This Night’s Foul Work

Third Virgin didn’t exist, and they weren’t going to get involved. So the brown ibex said, “OK, let’s just drop it.” Look, Tom, I’m going to do it again.’

Adamsberg rang Danglard’s number.

‘Capitaine, I’m still educating my little one. Once upon a time, there was a king.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was in love with the wife of one of his generals.’

‘Yes.’

‘So he sent his rival off into battle, knowing that he would be killed.’

‘Correct.’

‘Danglard, what was the king called?’

‘David,’ said Danglard, in a hollow voice, ‘and the general he sacrificed was called Uriah. David married his widow, who became Queen Bathsheba, mother of the future King Solomon.’

‘See, Tom, how simple it is,’ said Adamsberg to his son, who was snuggled up on his stomach.

‘Are you saying that for my benefit?’ asked Danglard.

Adamsberg sensed the lifelessness in his deputy’s voice.

‘If you think it was me that got Veyrenc set up to be killed,’ Danglard went on, ‘you’re quite right. I could say I didn’t mean it to happen, and I could swear that I had no idea that’s how it would turn out. But so what? Who would ever know whether I didn’t really want it to happen, deep down?’

‘Capitaine, don’t you think we worry enough about what we really do think, without having to worry about what we might have thought if we did think it?’

‘Maybe,’ said Danglard, in a barely audible voice.

‘Listen, Danglard, he’s not dead, nobody’s dead. Except perhaps you, drinking yourself to death in your sitting- room.’

‘I’m in the kitchen.’

‘Danglard?’

No answer.

‘Danglard, get a bottle of wine and come over here. I’m on my own with Tom. Saint Clarisse has popped out for a walk. With the tanner, I dare say.’

The commissaire hung up so that Danglard couldn’t refuse. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘remember the very wise chamois, who had read all those books? And had done something very stupid? Well, the inside of his head was so complicated that he got lost inside it himself in the evenings. And sometimes during the day as well. And not all his wisdom and knowledge helped him to find a way out. So then the ibex had to throw him a rope and pull hard to get him out of it.’

Adamsberg suddenly looked up at the ceiling. From the attic came a slight sound, as of a robe swishing over the ground. So Saint Clarisse had not popped out to see the tanner after all.

‘It’s nothing, Tom. A bird or the wind. Or a rag blowing over the floor.’

In order to sort out the inside of Danglard’s head, Adamsberg made a good fire in the grate. It was the first time he had used the fireplace, and the flames rose up high and clear without smoking out the room. This was how he intended to burn the Unsolved Question about King David, which was clogging up his deputy’s head, spreading doubts into all its corners. As soon as he came in, Danglard sat down by the fire alongside Adamsberg, who added log after log to the fire to reduce his anguish to ashes. At the same time, without telling Danglard, Adamsberg was burning the last traces of his resentment of Veyrenc.

Seeing the two ruffians from Caldhez again, hearing Roland’s vicious voice, had brought the past back to mind, and the cruel attack in the High Meadow reappeared to him in full colour. The scene played itself out from start to finish before his eyes, in screaming detail. The little kid on the ground, held down by Fernand, while Roland approached with a piece of broken glass. ‘Not a peep out of you, you little shit.’ The panic of little eight- year-old Veyrenc, his head bleeding, his stomach slashed, in unspeakable pain. And himself, young Adamsberg, standing motionless under the tree. He would give a lot not to have lived through that scene, so that this unfinished memory would stop pricking him thirty-four years later. So that the flames would burn away Veyrenc’s persistent trauma. And, he caught himself thinking, well, if being in Camille’s arms could help Veyrenc get rid of it, so be it. On condition that the damned Bearnais didn’t take his territory. Adamsberg threw another log on the flames and smiled vaguely. The territory he shared with Camille was out of Veyrenc’s reach. He needn’t worry.

By midnight, Danglard, at last feeling calmer about King David, and soothed by the serenity emanating from Adamsberg, was finishing the last of the bottle he had brought with him.

‘Burns well, your fire,’ he commented.

‘Yes, that was one of the reasons I wanted this house. Remember old Clementine’s fireplace? I spent night after night in front of it. I would light the end of a twig and make circles in the dark, like this.’

Adamsberg put out the overhead light and plunged a long twig into the flames, then traced circles and figures-of-eight in the near-darkness.

‘Pretty,’ said Danglard.

‘Yes, pretty, and mesmerising.’

Adamsberg gave the twig to his deputy and rested his feet on the brick surround, pushing his chair back.

‘I’m going to have to drop the third virgin, Danglard. Nobody seems to believe in her, nobody wants to know. And I haven’t the slightest idea how to find her. I’ll have to abandon her to her fate and her cups of coffee.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Danglard, blowing gently on the end of the twig to rekindle it.

‘No?’

‘No, I don’t believe you’re going to let her drop. Nor am I. I think you’ll go on looking. Whether the others agree or not.’

‘But do you think she even exists? Do you think she’s in danger?’

Danglard drew a few figures-of-eight.

‘The hypothesis based on the De Reliquis is very fragile,’ he replied. ‘It’s like a thread of gossamer, but the thread does exist. And it links together all these odd elements in the story. It even links up to the business of shoe polish on the soles of the shoes and dissociation.’

‘How?’ asked Adamsberg, taking back the twig.

‘In medieval incantatory ceremonies, people drew a circle on the ground. In the middle of it would be the woman who would dance and call up the devil. The circle was a way of separating off one piece of ground from the rest of the earth. Our killer is working on a piece of ground that belongs just to her, spinning her thread inside her own circle.’

‘Retancourt hasn’t gone along with me about this thread,’ said Adamsberg, rather grumpily.

‘I don’t know where Retancourt is,’ said Danglard, pulling a face. ‘She didn’t come into the office again today. And there’s still no reply from her home.’

‘Have you called her brothers?’ asked Adamsberg with a frown.

‘Called her brothers, called her parents, called a couple of her friends I had the numbers of. Nobody’s seen her. She didn’t let us know she wouldn’t be in. And nobody in the squad has any idea what she’s up to.’

‘What was she working on?’

‘She was supposed to be on the Miromesnil murder with Mordent and Gardon.’

‘Have you listened to her answering machine?’

‘Yes, but there are no particular messages about meeting anyone.’

‘Are any of the squad cars missing?’

‘No.’

Adamsberg threw down the twig and stood up. He paced around the room for a few moments with folded arms.

‘Capitaine, raise the alarm.’

XLIII