Once Noëlla had left, his thoughts no longer remained with her, and he called Mordent in Paris. The commandant was a night owl and telephoning at quarter past midnight, French time, would not mean waking him up. Mordent combined his taste for rigorous bureaucracy with an old-fashioned liking for the accordion and cabaret songs, and he had just returned from a musical evening which he seemed to have enjoyed.
‘To tell you the truth, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg, ‘I’m not calling to give you any news. The whole thing’s going very smoothly, the team’s fine, nothing to report.’
‘What are the Canadian colleagues like?’ Mordent asked.
‘Correct, as they say here; pleasant and competent.’
‘Do you get evenings off, or is it lights out at ten?’
‘We’re free, but you’re not missing anything. Hull-Gatineau isn’t exactly jumping with cabarets and circuses. A bit flat, as Ginette says.’
‘But the countryside’s beautiful?’
‘Yes, very. No problems in the squad back there?’
‘Nothing serious. Object of your call, commissaire?’
‘Can you get hold of a copy of the Nouvelles d’Alsace for Friday 10 October. Or any other local paper, it could be.’
‘Object of the request?’
‘The murder committed in Schiltigheim on the night of Saturday 4 October. Victim, Elisabeth Wind. Handling the investigation, Commandant Trabelmann. Chief suspect, one Bernard Vétilleux. What I’m after, Mordent, is an article or just a little news item mentioning the visit by a Parisian detective, and any mention of a serial killer. Something along those lines. Friday 10 October, not any other day.’
‘The Parisian detective was you, was it?’
‘Correct.’
‘Confidential as far as the office is concerned, or is it OK to mention it in the Chat Room?’
‘Top secret, Mordent. This business is causing me nothing but grief.’
‘Urgent?’
‘Yes, top priority. Let me know when you turn something up.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘That’s important too. Just call me either way.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Mordent. ‘Can you send me an email every day about your activities with the RCMP? Brézillon’s expecting a precise report at the end of the mission and I dare say you’d like me to write it up.’
‘What would I do without you, Mordent?’
The report. He had completely neglected to do that. Adamsberg forced himself to write a record of the sampling process of the previous days, while he could still remember the efforts of Jules and Linda Saint-Croix. He was only just in time, since his recent preoccupation with Fulgence, with the new father and then with Noëlla had driven the collection cards, with their samples of sweat and urine, deeper into the past. He would not be sorry tomorrow to be rid of his tough and boisterous companion, and start working with Sanscartier the Good.
Late in the evening, he heard the brakes of a car in the parking lot. Looking down from his balcony, he saw the Montreal group, Danglard in front, bending their heads against a snow shower. He would like to give Danglard a piece of his mind, as the superintendent would have said.
XXIII
STRANGE HOW THREE DAYS ARE ENOUGH TO DISSIPATE FEELINGS OF disorientation, so that one slips readily into a routine, Adamsberg thought, as he parked in front of the RCMP buildings, a few metres from the diligent squirrel who was as usual guarding the doors. The feeling of strangeness was disappearing. Everything was beginning to find its niche in the new territory, shaping it to its own form, as a favourite armchair shapes itself round the body. So the whole group was back in position in the meeting room this Monday, listening to the superintendent. After the fieldwork the laboratory, with extraction of the samples, which were to be placed on paper discs two millimetres in diameter, then inserted into the ninety-six wells of the process plate. All these instructions Adamsberg noted approximately, for his report to Mordent.
Adamsberg let Fernand Sanscartier get out the cards, prepare the discs and switch on the robotic punch. Sitting in front of a white guardrail, they both watched the machine going to and fro. For two days now, Adamsberg had been sleeping badly and the monotonous movement of the synchronised scores of punches mesmerised him.
‘It makes you sleepy, doesn’t it? Shall I go and get us a regular?’
‘Make that a double regular, Sanscartier, as strong as you like.’
The sergeant returned, carrying the plastic cups carefully.
‘Watch out, it’s scalding hot,’ he said, passing one to Adamsberg.
The two men took up their positions, leaning on the rail.
‘Time’ll come, won’t it,’ said Sanscartier, ‘when a guy won’t be able to piss in the snow without setting off a barcode and three helicopters full of cops.’
‘Time’ll come,’ said Adamsberg echoing him, ‘when we won’t even need to question the guy.’
‘Time’ll come, when we won’t even need to see him, hear his voice, wonder whether yes or no he could’ve done it. We’ll just turn up at the crime scene, take a smear of his sweat and the guy’ll be picked up at home with a crane, and dropped into a cell just his size.’
‘Time’ll come, when we’ll be totally pissed off.’
‘What do you think of the coffee?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘It’s not our specialty.’
‘Are you happy in your work, Sanscartier?’
The sergeant thought before answering.
‘What I’d really like is to be back out doing hands-on stuff. Where I can use my own eyes, and piss in the snow when I feel like it, if you get my meaning. Specially since my girlfriend lives in Toronto. But don’t tell the boss, or I’d get an earful.’
A red light flashed and the two men stayed still for a moment watching the machine come to a stop. Then Sanscartier moved heavily away from the rail.
‘Better get a move on. If the boss sees us taking a breather, he’ll start bawling at us.’
They emptied the plate and set to work on another set of cartons, discs and wells. Sanscartier activated the robotic process again.
‘Do you do a lot of hands-on work in Paris?’
‘As much as I can. And I walk a lot too, I just walk round the streets and think.’
‘You’re lucky. Do you work things out by shovelling clouds?’
‘In a way,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.
‘Got anything good on at the moment?’
Adamsberg pulled a face.
‘That’s absolutely the wrong word, Sanscartier. I’m shovelling earth with this one.’
‘Skull and crossbones, eh?’
‘Worse than that. I’ve come across a whole skeleton. But he’s not the victim, he’s the murderer. A dead man, an old man who’s still going round killing people.’
Adamsberg looked at Sanscartier’s brown velvety eyes, almost as round as the ones on children’s toys.
‘Ah,’ said Sanscartier. ‘So if he’s going round killing people, he can’t be entirely dead.’
‘Well yes, he is,’ Adamsberg insisted. ‘He really died, I have to tell you.’
‘In that case, he’s fighting it then,’ said Sanscartier, ‘he’s struggling like a devil in holy water.’
Adamsberg leant on the rail. At last, someone prepared to stretch out an innocent hand towards him, like Clémentine.
‘You’re an inspired cop, Sanscartier, you really should be doing hands-on stuff.’
‘Think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head, ‘time’ll come, when you’ll get your hand caught in a mangle with this devil. If you’ll allow me to give you some advice, you’d be wise to watch out. Some people will say you’ve completely flipped.’