‘
‘What did he say?’ asked Mordent, looking surprised, and for a moment back to normal, which seemed to Danglard to be a good sign.
‘He’s still got a little bit of the Kisilova
Adamsberg came back towards them, looking preoccupied.
‘Danglard, I know you’ve told me this before, but where does the Seine rise?’
‘On the Langres plateau.’
‘Not Mont Gerbier de Jonc?’
‘No, that’s the Loire.’
‘
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘That means “thank you”,’ Danglard told Mordent. Adamsberg walked off again towards the river, with jaunty steps and holding his jacket over his shoulder with one finger. Mordent raised his glass clumsily, like a man who is not sure if he has the right to do so, and moved it first in the direction of Adamsberg then towards Danglard sitting beside him.
‘
L
ADAMSBERG WALKED FOR OVER AN HOUR ON THE BANK OF the Seine that was in sunlight, listening to the seagulls mewing in French, and holding his mobile in his hand, waiting for a call from London. It came through at 2.15, as Stock had promised. It was a very short conversation, since Adamsberg had left a single question with DCI Radstock, one to which he had only to reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
‘Yes,’ said Radstock, in English. Adamsberg thanked him and snapped his phone shut. He hesitated a moment, then chose Estalere’s number. The young
‘Estalere,’ he said, ‘go and see Josselin in hospital. I’ve got a message for him.’
‘Yes, sir, what shall I say?’
‘Tell him that the tree on Highgate Hill is dead.’
‘The tree in Highgate?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will do,
Adamsberg went back up the boulevard slowly, imagining the tree roots in Kiseljevo rotting away around the grave.
Where will they grow again, Peter?
About the Author
Fred Vargas was born in Paris in 1957. As well as being a best-selling author in France, she is an historian and archaeologist.
