Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

Camille opened the door and signalled to the two officers that she knew her visitor.

‘There are two policemen on the landing the whole time,’ she said, ‘and I don’t seem to be able to reach Adrien.’

‘Danglard’s at the Prefecture. He’s putting the finishing touches to a massive file. The uniforms will be guarding you for two months.’

* * *

Pacing up and down the studio, Adamsberg managed to tell his story, more or less. Trying not to say too much about Noella. and mixing up various elements. He interrupted himself half-way through.

‘And you know,’ he said, ‘I’ve sorted out that business about the man with the dogs.’

‘Ah,’ said Camille slowly. ‘So what do you think of him now?’

‘He’s much the same as his predecessor.’

‘Glad you like him.’

‘It’s easier this way. We can shake hands.’

‘For instance.’

‘Exchange a few words, like human beings.’

‘Yes…’

Adamsberg nodded, and went on with the story: Raphael, exile, dragons. He gave her back the rules of Mah Jong, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The quiet click shocked him. Each of them on one side of the wooden barrier, living on separate levels. Separated by his own actions. At least the two watches were not separate, but locked together in a a discreet coupling on his left wrist.

LXIV

EVERYONE WAS IN DRESS UNIFORM AT THE SQUAD HEADQUARTERS. Danglard looked around contentedly at the hundred or so people in the Council Chamber. At one end, a dais had been prepared for the official speech by the divisionnaire, who would recount Danglard’s merits in the service, compliment him and pin on his new stripes. Then he would have to make an acceptance speech, crack a few jokes and convey some emotion. After that, his colleagues would congratulate him, everyone would relax, and there would be booze, canapes and chatter. He was watching the door to see whether Adamsberg turned up. It was possible the commissaire might not want to return to the squad on such a formal occasion. Clementine was there however, in her best flowered dress, accompanied by Josette who wore a smart suit and tennis shoes. Clementine was quite at ease, a cigarette in her mouth, and happily reunited with Brigadier Gardon, who had once, long ago, lent her a pack of cards, as she had not forgotten. The fragile hacker, the indispensable lawbreaker, afloat in a sea of police, stuck close to Clementine’s side, holding her glass in both hands. Danglard had seen to it that the best quality champagne had been ordered, and had laid in plenty of it, as if wishing to make this evening as dense as possible, to impregnate it with fine bubbles which would run through it like molecules. For him the ceremony was less about his promotion than about the end of Adamsberg’s long agony.

* * *

The commissaire appeared discreetly at the door and for a moment, Danglard was vexed to see that he had not even put on his uniform. Then he realised who he was, as the man advanced hesitantly through the crowd. This man, with a handsome dark face with high cheekbones was not Jean-Baptiste but Raphael Adamsberg. The capitaine understood how Retancourt’s plan had been able to work, if he was glimpsed across a car park in Gatineau. He pointed him out to Sanscartier.

‘That’s him, the brother,’ he said. ‘The one talking to Violette Retancourt.’

‘I can see how he fooled my colleagues,’ said Sanscartier with a grin.

The commissaire had followed his brother in soon afterwards, his uniform cap covering his tonsure. Clementine looked at him, openly appraising him.

‘That’s three kilos he’s put on with us, Josette,’ she said proudly surveying her work. ‘It suits him well, his blue uniform.’

‘Now he has no more locked doors, we won’t be hunting in the underground any more,’ said Josette with regret.

‘Don’t worry. Flics pick up trouble non-stop, it’s their job. He hasn’t finished with his troubles, you can be sure, m’dear.’

Adamsberg gripped his brother’s arm and looked around. In the end it was probably a good thing to re-enter the office like this, seeing all the officers and other staff at once. In a couple of hours it would all be over, his return, the questions and answers, emotions and thanks. Much more simple than going round to see people one by one, office after office, in confidential conversations. He let Raphael’s arm go, made a friendly sign to Danglard and joined the official top brass, Brezillon and Laliberte.

‘Hey man,’ said Laliberte, slapping him on the back, ‘I got you royally wrong, I was way out of line. Will you accept my apologies? I tracked you like a damned murderer.’

‘You had every reason to think it,’ said Adamsberg with a wry smile.

‘I was talking about the profiling with your boss. Your lab worked overtime to get it done by tonight. They’re the same hairs, goddamnit, they belong to your infernal judge. I wouldn’t have credited it, but you were right. A great piece of work.’

Unsettled by Laliberte’s familiarity, Brezillon had stiffened into a very unbending French manner, and shook Adamsberg’s hand formally.

‘But say, you made me look a real dummy, slipping out under my nose like that,’ Laliberte interrupted, giving Adamsberg a vigorous shake. ‘I’ll tell you straight, I was fit to be tied.’

‘I bet you were, Aurele. You don’t do things by halves.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you now. Right? It was the only thing for you to do. You’ve got your head screwed on right, for someone who shovels clouds.’

‘Commissaire,’ Brezillon broke in, ‘Favre has been posted to St Etienne under observation. There are no further consequences as far as you’re concerned. I condoned your action as a mere show of strength in the face of insubordination. But that’s not what I think it was. The judge had already got under your skin. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In future, please be on your guard.’

Laliberte took Brezillon by the shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, pal,’ he said. ‘A hellhound like that isn’t going to turn up again in a hurry.’

Embarrassed, the divisionnaire extracted himself from the superintendent’s large hand and made his excuses. The platform was waiting.

‘Bit uptight, your boss, isn’t he?’ commented Laliberte. ‘Talks like a book, walks like he could shit logs. He always like that?’

‘No, he puts out his cigarette with his thumb.’

Trabelmann was advancing on them.

‘So that’s your childhood memory wrapped up then,’ he said, shaking Adamsberg’s hand. ‘Prince Charming can spit fire after all.’

‘The black prince.’

‘The black prince, yeah.’

‘Thanks for coming, Trabelmann.’

‘Sorry about what I said about Strasbourg Cathedral. Shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Don’t be sorry, on the contrary. It’s been keeping me company all through this.’