‘Flipped?’
‘Lost the plot, making stuff up.’
‘Oh, that’s already happened, Sanscartier.’
‘Then you’d better clam up, and don’t try to convince them. But in my book, you’ve got what it takes, so you should follow your hunches. Keep chasing your damn killer, but until you collar him, lie low.’
Adamsberg remained leaning on the rail, feeling the comfort and relief brought by the words of this warm-hearted colleague.
‘Why don’t you think I’m crazy, Sanscartier? Everyone else seems to.’
‘Because you aren’t, that’s easy to see. How’s about lunch? It’s after twelve.’
The following evening, after another day spent doing automatic DNA extraction, Adamsberg regretfully said goodbye to his kindly colleague.
‘Who are you working with tomorrow?’ asked Sanscartier, walking over to his car with him.
‘Ginette Saint-Preux.’
‘She’s a good pal. You’ll be in safe hands with her.’
‘But I’ll miss you,’ said Adamsberg as they shook hands. ‘You’ve done me a lot of good.’
‘How come?’
‘You just have, that’s all. Who are you working with?’
‘The whopper. What’s her name?’
‘The whopper?’
‘Well, er, the big fat one,’ said Sanscartier, embarrassed.
‘Ah, Violette Retancourt.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but when you do catch this dead man walking, even if it’s in ten years’ time, can you let me know?’
‘Are you that interested?’
‘Yes. And I’ve taken a shine to you.’
‘I’ll let you know. Even if it takes ten years.’
Adamsberg found himself going up in the lift with Danglard. His two days with Sanscartier the Good had calmed him down, and he postponed his decision to pick a bone with his deputy.
‘Going out tonight, Danglard?’ he asked in a neutral voice.
‘No, I’m knackered. I’m going to have a bite to eat, then go to bed.’
‘How are the children? Everything OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ replied the capitaine, looking a little surprised.
Adamsberg smiled as he went to his room. Danglard wasn’t very skilled at subterfuge. The previous night he had heard him start his car at 6.30 p.m. and return at almost two in the morning. Time to drive to Montreal, listen to the concert and do his good deed for the day. So he was short of sleep, as one could tell from the rings round his eyes. Good old Danglard, so certain that he was undetected, keeping his mouth shut about the secret that was a secret no longer. Tonight was the last concert in the series, which would mean another return trip for the gallant capitaine.
Adamsberg watched from his bedroom window, as Danglard made his furtive getaway. Drive safely and enjoy the concert, capitaine. He was watching the car’s tail-lights, when Mordent called.
‘Sorry not to get back to you before, commissaire, but we had a crisis on. A guy who was trying to kill his wife and call us at the same time. We had to surround the building.’
‘Any damage?’
‘No, his first bullet went into the piano and the second into his own foot. A complete loser, luckily.’
‘Any news from Alsace?’
‘Simplest thing is, I’ll read you the article. It was on page eight of the Friday paper. “Doubts about the Schiltigheim murder? Following the investigation by the Schiltigheim gendarmerie into the tragic killing of Elisabeth Wind on Saturday 4 October, the authorities have placed in preventive detention the man who was reported to be helping them with their enquiries, Bernard Vétilleux. However, according to information that has reached us, Vétilleux was allegedly questioned by a senior detective from Paris. According to the same source, the murder of this young girl may be linked to a serial killer who has struck elsewhere in France. This theory is however firmly rejected by Commandant Trabelmann who is leading the investigation. He dismissed it as an idle rumour, and said that the arrest of Vétilleux was on the basis of cast-iron evidence.” Is that what you were after, commissaire?’
‘Absolutely. Can you hang on to the article for me? I’ll just have to pray that Brézillon doesn’t read the Nouvelles d’Alsace.’
‘Would you prefer them not to charge Vétilleux?’
‘Yes and no. It’s hard to shovel earth.’
‘OK,’ said Mordent, non-committally. ‘Thanks for the emails. It sounds interesting but not exactly fun, all those cards and discs.’
‘Well, Justin’s in his element, Retancourt can adapt to anything, Voisenet’s supernaturally good at it, Froissy is just going through the motions, Noël is getting impatient, Estalère is perpetually amazed, and Danglard is becoming a concertgoer.’
‘And what about you, commissaire?’
‘Me? Oh I’m the shoveller of clouds. But keep that to yourself, Mordent, same as the article.’
From Mordent, Adamsberg went straight into the arms of Noëlla, whose growing passion was certainly a distraction from the irritating discovery in Montreal. A most determined girl, she had quickly resolved the problem of where to meet. He would pick her up at the Champlain stone, then it took them a quarter of an hour to walk along the cycle track to a bicycle-hire shop; one of its sash windows didn’t shut properly. Noëlla brought in her rucksack everything they needed, sandwiches, hot drinks and a camping mattress. Adamsberg left her at eleven, returning by the portage trail, which he could now walk blindfold, passing the timber site, waving to the watchman and greeting the Ottawa River before going back to sleep.
Work, river, forest, willing partner. Not so bad after all. Forget about the new father, and as for the Trident, keep repeating Sanscartier’s words: ‘You’ve got what it takes, just follow your hunches.’ Sanscartier was the one he wanted most to believe, although from various allusions by Portelance and Ladouceur, he was not thought to be the brains of the group.
There had been a slight shadow cast over the scene that evening by Noëlla. A short exchange, which luckily went no further.
‘Take me back to Paris with you,’ said the young woman, as she lay on the camping mattress.
‘Sorry, I can’t, I’m married,’ said Adamsberg instinctively.
‘You’re lying.’
He had kissed her then, to put a stop to any further conversation.
XXIV
THE DAYS WORKING WITH GINETTE SAINT-PREUX PASSED PEACEABLY, except for the growing complexity of the course, which obliged Adamsberg to start taking notes from his teammate’s dictation. ‘Transfer to amplification chamber, production of copies of the sample by the thermal cycler.’
‘OK, Ginette, whatever you say.’
But Ginette who was as talkative as she was determined, had spotted Adamsberg’s vague expression and was not letting him off the hook.
‘Don’t switch off, it’s not that hard to understand. Imagine a molecular photocopy machine, producing millions of examples of segments. Right?’
‘Right,’ repeated Adamsberg automatically.
‘The products of the amplification carry a fluorescent tag which makes it easy to detect with a laser-scanner. Do you get it now?’
‘Yes, Ginette, I get it fine. Just carry on, I’m watching.’
Noëlla was waiting for him on the Thursday evening, perched on her bike, and smiling broadly with a confident air. Once the mattress had been unrolled on the floor of the shop, she leant up on one elbow, and reached out to take something from her rucksack.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ she said, brandishing an envelope.
She waved it in front of his eyes with a laugh. Adamsberg sat up, apprehensively.