An Uncertain Place

observe a decent interval to take it in. That’s the normal thing.’

‘Normal thing be buggered. I’ve taken it in already. Don’t see why I’d be hours taking it in.’

‘What I’m saying is you knew quite well that Vaudel was going to leave you his money. I’m saying you knew about the will.’

‘No, I never. But he did promise me I’d be rich one day.’

‘Same thing,’ said Mordent, curling his lip, as if moving in for an assault from the side. ‘He good as told you you’d inherit.’

‘No, he never. He read my hand. He knew how to do that, and he showed me an’ all. See,’ said Emile putting out his right hand palm up, and pointing to the base of his ring finger. ‘That’s the bit told him I was going to be rich. Didn’t mean to say it was his money, did it? I play the lottery, thought that’d be it.’

Emile suddenly fell silent, looking at his palm. Adamsberg, watching the cruel game of heron and fish, saw a trace of an ancient fear cross his face, one that had nothing to do with Mordent’s aggressive questions. The stabs from the commandant’s beak had neither troubled nor irritated him. No, it was this business of reading his palm.

‘Did he see anything else in your hand?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘No, not much, just that I’d come into some money. He said my hands looked ordinary, and that was a bit of luck, I wasn’t bothered. But when I wanted to see his hand, no, that wasn’t allowed, he closed ’em both up, and said there was nothing to see, no lines. As if he could have no lines! He looked so cross, wasn’t worth going on, and we didn’t play our game that night. But no lines, that ain’t normal. If I could see the body, I’d see if it was true.’

‘No one gets to see the body. Anyway, the hands are unrecognisable.’

Emile shrugged regretfully, and watched Lieutenant Retancourt come over to them, with her long ungainly strides.

‘She seems nice,’ he commented.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She’s the most dangerous wolf in the pack, and she’s been here since early yesterday morning, without a break.’

‘How does she do that?’

‘She can sleep standing up.’

‘That don’t stand to reason.’

‘No,’ Adamsberg agreed.

Retancourt stopped in front of them and nodded to the two men. ‘Yes, it’s OK,’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Mordent. ‘Shall we get on with it, commissaire? Or do we do a bit more chiromancy?’

‘I don’t know what that means, chiromancy,’ said Adamsberg shortly.

What on earth was up with Mordent? Good old bird, with ruffled feathers, normally so benign and competent? Irreproachable at work, an expert on stories and legends, talkative and conciliatory. Adamsberg knew that of his two commandants, he had chosen Danglard to go to London, and that Mordent had been miffed. But he was due to be on the next foreign trip, to Amsterdam, which was fair, and Mordent was surely not the sort of man to harbour resentment or to begrudge Danglard a trip to his beloved England.

‘It’s the science of reading hands. In other words, a waste of time. And we’re wasting time now. Emile Feuillant, you were wondering where you were going to sleep tonight, well, we’ve got the answer now.’

‘In the house,’ said Adamsberg.

‘No, in the shed,’ said Retancourt. ‘The house is still sealed.’

‘In the police cells,’ said Mordent.

Adamsberg detached himself from the wall and took a few steps down the path, hands in pockets. The gravel crunched under his feet, a sound he rather liked.

‘That’s not up to you, commandant,’ he said, detaching every word. ‘I haven’t called the divisionnaire yet, and he hasn’t spoken to the examining magistrate. Too soon, Mordent.’

‘No, too late, commissaire. The divisionnaire telephoned me, to say the magistrate has ordered Emile Feuillant’s arrest.’

‘Really,’ said Adamsberg, turning round, with folded arms. ‘The divisionnaire called, and you didn’t pass the call to me.’

‘He said he didn’t want to speak to you. I had to do what he said.’

‘Not normal procedure.’

‘Well, you don’t exactly play by the book yourself.’

‘Right now I am. And procedure says this arrest is premature and without sufficient cause. One might as well pull the son in for questioning, or someone from the painter’s family. Retancourt, what’s that family like?’

‘They’re devastated, they all think the same way, still hellbent on revenge. The mother killed herself a few months after the son. The father’s an engine driver, two other sons are away somewhere, one’s a truck driver, the other’s in the Legion.’

‘What do you say to that, Mordent? Worth checking out surely? And Pierre, the disinherited son? Do you think he didn’t know about the will? What could be easier than to accuse Emile and get the whole of the estate? Did you tell the divisionnaire that?’

‘I didn’t have that information. But it was the magistrate who insisted. Because Emile Feuillant’s got a record as long as your arm.’

‘And since when do we pull someone in on a hunch? Without waiting for forensics? Without any serious evidence?’

‘We do have two serious pieces of evidence.’

‘Right, I agree to be informed about them. Retancourt, are you up to speed on this?’

Retancourt scraped the gravel with her toe, like a restless animal. She had many remarkable qualities, but was not gifted for social relations. An ambiguous or tense situation, requiring subtle reactions or pretence left her looking awkward and disarmed.

‘What is all this bullshit anyway, Mordent?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘Since when is the judicial system in such a hurry? And who’s behind it?’

‘I don’t know, I’m just following orders.’

‘You’re following them a bit too closely,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So what are your two pieces of evidence?’

Mordent looked up. Emile was making himself inconspicuous, fiddling about setting fire to a twig.

‘We contacted the retirement home where Feuillant’s mother lives.’

‘S’not a retirement home, it’s a death camp.’

He was still blowing at the twig trying to kindle it. Too green, thought Adamsberg, it won’t catch.

‘The matron confirmed it. At least four months ago, Emile told his mother that they would soon be going somewhere else and they’d be able to live off the fat of the land. Everybody knew about it.’

‘Course they did,’ said Emile. ‘I told you, Vaudel told me I’d be rich, and I told my mother. Stands to reason, don’t it? Do I have to tell you twenty times? Man could go barmy here.’

‘All right,’ said Adamsberg calmly. ‘And the other element, Mordent?’

This time Mordent smiled. This time, he’s sure of himself, thought Adamsberg, he’s got the fish belly-up now. Looking closely, he thought Mordent’s face was showing signs of strain. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his cheeks were drawn.

‘There was horse manure on the floor of his van.’ He pointed to Emile.

‘So what?’ said Emile, stopping blowing on the twig.

‘We found at least four little balls of manure at the crime scene. The killer must have had it on his rubber boots.’

‘I don’t have no rubber boots, that’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘The judge thinks it does.’

Emile stood up, abandoning the twig, and pocketed his tobacco and matches. He bit his lip, looking suddenly panicked. Discouraged, piteous, as still as an old crocodile. Too still. Was it at that moment that Adamsberg realised? He never quite knew. What he did know for sure was that he took a step back from Emile, creating a gap