This Night’s Foul Work

who did not himself appear to be preoccupied by the potential mutiny in the squad. Danglard, stony-faced, was still holding the bridge, although he was one of those who had the gravest doubts about Adamsberg’s orders. But in the face of a mutiny, he would have allowed himself to be chopped into tiny pieces rather than admit this; and he continued stolidly defending the De reliquis theory, though without placing any faith in it. Veyrenc had not taken sides, contenting himself with carrying out his duties and trying to keep a low profile. Since the conference of the Three Virgins, he and the commissaire had suddenly been placed on a war footing, but he had no idea why.

Strangely enough, Retancourt, one of the leading positivists in the squad, had remained neutral throughout, like a blase supervisor on duty in a rowdy playground. Quieter than usual and deep in concentration, Retancourt had appeared to be absorbed in a problem known only to herself. She had not even turned up for work on Monday morning. Puzzled at this, Danglard had consulted Estalere, who was reckoned to be the expert on the polyvalent goddess.

‘She’s channelling all her energy in one direction,’ was Estalere’s diagnosis. ‘There’s not an ounce left for us, and hardly any for the cat.’

‘And what’s she channelling it into, in your opinion?’

‘It’s not administrative, not family, nothing physical. Not technical,’ said Estalere, ticking off the possibilities, I think it’s, how shall I put it…?’ Estalere pointed to his forehead.

‘Intellectual,’ said Danglard

‘Yes,’ said Estalere. ‘It’s something she’s thinking about. Something’s intrigued her.’

Adamsberg was in fact acutely conscious of the climate which he had produced in the squad, and he was attempting to control it. But the recordings of Veyrenc had seriously upset him, and he was having difficulty regaining his equilibrium. The phone-tapping had not taken him one step further in his research into the war of the two valleys and the deaths of Fernand and Big Georges. Veyrenc called nobody except one or two relatives and friends, and never commented on his work with the squad. On the other hand, Adamsberg had twice overheard Veyrenc and Camille in bed, and was crushed by the thought of their two bodies, wounded by the crudity of real lives when they are those of other people. And now he deeply regretted his action. Their relationship, far from enabling him to get close to them and control them, was in fact driving him ever further from them. He wasn’t there in that bedroom, it wasn’t his space. He had invaded it like an intruder and he would have to leave it. The disappointed recognition that there was an inaccessible space belonging only to Camille and which did not concern him at all was gradually beginning to replace his anger. All that was left for him to do was return to his own territory, chastened and soiled, encrusted with memories that he would have to destroy. He had spent a long time walking around listening to the seagulls, in order to understand that he would have to give up his siege of an imaginary citadel.

Feeling relieved and as if recovering from a fever which had left him drained, he crossed the Council Chamber and looked at the map which Justin was completing. On seeing him come in, Veyrenc had immediately withdrawn into a defensive posture.

‘Twenty-nine,’ said Adamsberg, reckoning up the red drawing pins.

‘We’ll never manage it,’ said Danglard. ‘We’ll have to narrow down the criteria to keep it more controllable.’

‘What about their way of life?’ suggested Maurel. ‘We could rule out the ones who live with someone else – parents, brother, aunt – because they’d be less accessible to a killer.’

‘No, we can’t assume that,’ said Danglard. ‘Elisabeth was killed on her way to work.’

‘What about the wood of the Cross? Any joy there?’ wondered Adamsberg in a husky voice, as if he had had a cough for a week.

‘There are no other relics in the whole of Upper Normandy,’ replied Mercadet. ‘And there’ve been no thefts during the period in question. The last dodgy sale reported was of some relics of Saint Demetrius of Salonika, fifty-four years ago.’

‘And the angel of death. Any sightings of her in the area?’

‘There is one possibility,’ said Gardon. ‘But we’ve only got three witnesses. A district nurse came to live in Vecquigny six years ago. That’s only three kilometres north-east of Le Mesnil. The description’s a bit vague. A woman between sixty and seventy, small, neat, chatty. Could be just about anyone. They remembered her in Le Mesnil, Vecquigny and Meilleres. She was practising there about a year.’

‘Long enough to pick up information, then. Do we know why she left?’

‘No.’

‘Let’s just drop it,’ said Justin, who had crossed over into the positivist camp during the rebellion.

‘Drop what, lieutenant?’ said Adamsberg in a faraway voice.

‘Everything. The book, the cat, the third virgin, the bits of bone, the whole bloody lot. It’s a complete load of bollocks.’

‘I don’t need any more men on this business,’ said Adamsberg, sitting down in the middle of the room with everyone looking at him. ‘All the facts have been assembled. We can’t do any more, either through the files or on the ground.’

‘Well, how do we proceed, then?’ asked Gardon, still hoping for a lead.

‘Intellectually,’ hazarded Estalere, imprudently joining the discussion.

‘You’re the intellectual genius who’s going to find the solution, are you, Estalere?’ asked Mordent.

‘Anyone who wants to be taken off this case can go,’ said Adamsberg in the same tired voice. ‘In fact, they’re needed elsewhere. We need someone to look at the death in the rue de Miromesnil and the fight at Alesia. And there needs to be an inquiry into the outbreak of food poisoning at the nursing home in Auteuil. We’re behind on all these cases.’

‘I think Justin’s got a point,’ said Mordent, in a level tone. ‘I think we’re on the wrong track, commissaire. After all, if you take the long view, it started with a cat that some kids could have been tormenting.’

‘A penile bone taken from a cat,’ said Kernorkian defensively.

‘I just don’t believe in the third virgin,’ said Mordent.

‘I don’t even believe in the first,’ said Justin gloomily.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Lamarre. ‘That Elisabeth woman was dead all right.’

‘I meant the Virgin Mary.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Adamsberg, putting on his jacket. ‘But the third virgin’s out there somewhere, drinking her little cup of coffee, and I’m not going to let her die.’

‘What little cup of coffee?’ asked Estalere, but Adamsberg had already left the building.

‘Nothing,’ said Mordent. ‘It’s just a way of saying she’s carrying on with her life.’

XXXVIII

FRANCINE DIDN’T LIKE OLD THINGS. THEY WERE DIRTY AND RICKETY. SHE really felt happy only in the immaculate universe of the pharmacy where she did the cleaning and laundry and stacked the shelves. But she didn’t like returning to the old family home, which was dirt-encrusted and tumbledown. When he was alive, Honore Bidault wouldn’t let anyone touch it, but now what difference could it make? For the last two years, Francine had been planning her move away, far from the old farmhouse, to a brand-new flat in town. And she would leave everything here – the crocks, the battered saucepans, the big old wardrobes – everything.

Half past eight in the evening was the best moment of the day. Francine had finished the dishes, closed the plastic rubbish bag firmly and taken it out to the doorstep. Dustbins attracted any number of insects – best not to keep them inside the house at night. She checked the kitchen, always with the fear that she might find a mouse or some disgusting insect, a caterpillar or spider – the house was crawling with nasty creatures like this that kept making their way in and out when you weren’t looking, and there was no way of getting rid of them because of the fields outside, the attic up above and the cellar down below. The only bunker which she had succeeded in protecting from these intruders was her bedroom. She had spent months blocking the chimney, cementing up all the cracks in the walls and the gaps under the windows and round the doors, and had put her bed up on bricks.