An Uncertain Place

‘A fang would be more accurate. A poisoned fang.’

‘Whatever. Just drop the snake, pass me the file and forget the whole thing.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Nolet, breathing out heavily. ‘I’m on the way to the office.’

‘When will you send it me?’

‘I’m not sending it, damn you. I’m taking it up again.’

‘Really? Or are you just going to sit on it?’

‘Adamsberg, at least do me the credit of believing me, or the whole lot goes to the bottom of the Loire. I’m that close.’

‘Plog,’ said Adamsberg to himself as he hung up.

Nolet was on Emma Carnot’s track, and Nolet was a good cop. As long as he didn’t take fright at the snake along the way. Adamsberg had no idea what ‘princeps’ meant but he got the point. People used a lot of difficult words, and he wondered how they managed to command them so well. At least he could remember the kruchema which was something not everyone could do.

He took a shower, put his gun and two mobiles under his pillow, and lay down, still damp, under his red eiderdown, remembering the faded blue one in the kruchema. He heard the neighbour’s door open and Lucio walking in the garden. So it must be between half past midnight and two in the morning. Unless, that is, Lucio wasn’t going out to take a leak, but to find a new cache for his beer. Which his daughter Maria would pretend to discover after a month or two, marking another stage in their unending game.

Think of Lucio, Charm, the blue eiderdown. Anything, except Zerk’s face, his threatening expression, his tough-guy talk, and his relentless and unthinking rage.

‘A nice enough boy, with the voice of an angel,’ or so Veyrenc said, but that wasn’t Adamsberg’s view. And yet there were some elements in the whole affair that were in Zerk’s favour: the dirty tissue, the very old feet in Highgate, the convenient boots under the stairs. But the dog hairs were a formidable obstacle. And Zerk would make a perfect killer, wax in the hands of some older man, some ‘Paole’. They would split the job, one going to Highgate, the other to Vaudel’s place. A sick couple, combining the psychopathic and powerful Arnold Paole and a disturbed and fatherless young man. Son of nobody, son of nobody in particular, son of Adamsberg. But son or not, Adamsberg did not feel the slightest bit inclined to lift a finger for Zerk.

XLV

THE SHRILL SOUND OF A CRICKET WAS HEARD IN THE ROOM. Adamsberg identified it as coming from his ordinary mobile – the one tapped by woodpeckers – and picked it up, checking his two watches. Somewhere between 2.45 and 4.15 a.m. Rubbing the sleep out his eyes, he looked at the phone which said he had two new messages. They were both from the same number, three minutes apart. The first one said por, the second qos. Adamsberg immediately called Froissy. Froissy never minded being woken at night. Adamsberg imagined she took the chance to have a little snack.

‘I’ve got two messages I can’t understand,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think they mean anything good. How long do you need to identify a caller from a mobile?’

‘For an unknown number? About a quarter of an hour. Ten minutes with luck, but you have to add half an hour for me to get to the office, because I don’t have my equipment at home. What’s the number?’

Adamsberg read out the number, feeling on edge, sensing there must be some urgency. Forty minutes was a long time.

‘Oh, I can tell you that one right away,’ said Froissy. ‘Because I just identified it this afternoon. It’s Armel Louvois.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘I was just starting to list all his calls. He doesn’t make many. There had been none for the last nine days because he must have switched the phone off when he disappeared. So why has he switched it back on? Why is he coming out of hiding? He’s sent you a message, you say?’

‘He sent me two incomprehensible texts.’

‘Texti,’ said Froissy automatically, adopting Danglard’s pedantic term for them.

‘Can you pinpoint where he is for me?’

‘If he hasn’t switched it off again.’

‘Can you do that from home?’

‘I can try, but it won’t be that easy.’

‘Please try as fast as you can.’

She had hung up. It was pointless to tell Froissy to hurry, she always did things as fast as a fly.

He pulled on his clothes, and picked up the holster and both mobiles. He realised as he was going downstairs that his T-shirt was on back to front. The label was scratching his neck. He’d fix it later. Froissy called back as he was pulling on a jacket.

‘He’s at the villa in Garches,’ she announced. ‘Another phone is transmitting from the same address. I’m trying to identify it.’

‘Keep trying.’

‘I’ll have to go to the office. Take me about an hour.’

Adamsberg alerted two teams and calculated the time. It would take thirty minutes at least before the first team could meet up at headquarters, then there was the distance out to Garches. If he went at once, he could be there in about twenty minutes. He hesitated, and all his instincts told him to wait. A trap. What the fuck was Zerk doing in the old man’s house? With another mobile? Or was he with Paole? And if so what was Zerk calling him for? A trap. Certain death. Adamsberg got into the car and leaned his arms on the steering wheel. They didn’t get him in the vault, they were having another go here, it was pretty obvious. To stay put was by far the wisest option. He read the messages again: por; qos. He switched on the ignition, then stopped. Yes, it was clear as daylight, it was obviously and logically a trap. His fingers gripping the key, he tried to think why, nevertheless, some other instinct was telling him he should get to Garches right away, an instinct with no reason to it, which had taken over his mind. He switched on the headlights and drove off.

Halfway there, after the Saint-Cloud tunnel, he pulled over on to the hard shoulder. Por, qos. He had just thought – if you could call it thinking – of Froissy’s ridiculous use of the term ‘texti’. That got him back to por again. And now he was almost sure that he had often seen por on his mobile. When he sent a text message and typed SMS, he often ended up with something like these words. Yes. When he tried doing SMS he ended up first with pop then por pos qos sos and finally sms.

SMS . SOS .

An SOS that Zerk wasn’t managing to tap in properly. He’d tried again, perhaps handling a phone without being able to see it, and got it wrong again. Adamsberg put his siren and lights on the roof and set off once more. If Zerk was setting a trap, he would surely have sent a comprehensible message. If he had failed to text SOS, it meant he couldn’t see the screen. Perhaps he was in the dark. Or perhaps the phone was in his pocket and he was typing while trying not to be seen. Not a trap, a call for help. Zerk was with Paole, and it was half an hour since he had sent the messages.

‘Danglard?’ Adamsberg said, calling while driving. ‘I’ve got an SOS from Zerk, done blind. The murderer must have taken him back to the crime scene where he’s going to suicide him. Finish things off.’

‘Father Germain.’

‘No, it can’t be him, Danglard. How would he have known the cat was a female? But that’s what he said. Don’t surround the house, and don’t try to get in via the door. He’ll certainly shoot him at once if he sees you. Just head for Garches, and wait for me to call you again.’

Still holding the wheel with one hand, he called Professor Lavoisier.

‘Lavoisier, I need a number for Emile at the hospital, it’s urgent.’