This Night’s Foul Work

‘What Haroncourt?’ Adamsberg asked, trying to control the map which was flapping about like a sail.

‘You know – Haroncourt, where you went for that concert, when you were being the gallant escort and babysitter.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten the name of the village. Have you noticed that maps are like newspapers, shirts and obsessions? Once you’ve unfolded them, there’s no way you can get them folded up again.’

‘Where did you get that map?’

‘From your office.’

‘Give it here, I’ll fold it,’ said Danglard, extending an impatient hand.

Danglard, unlike Adamsberg, appreciated those objects – and ideas – which imposed a discipline on him. Every other morning, he would find that his newspaper had already been consulted by Adamsberg and as a result was lying crumpled on the desk. For lack of any more serious matter, it bothered him. But he could hardly complain about this disorder, since the commissaire regularly arrived in the office before it was light – and looked at the newspaper – while never complaining about Danglard’s habitually poor timekeeping.

The officers were huddled in their usual spot in the brasserie, a long alcove lit by two large stained-glass windows that threw blue, green or red reflections on their faces, according to where they sat. Danglard, who considered the windows ugly and refused to have a blue face, always sat with his back to them.

‘Where’s Noel?’ asked Mordent.

‘On work experience by the Seine,’ explained the commissaire as he sat down.

‘Doing what?’

‘Inspecting the seagulls.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ said Voisenet peaceably, speaking as an indulgent positivist and zoologist.

‘Anything’s possible,’ Adamsberg agreed, putting a packet of photocopies on the table. ‘So now we’re going to work logically. I’ve prepared your marching orders, with a new description of the killer. For the moment, we’re looking for an older woman, height about one metre sixty-two, conventional in appearance, who may wear navy- blue shoes, and who has some kind of medical knowledge. We’re starting the inquiry at the Flea Market on this basis, in four teams. You’ll each have photos of the nurse Claire Langevin, the serial killer with the thirty-three victims.’

‘The angel of death?’ asked Mercadet, sipping his third cup of coffee ahead of the others, in order to stay awake. ‘Isn’t she in prison?’

‘Not any more. She killed a guard and escaped, ten months ago. She may have arrived via the Channel coast, and she’s probably back in France. Don’t show the photographs till the end of your inquiries, don’t influence the witnesses. It’s just a possibility, no more than a shadow of a chance.’

Just then Noel came into the cafe and found a place, in a green light, between two colleagues. Adamsberg glanced at his wristwatches. At this time, Noel should have still been going towards the river and have got as far as Saint-Michel. The commissaire hesitated, then said nothing. From his stubborn expression and insomnia-darkened eyes, it was clear that Noel was looking for an excuse to do something – lob a ball into play, for instance – either to pacify or to provoke. Better to bide one’s time.

‘As for this Shade,’ he went on, ‘approach her with the utmost caution, it’s dangerous territory. We need to find out whether Claire Langevin wore navy leather shoes, if possible whether they were polished, and in particular polished underneath.’

‘Underneath?’

‘You heard, Lamarre, polished on the soles. Like you put wax on the underneath of skis.’

‘What for?’

‘It insulates the wearer from the ground, so that they glide across it without touching it.’

‘Ah, I didn’t know that,’ said Estalere.

‘Retancourt, will you go to the last address we had for the nurse, that house? Try to find out from the estate agent where her belongings are. They might have been thrown out, or they may have been kept. And go and see the last patients she had dealings with.’

‘The ones she didn’t kill,’ pointed out Estalere.

There was a short silence, as so often after the naive remarks of the young officer. Adamsberg had explained to everyone that Estalere would settle down with time and that one had to be patient. So everyone tended to protect him, even Noel, since Estalere was not a sufficiently credible rival to pose any threat.

‘Go via the lab, Retancourt, and take a technical team with you. We need to look closely at the floors of the house. If she really did polish the underside of her shoes, there might be some traces on the floorboards or tiles.’

‘Unless the agency has had the whole place cleaned.’

‘True. But as I said, we’re proceeding logically for the time being.’

‘So we check for marks.’

‘And above all, Retancourt, you have to protect me. That’s your mission.’

‘Protect you? From…?’

‘Her. It’s possible that she’s after me. Apparently, according to the expert, she may want to eliminate me, so that she can carry on and rebuild the wall I tore down when we caught her.’

‘What wall?’ asked Estalere.

‘The wall inside her,’ said Adamsberg, tracing a line with his finger from his forehead to his navel.

Estalere leaned forward in concentration.

‘Is she a dissociator?’ he asked.

‘How did you know?’ asked Adamsberg, who was always astonished at the sudden flashes of intuition from the young brigadier.

‘I read Lagarde’s book. She talks about “inner walls”. I remember it perfectly. I remember everything.’

‘Well, you’re quite right. she’s a dissociator. You could all reread the book, in fact,’ said Adamsberg who had still not done so himself. ‘I can’t remember the exact title.’

‘Either Side of the Crime Wall,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg looked at Retancourt, who was flipping through the photographs of the elderly nurse and registering the details.

‘I don’t have time to protect myself from her,’ he said. ‘And I’m not really convinced enough to take steps. I’ve no idea what kind of danger it might be, from what direction it might come, or what precautions to take.’

‘How did she kill the prison guard?’

‘Stabbed him in the eyes with a fork, among other things. She would kill with her fingernails if she could, Retancourt. According to Lagarde, who’s familiar with her, she’s incredibly dangerous.’

‘Well, get a bodyguard, commissaire. That would be the most reasonable thing to do.’

‘I’d rather it was you – I’d have more confidence.’

Retancourt shook her head, weighing up the gravity of the mission and the irresponsibility of the commissaire.

‘I can’t help you at night,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to sleep standing up outside your door.’

‘Oh, night-time’s not a problem,’ said Adamsberg with an airy wave of the hand. ‘I’ve already got a bloodthirsty ghost keeping me company in the house.’

‘Really?’ asked Estalere.

‘A certain Saint Clarisse, who was killed by a heavy-fisted tanner in 1771,’ said Adamsberg, with a touch of pride. ‘She’s called “the Silent Sister”. She used to rob old folk and cut their throats. A direct rival for our nurse, if you like. If Claire Langevin tried to get into my house at night, she’d have a job to get near me. Because Saint Clarisse has a penchant for killing women, especially old ones. So you see, I’m not afraid.’

‘Who told you all that stuff?’

‘My neighbour, an ancient Spaniard with one hand. He lost the other in the civil war. He says the nun’s face is like a wrinkled walnut.’

‘How many did your one kill?’ asked Mordent, who seemed amused by the story. ‘Seven, like in fairy tales?’

‘Spot on.’