Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

‘But there was earth in the wounds.’

‘You’re not very quick this morning, Jean-Baptiste,’ said Sanscartier with a grin. ‘That’s because you don’t dare believe it. Your devil, you see, he’d knocked the girl unconscious up by the Champlain stone. He’d sent her a message, supposedly from you, to meet her there, and he was waiting for her. He hit her from behind, then dragged her along to the little pool. Before he stabbed her, he’d already had to break the ice on the pool, and the pool was full of mud and leaves. That’s why the prongs had earth on them.’

‘And he killed Noella,’ whispered Adamsberg.

‘It must have been before eleven, and well before, ten-thirty maybe. He knew the time you usually came back along the path. He took the belt, he pushed the girl’s body under the ice. Then he came back to surprise you.’

‘Why not wait till I got nearer the body?’

‘There was a greater risk of meeting someone. The site was a good place to wait, plenty of big trees in case anyone else came by. He bashed you on the head, drugged you, and then took the belt back and left it by the body. It was the capitaine who thought of looking for some of his hairs. Because of course nothing so far proved it was the judge, you see. Danglard hoped he might have lost a few hairs between the Champlain stone and the pool, when he was dragging the body over. He could have stopped for breath, put his hand to his head, something like that. So we took up the surface about an inch and a half down. It had frozen over again, which meant the hairs might still be there. So that’s why I found myself with six cubic metres of leafmould and twigs to comb. And the contents of that box,’ said Sanscartier, pointing to it. ‘Apparently you’ve got some of the judge’s hairs over here.’

‘From the Schloss! Shit, Danglard, what about Michel? He could have taken them from my flat, they were in the kitchen cupboard with the bottles.’

‘I took the sachet the same time I weeded the files of documents about Raphael. Michel didn’t know anything about the hairs.’

‘So how come you looked in the cupboard?’

‘I was looking for a little something to help me think about the papers.’

Adamsberg nodded, thinking how fortunate it was his capitaine knew where to find the gin.

‘And anyway, he left his cape in your flat last night,’ said Danglard. ‘So I got two more hairs from the collar while you were asleep.’

‘What’s happened to the cape? Have you still got it?’

‘Why? Do you want it?’

‘Might do, I don’t know.’

‘I’d rather have caught the devil than his coat.’

‘Danglard, why did he want to pin the murder on me?’

‘To make you suffer, but above all to get you to agree to shoot yourself.’

Adamsberg nodded. It was truly diabolical wickedness at work. He turned to the sergeant.

‘Sanscartier, surely you didn’t search that pile of leaves on your own?’

‘No, at that stage I had to tell Laliberte. I already had the statement from the watchman and the DNA of your blood. Christ, though, he went up the wall when I told him what I’d been doing on the so-called sick leaves. I won’t tell you what he said. He even accused me of having been your accomplice from the start and helping you escape. He went ballistic. Sure, I’d been way out of line. But in the end I got him to calm down and see reason. Because with our boss, you know, it’s rigour, rigour always that counts for him. So he cooled off and he had to admit there was more to the case than met the eye. After that, he moved heaven and earth and authorised us to do the search. And he lifted the warrant that was out for you.’

Adamsberg looked at them in turn. Danglard and Sanscartier. Two men who had not abandoned him for a second.

‘Don’t try to say anything,’ said Sanscartier. ‘It’s too much to take in right now.’

The car was moving slowly through the traffic jams on the outskirts of Paris. Adamsberg was in the back, leaning his head against the window, his eyes half shut, watching the familiar landmarks go by and glancing at the two men in front who had rescued him. The end of Raphael’s exile. And the end of his own purgatory. The novelty and the relief were so great that they created in him an immense fatigue.

‘Hey, pretty good work, all that stuff about the Mah Jong,’ said Sanscartier. ‘Laliberte was stunned, he said it was a fantastic bit of detection. He’ll tell you so tomorrow.’

‘He’s coming over?’

‘I guess you might not want to see him, but he’s coming for your capitaine’s promotion the next day. Have you forgotten? Your big boss Brezillon asked him over, because they’ve got a few bones to pick and need to make it up.’

Adamsberg found it hard to take it in that now he could just walk into the office if he liked. Without his lumberjack hat, he could just open the door and say hullo, shake people’s hands. Go and buy a loaf of bread. Sit by the banks of the Seine.

‘I’m trying to think how to thank you, Sanscartier, but I can’t find the words.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all sorted. I’m going to a Toronto posting. Laliberte has promoted me to inspector. And all because you got drunk that night.’

‘But the judge has got away with it,’ said Danglard gloomily.

‘He’ll be found guilty in absentia,’ said Adamsberg. ‘And Vetilleux and those other people will be released. That’s what matters most, after all.’

‘No,’ said Danglard, shaking his head. ‘There’s still the fourteenth victim to think about.’

Adamsberg sat up and leaned forward. Sanscartier smelled of almond soap.

‘I’ve worked out who the fourteenth victim is,’ he said, smiling.

Danglard glanced in the mirror. It was the first time in six weeks that he had seen Adamsberg smile.

‘The last tile is the major element. Until you have that one, the game isn’t over and nothing makes sense. It closes the Hand of Honours, and gives its shape to the whole thing.’

‘OK, that’s logical,’ said Danglard.

‘And that major piece has to be a white dragon. But a dragon that’s white because it’s perfect, honour through excellence. Lightning, white light. It’s himself, Danglard. The Trident will join his father and mother, in a perfect run of white dragons, three tiles, once the whole thing is finished.’

‘He’s going to stab himself with a trident?’ frowned Danglard.

‘No. His natural death will complete the hand. It’s on what you taped, Danglard. “Even in prison, even in the grave, the last one won’t escape me.”’

‘But he always kills everyone with the damn trident,’ Danglard objected.

‘Well, not the last one. The judge is the Trident.’

Adamsberg leaned back in his seat and fell fast asleep. Sanscartier looked round in surprise.

‘Does he often go off to sleep like that?’

‘When he’s bored, or in shock,’ Danglard explained.

LXIII

ADAMSBERG GREETED THE TWO POLICEMEN, UNKNOWN TO HIM, WHO were on duty on Camille’s landing, and showed them his badge – still in the name of Denis Lamproie.

He rang the bell. He had spent the previous day coming back to life in solitude and in a daze, finding great difficulty in getting back in touch with himself again. After these seven weeks buffeted by winds from all four quarters, he found himself thrown up on the sandy shore, soaked and calmed, with the wounds inflicted by the Trident all healed. And at the same time, stunned and surprised. He knew at least that it was imperative that he tell Camille that he had not killed anyone. At least he must do that. And if he could manage it, he would tell her that he had expelled the image of the new father with the dogs from his mind. He felt ill at ease, with his uniform cap under his arm, his sharply-creased trousers, his jacket with its gold epaulettes and his medal in the button hole. The cap would at least have covered the remains of his tonsure.