An Uncertain Place

round his neck very tightly so that he couldn’t swallow. Or they buried him face down so that he would just eat the earth, and that way he’d sink deeper down.’

‘And some people eat wardrobes,’ said Adamsberg under his breath. Vlad stopped translating, unsure he had heard right. ‘Did you say wardrobes?’

‘Yes. Thekophagists, the people are called.’

Vlad conveyed this and Arandjel did not look too surprised. ‘Do you have many examples of that?’ he asked.

‘No, but there was a man who ate a whole aeroplane once. And in London, a lord ate the photographs of his mother.’

‘Now I once knew a man who ate his own finger,’ said Arandjel, sticking his thumb in the air. ‘He cut it off and cooked it. But next day he couldn’t remember a thing about it and he went round looking for his finger. It happened in Ruma. For a long time people wondered whether they should tell him the truth or pretend that a bear had attacked him in the woods and bitten off the finger. They chanced to come across a dead bear some time later, and they brought him the bear’s head. The man was quite happy after that – he thought his finger was inside the bear and he hung on to its head, even when it rotted away.’

‘Ah, like the polar bear,’ said Adamsberg. ‘The one that ate the uncle on the ice floe, and the nephew brought back its skin to his widow, and she kept it too. In her sitting room.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Arandjel. ‘Quite remarkable.’

Adamsberg felt somehow fortified, even if he had had to come all this way to find a man who appreciated the story of the bear as it should be. But now he had lost the thread of the conversation, as Arandjel could tell from his eyes.

‘Yes, vampires want to eat the living, and they try to eat their shrouds, the earth they lie in, everything,’ he said. ‘That’s why people didn’t trust anyone with abnormal teeth. People whose teeth were particularly long for instance, or babies who were born with one or two teeth.’

‘Born with teeth?’

‘Yes, it isn’t as rare as all that. Julius Caesar now, he was born with teeth, and so was your Napoleon and your Louis XIV in France. And plenty of others, who weren’t famous. Some people thought it wasn’t a sign of being a vampire but that you were a superior being. Take me,’ he said, tapping his glass against his discoloured teeth. ‘I was born like Caesar.’

Adamsberg waited for the loud howl of laughter from Vladislav and Arandjel to subside, then asked for a piece of paper. He reproduced the sketch he had done for the squad, marking the parts of the body which had been attacked. ‘Oh yes, splendid,’ said Arandjel, picking up the drawing. ‘That’s right, the joints, to stop the body moving. Feet, of course, specially big toes, so he couldn’t walk. Mouth and teeth. Liver, heart and soul. In the old days, the heart, which is the seat of a vampire’s life, might be taken out of the body for special treatment. This is a magnificent piece of destruction, by someone who knew exactly what he was doing,’ Arandjel concluded, as if he were judging a professional piece of work.

‘Because it wasn’t possible to burn the body perhaps?’

‘Precisely. But what he did came to the same thing.’

‘Arandjel, could it be that someone out there really believes all this sufficiently to make him want to wipe out Plogojowitz’s descendants?’

‘What do you mean “believes all this”? Everyone believes it, young man. Everyone is afraid that at night a tombstone will fall over and you’ll feel a cold breath on your neck. And nobody likes to think of the dead as making good companions. Believing in vampires is just the same.’

‘I don’t mean an ancient, traditional kind of fear, Arandjel. I mean someone who believes this literally, who thinks all the Plogojowitzes are authentic vampiri, and should be exterminated. Is that possible?’

‘Yes, undoubtedly, if he thinks this has caused all his misfortune. People look for an external cause for their suffering, and the more they suffer, the greater the cause must be. In this case, the killer’s suffering is immense. So his response is on the same scale.’

Arandjel turned round to talk to Vladislav, slipping Adamsberg’s drawing into his pocket. He wanted the chairs to be taken outside, underneath the lime tree, overlooking the bend in the river, and to take advantage of the sunshine, with some glasses on the table.

‘No more rakija… please,’ Adamsberg whispered.

‘Pivo? Beer?’

‘Yes, if it won’t offend him.’

‘No bother, he likes you. Not many people come to talk to him about his beloved vampiri and you’ve brought him a new case. It’s a great distraction for him.’

The three men sat around under the tree in the warm sunshine, listening to the chuckling of the river, and Arandjel began to close his eyes. A mist had started to rise, and Adamsberg looked across to the other bank at the peaks of the Carpathians.

‘Hurry up before he goes to sleep,’ Vladislav warned him.

‘Yes, this is where I take my siesta,’ the old man confirmed.

‘Arandjel, I have two final questions.’

‘I’ll keep listening as long as there’s still some drink in my glass,’ said Arandjel, taking a very small sip and looking amused.

Adamsberg felt as if he had been caught in an intelligent trap, where he would have to think quickly before the alcohol started to disappear, like sand running through an hourglass. When the glass was empty, the words of wisdom would dry up. He estimated that the time in front of him was about five mouthfuls of rakija.

‘Is there any connection between Plogojowitz and the old graveyard in north London, Higg-gate Cemetery?’

‘Highgate you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Much worse than a connection, young man. Long before they made the cemetery, people say that the body of a Turk was taken to the top of the hill, in his coffin, and that his was the only grave there for a long time. Well, people get a lot of things wrong: he wasn’t a Turk at all, but a Serb, and he’s supposed to be the master vampire, Plogojowitz himself. Fleeing his native land to go and reign from London. They even say that it was his presence on the hill that spontaneously caused the building of the cemetery.’

‘Plogojowitz, the master of London?’Adamsberg whispered to himself, quite taken aback. ‘So the person who put the shoes there wasn’t making an offering to him, but provoking him, picking a quarrel, showing him his powers.’

‘Ti to verjues,’ said Vlad, looking at Adamsberg and shaking his long hair. ‘You really believe it. Don’t let Arandjel bewitch you with his tales, that’s what my dedo always told me. He’s just having fun with you.’

Adamsberg once more allowed the gales of laughter to finish, watching the level of the alcohol in Arandjel’s glass. Meeting his eyes, Arandjel swallowed another mouthful. Just a centimetre left now. ‘Time is passing, ask your second question.’ That was what Arandjel’s smile seemed to say, like the sphinx testing passers-by.

‘Arandjel, was there anyone who was specially singled out for treatment by Plogojowitz? Is it possible that there’s some family that thinks it is a particular victim of the Plogojowitz clan’s powers?’

‘Irrelevant,’ said Vlad, repeating what Danglard had said. ‘I already told you. It’s his own family that was targeted.’

Arandjel raised his hand to tell Vladislav to be quiet.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right,’ he went on, pouring himself another small slug of rakija. ‘You have won the right to a last little glass before my siesta.’

A concession that seemed to suit the old man very well. Adamsberg took out his notebook.

‘No,’ said Arandjel firmly. ‘If you can’t remember it’s because it’s not interesting enough to you, so you won’t have missed anything.’

‘OK, I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg, pocketing the notebook.

‘There was one family at least that was persecuted by Plogojowitz. In a village called Medwegya, not far from