An Uncertain Place

night, he only came into the office at half past twelve. Alibi? Yesterday he was with the doctor. This morning? He was with the doctor. He fainted, something which doesn’t ever happen. So the doctor’s in on it too. These three have concocted it between them, Adamsberg, Emile and Josselin. They only met three days ago so-called, but they seem to get on very well with each other. Anomaly number nine. Result: Emile gets life or at least thirty years for the murder of Vaudel senior and fraud relating to the will. Adamsberg gets the sack and falls off his pedestal, on account of forgery and complicity in homicide, and tampering with evidence. Twenty years. That’s it. Now Adamsberg has four days to try and save his skin.’

Adamsberg lit another cigarette off the first one. Good thing Josselin had put his boiler right that morning when he had been on the brink of a total emotional breakdown. Zerk and now Danglard, both of them living in fantasy land.

‘And who would believe that, Danglard?’ he said, carefully stubbing out the butt.

‘You’re smoking again?’

‘Only since you started talking.’

‘Better not. It’s a sign of changed behavioural patterns.’

‘Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, in a louder voice, ‘Who. Would. Believe. That?’

‘Nobody yet. But in four days, maybe three, Brezillon might and the Avignon police as well. Then the others. Because cartridge or not, Pierre Vaudel is not under arrest at the moment.’

‘And why would they believe all that?’

‘Because it was a set-up. It’s obvious, good grief.’

Danglard suddenly looked at Adamsberg with a disgusted expression.

‘You don’t think I b-believe this, do you? he said stuttering, which was rare for him.

‘How would I know, commandant? You’re very convincing with your little scenario. I almost believe it myself.’

Danglard went out of the room again and returned with his wine glass full.

‘I am being very convincing,’ he said, detaching every word, ‘in order to convince you of what those who are being made to believe it will believe.’

‘Speak plain French, Danglard.’

‘I told you yesterday. Someone’s out to get you. Someone who will do anything to stop you finding the Garches murderer. Someone whose life will be ruined if you do. Someone with a long arm, someone way up in the hierarchy. Probably some relation of the real killer. You’ve got to be moved off the case, and someone else has to be the fall guy for the Zerquetscher. Simple, isn’t it? The first blunders in the investigation didn’t get you taken off the job. That’s why they moved on, and gave the supposed Zerquetscher’s name to the press, so that he could escape. Then they planted the cartridge in Pierre’s kitchen with your pencil shavings. Now they’ve got you. Automatically. But to do all that, the man up in the hierarchy has to have an accomplice, someone who’s here on the spot. Who could have got hold of the pencil shavings? Someone in the squad. Who had access to the cartridges? Mordent and Maurel. Who has disappeared from circulation this morning, nervous breakdown, off sick, no visitors? Mordent. I warned you about this in the cafe, and you said I was having unworthy thoughts. I told you his daughter’s case was coming up in a couple of weeks. She’ll get off, you’ll see, and that’s all fine and dandy for her and for her father. But you’ll be under lock and key by then.’

Adamsberg blew out his smoke with more force than necessary.

‘Do you believe me?’ Danglard asked. ‘You see what’s going on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cricket,’ repeated Danglard, who took no interest in sport. ‘Catch the ball. Three or four days at the outside.’

XXVII

‘SO IT MEANS WE HAVE TO FIND ZERK BY THEN,’ SAID Adamsberg.

‘Zerk?’

‘The Zerquetscher. Thalberg sent us his file.’

‘Yes, it’s here,’ said Danglard, lifting up his wine glass and pointing to a pink folder with a wet ring on it. ‘Sorry about the stain.’

‘If stains on files were all we had to worry about, Danglard, life would be a breeze. We could smoke fags and drink wine all day, and go fishing in your friend Stock’s loch. We could make as many wine stains as we liked on tables, we could go boating with your kids and my little Tom, and we could spend old Vaudel’s money with Emile and his dog.’

Adamsberg gave a broad smile, the kind that always reassured Danglard, however bad things seemed. Then he frowned.

‘But what on earth can they say about the Austrian murder? This person with the long arm – what can he say? Is Emile supposed to have committed that too? It won’t wash.’

‘They’ll just say that has nothing to do with it. They’ll say Emile carried out a copycat murder on the Austrian model, because he lacks imagination.’

Adamsberg reached out to take a mouthful from Danglard’s wine glass. Without Danglard and his relentless logic, he wouldn’t have seen this coming.

‘I’m going to London,’ Danglard announced. ‘The shoes will lead us to him.’

‘No, you’re not going anywhere, commandant. I’m going. And I need someone to take charge of the squad. Make your contacts with Stock by telephone or video link.’

‘No. Put Retancourt in charge.’

‘She’s too junior in rank, and I don’t have the right to promote her. We’ve got enough trouble on our hands as it is.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘You already said it: the shoes will lead us to him.’

Adamsberg showed him the postcard: a picturesque village against a background of mountains and blue skies. Then he turned it over. In Cyrillic script, in capital letters, the name KИCEЛEBO: Kisilova, the demon’s village. ‘Who was it that prowled at the edge of the wood? That’s what this word KИCEЛEBO means?’

‘Yes, Kiseljevo originally. But we already talked about that. Twenty years on, nobody will be able to remember the foot-chopper.’

‘That’s not what I’m after. I’m going to try and find the dark tunnel that links Vaudel to this village. We have to find it, Danglard, go right in and dig up the history and tear out its roots.’

‘So when are you going?’

‘In four hours from now. I couldn’t get a direct flight at this notice, so I’m flying to Venice, and getting the night train to Belgrade. I’ve reserved two places, and the embassy is trying to find me a translator.’

Danglard shook his head, looking hostile. ‘You’ll be too exposed. I’m coming with you.’

‘No, no way. It isn’t just the problem of the squad. If they really want to get me, and you come with me, you’ll go down with the ship. And if they do try to take me in, you’re the only person who could get me out of jail. It could take you ten years, so hang on in there. But meantime, keep away from me, keep right outside this. That way, I’m not going to contaminate you, or anyone else in the squad.’

‘I give in. If it’s a translator you want, Slavko’s grandson might fit the bill. Vladislav Moldovan. He works as an interpreter for research institutes. He’s a nice guy, like his grandfather. If I say it’s for Slavko, he’ll engineer some time off. When does the Venice-Belgrade train leave?’

‘Nine thirty-two this evening. I’m going home now to pick up a packet and my watches. It bothers me not to have the time.’

‘So what? – your watches are never right.’

‘That’s because I set them by Lucio – he goes out to piss in the garden every hour and a half. But it’s a bit approximate.’

‘You just need to do the opposite. Set your watches by a clock and then you’ll know the exact time Lucio