Both Adamsbergs, sitting side by side were listening attentively to the lieutenant, almost subjugated. Adamsberg was beginning to take in her plan, based on two elements which were usually in contradiction: audacity and finesse. Together they made up an unpredictable force, like a battering ram with the delicacy of a needle.
‘What then?’ he asked, as the plan began to revive him.
‘You take Raphaël’s car, you drive to Ottawa, and park it at the corner of North Street and Laurier Boulevard. You take the eleven-forty bus to Montreal. The real Raphaël will leave much later, in the evening, or even next morning, depending when the cops give up watching the hotel. He’ll pick up his car from Ottawa and go back to Detroit.’
‘But why not do it more simply?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘If Raphaël were to arrive before Laliberté’s phone call, I could take his suit and car, and get away before they raise the alarm. He could leave straight away by bus. Then we don’t do all the close combat stuff in the bathroom. When they turn up, we’ll both have gone.’
‘Except that his name will be on the register, or if he has just come as a visitor, his brief visit will be noticed. We’re not complicating things for fun, commissaire, but so as not to drop Raphaël in the shit. If he arrived before the alarm, he’d certainly be traced. The cops will ask the receptionist and hear either that Raphaël Adamsberg came in, but left immediately, or else that a “visitor” asked for you. Either way it’ll alert them. They’ll quickly realise about the substitution and pick Raphaël up in Detroit, and arrest him for helping you escape. But if he arrives after the rooms have been searched and you’ve been reported missing, he won’t be noticed among the arrivals, and can’t be held responsible for anything. In the worst-case scenario, if the cops check and find his name later, all they can accuse him of is coming on a return visit to see his brother, and to his surprise finding he’s missed him, which isn’t a crime.’
Adamsberg looked at Retancourt.
‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Raphaël must come later, I should have thought of that. I’m a cop myself, so why can’t I think clearly any more?’
‘You can’t think like a cop for now,’ Retancourt replied gently. ‘You’re reacting like a criminal on the run, who tends to panic, not like a policeman. You’ve changed your territory, you’re on the wrong side, and the sun’s in your eyes. You’ll revert to form once you’re back in Paris.’
Yes, thought Adamsberg, a wanted criminal whose reflexes just tell him to run, without being able to see the big picture or follow through on details.
‘But what about you? When will you get away?’
‘When they’ve finished searching the area and realise they’ve lost you. They’ll stop searching and put out an alert to the roads and airports. I’ll join you in Montreal as soon as they’re off the premises.’
‘Where in Montreal?’
‘With a pal of mine. I’m afraid I don’t have holiday romances, but I do try to have a friend in every port, because I like it and because you never know when you might need a little help from your friends. Basile will provide us with a safe house.’
‘Perfect,’ murmured Raphaël, ‘absolutely perfect.’
Adamsberg nodded silently.
‘Raphaël,’ said Retancourt, getting up. ‘Can you find me somewhere to sleep? I’d like to rest, we’ll be driving all night again.’
‘You’d better get some sleep too,’ Raphaël told his brother. ‘I’ll go out and buy this bathrobe.’
Retancourt wrote down her measurements.
‘I don’t think the two cops will follow you,’ she said. ‘They’re more likely to stay on watch outside the building. But come back with some food bags, bread, vegetables and so on, it’ll look more convincing.’
Lying on his brother’s bed, Adamsberg found he was unable to sleep. His night of 26 October was jabbing into him like a physical pain. Drunk, on the path, furious with Noëlla and with the rest of the world too. Furious with Danglard, Camille, the new father, Fulgence, a great ball of hate which he could no longer control, and which had been inside him for some time already. Then coming across a forester’s fork. What better implement for digging up saplings? He could have seen one when he was talking to the watchman or when he was walking through the forest. He knew it was there. Walking around at night, out of his mind with drink, obsessed with the judge and the need to find his brother. Then glimpsing Noëlla, who must have been watching out for him on the path. The ball of hate explodes, the path to his brother opens, the judge gets inside his skin. He rushes away and grabs the fork. Who else could there be on the deserted path? He creeps back, hits the girl on the head and she falls unconscious. He takes off the belt which stops him getting at her stomach, and throws it away. He kills her with the trident. He breaks the ice on the pool, pushes the dead woman in and throws stones in on top of her. Exactly as he had done with the screwdriver for Raphaël thirty years earlier. The same gestures. He throws the trident into the Ottawa River, which carries it off over the falls on the way to the St Lawrence. Then he wanders about, bangs his head and passes out into willed oblivion. When he wakes up, the whole thing has been buried in the inaccessible depths of his memory.
Adamsberg felt cold suddenly and pulled the quilt over him. Running away, close combat, clinging on, naked, to that woman’s body. Extreme circumstances. Escaping and living like a murderer wanted by the police. Maybe even being one.
Change your perspective for a moment, start thinking like a policeman again. There was one question he had asked Retancourt, but had then forgotten, as the catastrophic contents of the green file had swept over him. Now it came back into his mind. How had Laliberté found out that he had no memory of the night of the 26th? Someone must have told him. But only Danglard knew about it. And who had suggested to the superintendent the obsessive nature of his quest? Danglard was the only person who knew how the judge had taken over his life. Danglard, who had been angry with him for a year, over the business with Camille. Danglard who had chosen the side he was on in this split, who had spat out an insult at him. Adamsberg closed his eyes, groaned, and put his arm across his face. Adrien Danglard, his incorruptible second-in-command. His noble and faithful deputy.
At six in the evening, Raphaël came into the room. He watched his brother sleeping for a while, observing the face in which all his childhood was summed up. Sitting on the bed, he gently shook Adamsberg awake.
The commissaire sat up.
‘Time to go, Jean-Baptiste.’
‘Time to run for it,’ said Adamsberg, looking for his shoes in the dark.
‘It’s all my fault,’ said Raphaël, after a silence. ‘I’ve ruined your life.’
‘Don’t say things like that. You didn’t ruin anything at all.’
‘I did, I ruined everything for you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. And now you’re down in the mud of the Torque with me.’
Adamsberg was slowly putting his shoes on.
‘Do you really think it’s possible?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I could have killed her?’
‘What about me? Do you think I could have killed her?’
Adamsberg looked at his brother.
‘Like I told you, you could never have struck three blows in a straight line.’