This Night’s Foul Work

south-west, though stopping to rest every twenty minutes. The procession of vehicles followed it from stop to stop. By eight-fifteen, they were going through Forges-les-Bains on the D 97.

‘He can’t hold out much longer,’ said Kernorkian, who was encouraging Danglard’s pessimism. ‘He’s clocked up thirty-five kilometres on his little paws.’

‘Shut up! He’s still moving, so far.’

At eight-thirty-five, with darkness now fallen, Adamsberg came back on the radio.

‘He’s stopped. On a minor road, the C12 between Chardonnieres and Bazoches, about two and a half kilometres from Forges. He’s in a field, north of the road. He’s off again. No, he’s turning round and round.’

‘He’s going to drop dead,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Give it a rest!’ cried Danglard, exasperated.

‘He’s hesitating,’ came Bastien’s voice.

‘Perhaps he’s going to stop for the night,’ suggested Mordent.

‘No,’ said Bastien. ‘He’s looking round for something. I’m going down.’

He brought the helicopter down about a hundred feet, hovering over the cat which was sitting still.

‘There’s a big hangar over there,’ said Adamsberg, pointing to a long roof of corrugated iron.

‘Used-car dump,’ said Froissy. ‘Seems to be abandoned.’

Adamsberg clenched his fingers on his knees. Froissy silently passed him a mint, which the commissaire accepted without query.

‘Well,’ said Bastien, ‘if you ask me, there are dogs in there, and the cat’s frightened. But I think that’s where he wants to go. I’ve had eight cats myself.’

‘Go towards the used-car dump,’ said Adamsberg to the cars. ‘You can reach it via the C8 where it meets the C6. We’re landing.’

‘Good,’ said Justin, driving off again. ‘We’re going to meet up.’ Grouped round the helicopter in an uncultivated field, Bastien, the nine police officers and the doctor were peering through the darkness at an old hangar surrounded by abandoned cars, with vegetation growing thickly around the rubbish. The dogs had seen the intruders and were approaching, barking furiously.

‘Three or four of them,’ commented Voisenet. ‘Big ones.’

‘That’s why the Snowball won’t move,’ said Froissy. ‘He doesn’t know how to get past them.’

‘We neutralise the dogs and keep watching the cat,’ decided Adamsberg. ‘Don’t go too near him, though – we don’t want him distracted.’

‘He looks in a strange state,’ said Froissy, who was sweeping the field with her night-vision binoculars and had them trained on the Snowball as he sat about forty metres away.

‘I’m scared of dogs,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Stay back, then, but don’t shoot. We’ll just try and knock them out.’

Three large dogs, apparently surviving in a semi-wild condition in the huge building, were by now charging at the police, well before they had reached the doors of the hangar. Kernorkian shrank back against the warm body of the helicopter, near the large reassuring bulk of Bastien, who was smoking a cigarette, while the other officers floored the dogs. Adamsberg looked at the hangar with its opaque broken windows and rusty half-open doors. Froissy started to move forward.

‘Don’t go far yet,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Wait for the cat to make a move.’

The Snowball, now encrusted with dirt up to his neck, and looking thinner as his bedraggled fur clung to him, was sniffing at one of the unconscious dogs. Then he sat down and started washing one paw carefully, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘What the fuck’s he up to?’ said Voisenet, shining his flashlight across.

‘Maybe he’s got a thorn in his paw,’ said the doctor, a quiet, patient man, who was entirely bald.

‘I’m walking wounded, too,’ said Justin, showing his hand, which had been grazed by the teeth of one of the dogs. ‘But I’m not taking time off.’

‘It’s just an animal, Justin,’ said Adamsberg.

The Snowball finished that paw, washed another, then set off towards the hangar, suddenly breaking into run for the second time that day.

Adamsberg punched one fist into the other hand.

‘She’s got to be in there,’ he said. ‘Four men round the back, the rest with me. Doctor, come with us.’

‘Dr Lavoisier,’ said the doctor. ‘Like Lavoisier the chemist, you know.’

Adamsberg looked at him blankly. He didn’t know, and certainly didn’t care, who Lavoisier the chemist was.

XLVIII

IN THE DARKNESS INSIDE THE INDUSTRIAL BUILDING, EACH OF THE TWO groups moved forward in silence, flashing their torches across broken furniture, piles of tyres and bundles of rags. The hangar seemed to have been abandoned for about ten years but still smelled strongly of diesel oil and burnt rubber.

‘He knows where he’s going,’ said Adamsberg, as he focused his torch on the little round pawprints that the Snowball had left in the thick dust.

Head down, and breathing with difficulty, Adamsberg followed the cat’s tracks very slowly, and none of the others tried to move ahead of him. After eleven hours of the chase, no one was now eager to reach their goal. The commissaire concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as if he were wading through mud, hauling his stiff legs along with every pace. His group met up with the second team at the entry to a long dark corridor, lit only by a high window through which the moon was shining. The cat had stopped about twelve metres along it, and was crouching in front of a door. Adamsberg caught its luminous eyes with a sweep of the torch. It was now seven days and seven nights since Retancourt had been brought to this burial pit, in which three dogs were somehow surviving.

Adamsberg advanced heavily along the corridor, turning round after he had gone a few steps. None of the others had followed him. They were all massed at the end of the corridor, a frozen group, unable to face the last stretch.

I can’t face it either, thought Adamsberg. But they couldn’t stay there, clinging to the walls, abandoning Retancourt because they were unable to bear the sight of her body. He stopped in front of the metal door guarded by the cat, which was now sniffing along the ground, unconcerned by the terrible excremental smell coming from it. Adamsberg took a deep breath and put out his hand to release the hook that secured the door, then pulled it open. Forcing himself to look down, he made himself see what he had to: Retancourt’s body, lying on the floor of a dark and tiny room, huddled against old car tools and petrol cans. He stood quite still, his gaze fixed on the sight, tears spilling freely from his eyes. It was the first time he had wept for anyone, except his brother Raphael or Camille. Retancourt, his tree, his mainstay, was on the ground, struck down. Running the beam of the torch across her, he could see her dust-covered face, the nails on her hands already turning blue, her open mouth and her blonde hair, across which a spider ran.

He stood leaning against the dark brick wall, while the cat, unafraid, went into the tiny room and jumped on to Retacourt’s body, lying down on her filthy clothes. The smell, Adamsberg thought. All he could smell was diesel, motor oil, urine and shit. Just regular animal and mechanical fluids. What was missing was the stench of decomposition. He took a couple of steps towards the body again, and knelt down on the sticky concrete floor. Holding his torch over Retancourt’s face, which looked like a dirt-encrusted marble statue, all he could see was the immobility of death. The lips were open and fixed, not reacting to the spider as it ran over them. He slowly stretched out his hand and laid it on her forehead.

‘Doctor!’ he called, beckoning him on.

‘He’s calling you, doctor,’ said Mordent, not moving an inch himself.

‘Lavoisier, like the chemist.’

‘Go on, he’s calling you,’ said Justin.

Still on his knees, Adamsberg moved back to make room for the doctor.

‘She’s dead,’ he said, ‘and yet she isn’t dead.’