An Uncertain Place

‘Emile, what were you doing on Saturday night?’

‘Told you, I was at the Parrot.’

Emile gave a wide provocative grin as he threw away his match. He was no halfwit.

‘Come on.’

‘I took me mother out for supper in this cafe. Always the same place, it’s near Chartres. I told ’em, the cops, the name an’ all. They’ll tell you. I go there every Saturday. And let me tell you, me mum, I’ve never lifted a finger against her. Well, would be the end, wouldn’t it? And me mum, she thinks the world of me. Stands to reason, don’t it?’

‘But your mother doesn’t stay out till four in the morning, does she? And you got home at five.’

‘Yeah, and that’s when I saw there wasn’t no lights on at the house. He always left his lights on all night.’

‘When did you leave your mother?’

‘Ten o’clock on the dot,’ said Emile. ‘Like every Saturday. I went to see me dog after.’

Emile pulled out a wallet and showed a well-thumbed photograph.

‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Sit in my pocket, he could, like a kangaroo, when he was little. When I was in prison the third time, my sister she said she didn’t want to look after him no more, so she gave him away. But I knew where he was. With these cousins, Gerault their name is, it’s a farm out Chateaudun way. So after supper with me mum, I take me van and go and see him, with dog food and presents and stuff. He knows I’m coming. He waits for me in the dark, he jumps the gate, and he comes and sits all night in the van with me. Rain or shine. He knows I’ll be there. And he’s no bigger than that an’ all.’

Emile held his hands in a shape the size of a child’s football.

‘Are there any horses on this farm?’

‘Gerault, he does mostly cattle, three-quarters dairy, quarter beef. But he’s got a few horses an’ all.’

‘Who knows about this?’

‘That I go see the dog?’

‘Yes, Emile, we’re not talking about the farm animals. Did Vaudel know?’

‘Yeah, he’d never let me have a dog here, but he understood. He let me have Saturday nights off: me mum and me dog.’

‘But Vaudel’s not around any more to back up your story.’

‘No.’

‘Nor the dog either.’

‘Yeah, he’s around. You come with me any Saturday night and you’ll see I’m not making it up. You’ll see, he’ll jump the gate, and come to the van. That proves it.’

‘No. That isn’t proof you went there this Saturday night.’

‘No, OK, you’re right, but you can’t expect a dog to know which Saturday it was. Even a dog like Cupid.’

Cupid, eh, said Adamsberg to himself.

He closed his eyes, resting against the stone lintel of the doorway, turning his face to the sun, like Emile. Behind the thick wall, the collection of evidence was coming to an end, the platforms were being folded up. The square metres of carpet had been numbered and their contents put in containers. Now they would have to start looking for some meaning in all this. It was possible that Pierre junior might have wanted to kill the old bastard. Or the daughter-in-law, who seemed a strong-willed type, risking everything on her husband’s behalf. Or Emile. Or the family of that painter who covered horses in liquid bronze, and had unfortunately done the same to a woman. Painting your patron in bronze was one more thing that had never been heard of, on Stock’s dark continent. On the other hand, killing an old man with plenty of money had been known about for a long time. But why reduce him to mincemeat and scatter his remains? Why? There was no answer to that. Until you have the reason, you won’t find the man.

Mordent came towards them with his awkward gait, his long neck thrust forward, his grey hair cropped close to his skull, his eye movements rapid, just like a crafty heron on the lookout for fish. He came over to Emile and looked at Adamsberg without indulgence.

‘He’s asleep,’ whispered Emile. ‘Stands to reason, anyone can see that.’

‘Was he just talking to you?’

‘So what, it’s his job, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course. But we’re still going to wake him up.’

‘Strewth,’ said Emile bitterly, ‘can’t a man kip for a few minutes without getting a bollocking?’

‘I’m hardly likely to give him a bollocking, since he’s my boss. That’s the commissaire.’

Adamsberg opened his eyes as Mordent tapped his shoulder. Emile stood up, and put some distance between them. He was rather shocked to learn that this man was the commissaire, as if the proper order of things had been disturbed and beggars could become kings without warning. It was one thing to chat about your bad genes and your dog Cupid with an ordinary cop, quite another if he was a commissaire. In other words someone who knew all the sneaky techniques of interrogation. And this one was supposed to be an ace, or so he had heard. And he had just been rabbiting on, and probably saying far too much.

‘Stay where you are,’ Mordent said, holding Emile back by the sleeve. ‘This is going to interest you. Commissaire, we’ve been on to the solicitor. Vaudel made a will three months ago.’

‘Leave a lot of money?’

‘I’ll say. He owned three houses out here in Garches, another in Vaucresson and a big building let out for rent in Paris. Plus about the equivalent in stocks and insurance.’

‘Nothing too surprising about that,’ said Adamsberg, getting up and brushing his trousers.

‘Apart from the legal requirement for the son’s share, he left it all to someone outside the family. Emile Feuillant.’

IX

EMILE SAT DOWN AGAIN ON THE STEP, LOOKING STUNNED. Adamsberg remained standing, leaning against the doorpost, head bowed and arms crossed on his stomach, the only visible sign that he was thinking, according to his colleagues. Mordent paced up and down, swinging his arms, his eyes darting here and there. Adamsberg was not in fact lost in thought, but was telling himself that Mordent looked more than ever like a heron that’s just pounced on a fish and is still happily holding it in its beak. A fish called Emile in this case. Who broke the silence, as he started, clumsily this time, to roll himself another cigarette.

‘Don’t stand to reason that, to cut out his own kid.’

He had too much paper at the end of the roll-up, and it flared up, singeing his grey hair.

‘Whether he liked it or not, that was his kid,’ Emile went on, rubbing the lock of hair which smelt like burnt pork. ‘And he didn’t like me that much. Even if he knew I’d be nost-algic, and I am nost-algic. It should’ve gone to Pierre.’

‘You’re a one-man charity, are you?’ asked Mordent.

‘No, I’m just saying it should’ve gone to him, stands to reason. But I’ll take my share, gotta respect the old man’s wishes.’

‘Respect – that’s handy for you.’

‘Not just respect, the law.’

‘Ah. The law’s handy too.’

‘Yeah, sometimes. Will I get this house?’

‘This one or the others,’ Adamsberg intervened. ‘On the part of the estate that comes to you, you’ll have to pay big death duties. But you’ll probably end up with a couple of houses and quite a lot of money.’

‘I’ll get me mum to come and live with me, and I’ll buy back me dog.’

‘You’re getting organised very fast,’ said Mordent. ‘Anyone’d think you were expecting it.’

‘So? Stands to reason to get your mother a proper house, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m saying you don’t seem all that surprised. I’m saying that you’re already making plans. You could at least