartier turned towards Danglard, with a frown in the big kind eyes.

‘Haven’t you told him yet?’ he asked. ‘Have you left him stewing in his own juice all this time?’

‘I couldn’t tell him until we were certain. I don’t like to raise false hopes.’

‘Sure, but last night, damnit? You could have told him then?’