An Uncertain Place

‘His face is all over the front page, suddenly he’s become a personality, a celebrity, an impressive monster. And who is he up against? Commissaire Adamsberg. At first he goes into shock. But he soon sees it as a golden opportunity. A new power and it’s fallen into his lap. A brilliant way to get his revenge on his father. What does he risk by acting the part of the monster for a day? Nothing. What does he get out of it? A lot. He can lay right into his father, show him his sins, make him feel guilt and responsibility. Does he even think about the handkerchief? No. His DNA at the murder scene? No, to him it’s just some mistake, they’ll find out soon enough. The proof is that he was tipped off, and told to lie low until things settle down. He hasn’t much time. This is a chance to be taken, a stroke of fate, and he’d better make the most of it. So he turns up at his father’s place dressed for the part. He talks like a killer, he turns into Zerk, he insults this bastard of an Adamsberg, he’s going to demolish him. Look, Adamsberg, your son’s a monster, your son’s got the upper hand now! And it’s all your fault, so now you’re going to suffer the way I’ve suffered. No good shouting and saying you’re sorry, it’s too late. Then once he’s put on his little show, he pushes off, leaving remorse and distress in Adamsberg’s head. His father’s out of action, he’s got his revenge. Your nephew’s not as sweet-tempered as all that.’

‘Not to you, no.’

‘Right. So he’s feeling quite pleased with himself. But no correction is published about the DNA found in Garches. He’s still a wanted murderer. The little drama goes into reverse. He needs his father now, but he’s confessed to the murder, claimed it. So now he’s scared stiff, is Armel, and he has to make a getaway. An outcome that any manipulative man with an ounce of sangfroid could have predicted. So who? It must be someone who’s known him a while, someone with a hold over him.’

‘The choirmaster,’ said Veyrenc, banging his glass down on the table. ‘Germain. He has a hold over him. I never liked him, nor did my sister, but Armel thinks the sun shines out of him.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Armel’s a tenor, he’s sung in a choir ever since he was twelve: Notre-Dame de la Croix-Faubin. I often used to take him to choir practice and listen. The choirmaster had his claws into him. That’s the kind of man he is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, by blowing hot and cold, alternating compliments and criticism, so Armel got to be like putty in his hands. Mind you, he wasn’t the only one, Germain had over a dozen of them round him like that. Then he was transferred to Paris and it stopped. No more choir. But when Armel went to Paris as well, it started up again. He sang a solo in a Rossini Mass and got a lot of praise. He loved it. At twenty-six, he was back under Germain’s thumb. But a year or two back, Germain was charged with sexual harassment and the choir was dissolved. And like a dope, Armel was broken-hearted.’

‘Did he go on seeing him?’

‘He swears not, but I suspect he’s lying. Maybe the guy asks him round, gets him to sing for him. It’s flattering, just like when he was a kid. Armel feels important to the father, whereas it’s the father who possesses him.’

‘What do you mean “father”?’

‘In the religious sense. Father Germain.’

‘What’s his real name?’

‘I don’t know, that’s what they called him.’

Danglard had left the office, gone home and taken off his elegant suit. Now he was slouching in his vest in front of the television’s blank screen, chewing cough drops one after another to keep his jaws occupied. In one hand he held his mobile, in the other his glasses, and checked about every five minutes to see if there was a message. Finally after several hours, 00 381 bleeped. He mopped his face with his handkerchief and deciphered the text message: ‘Risen from tomb. Run check Fr Germain choirmaster N-D Croix- Faubin.’

What tomb for heaven’s sake? With sweating hands, Danglard tapped in his reply, his throat tight with rage, but his muscles relaxing with relief. ‘Why no message B4?’

‘No sgnl wrong time so slept.’

True, thought Danglard guiltily. He had only come out of the basement when he had been dragged out by Retancourt.

‘What tomb?’ he texted.

‘Vault 9 victims Plogojowitz. V cold. Feet recvrd.’

‘Uncle’s cousin’s feet?’

‘Mine. Back tomorrow.’

XLI

ADAMSBERG WAS NOT A MAN WHO WENT IN FOR EMOTION: he skirted around strong feelings with caution, like swifts who only brush past windows with their wings, never going in, because they know it will be difficult to get out. He had often found dead birds in the village houses back home, imprudent visitors who had ventured inside and never again found their way back to the open air. Adamsberg considered that when it came to love, humans were no wiser than birds. And in most other respects birds were a lot more canny. Like those butterflies that had refused to go into the mill.

But his stay in the vault must have dealt him a blow, sending his emotional responses into turmoil, so that leaving Kisilova tugged at his heartstrings. Kisilova, the only place where he had been able to memorise new unpronounceable words, which was something rare for him.

Danica had washed and ironed the beautiful white embroidered shirt for him to take back to Paris. Everyone had lined up in front of the kruchema to say goodbye, standing stiffly to attention and smiling. Danica, Arandjel, the woman with the cart and her children, the regulars from the hotel, Vukasin, Bosko and his wife, who hadn’t let him leave her side since the day before, plus a few unknown faces. Vlad was going to stay on a few days. He had carefully combed his dark hair and tied up his ponytail. Ordinarily incapable of showing affection, Adamsberg hugged them each in turn, saying that he would be back – vraticu se – that they were all his friends – prijatelji. Danica’s sadness was diluted a little, in that she now didn’t know which one she would miss most, the dancer or the enchanter. Vlad said a final ‘plog’, and Adamsberg and Veyrenc made their way to the bus which would take them to Belgrade. Their flight would see them in Paris by mid-afternoon. Vladislav had written out a sheet of phrases they would need at the airport. As they went down the path carrying a bag of provisions from Danica which would easily last them two days, Veyrenc muttered:

‘He must now leave this place and its sweet fragrant air.

He leaves broken-hearted, lamenting his fate.

And his son, whom he found, but already too late.’

‘You know, Mercadet says that you don’t observe all the rules for alexandrines properly – you don’t always have exactly twelve syllables for instance.’

‘He’s right.’

‘Something’s wrong, Veyrenc.’

‘Yes, I know, that second line doesn’t scan.’

‘No, I’m talking about the dog hairs. Your nephew had this dog, and it died a few weeks before the Garches murder.’

‘Tintin, a stray he’d taken in. His fourth. That’s what abandoned kids do, they rescue stray dogs. So what’s the problem about its hairs?’

‘They compared them with Tintin’s hairs from his flat, and they were the same.’

‘The same as what?’

The bus started its engine.

‘In the room where the Vaudel murder took place, the killer sat on this velvet armchair. A Louis XIII armchair.’

‘Why does it matter that it was Louis XIII?’

‘Because Mordent was keen on it, never mind what he’s been up to since. And the killer sat on it.’

‘To get his breath back, I suppose.’