Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (26 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Thirty years on the trail, doesn’t that seem a bit long?’

‘No more than fifty years killing people. We’ve each got our job. He keeps on going; I keep on going after him.’

‘Do you people ever have cases in France that you have to give up on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever personally had any files you’ve had to close, without finding the killer?’

‘Not many.’

‘Still, you have had some?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why didn’t you give up on this one?’

‘I told you, because of my brother.’

Laliberté smiled as if he had scored a point. Adamsberg glanced towards Sanscartier, and got the same signal.

‘So you were really that fond of your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted to avenge him?’

‘No, not to avenge him, Aurèle, to clear his name.’

‘Don’t mess with words, Adamsberg, it comes to the same thing. Do you know what this makes me think of, this inquiry of yours? That you’ve been carrying on for thirty years?’

Adamsberg did not reply. Sanscartier was looking at his boss, without any kindness in his eyes. Ginette was looking at the floor.

‘A pathological obsession,’ Laliberté declared.

‘In your book maybe, Aurèle, not in mine.’

Laliberté changed his position and line of attack.

‘OK, I’m speaking to you as one cop to another. Your travelling murderer, don’t you think it’s odd that he’s struck over here, at the very time when the guy tailing him is in Quebec? I mean you. The obsessive cop who’s been after him for thirty years. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence?’

‘More than a bit. Perhaps it’s not one at all. As I told you, since Schiltigheim, Fulgence knows I’m after him again.’

‘Jeez! Do you think he’d come all this way, just to bug you? If he had any sense at all, he’d wait till you were back home. A man who kills every four or five years can wait a fortnight, can’t he?’

‘I’m not inside his head.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder about that.’

‘What’s that meant to mean, Aurèle?’

‘I think you’re dreaming in technicolour. You’re seeing him everywhere, this Trident of yours.’

‘I don’t give a toss what you think, Aurèle. I’ve told you what I know and what I believe. If it’s no use to you, too bad. You do your investigation, and I’ll do mine.’

‘Well, see you tomorrow at nine,’ said the superintendent, smiling once more and holding out his hand. ‘We’ve still got a lot of work ahead. We’ll look through the dossiers together.’

‘No,
you
look at them,’ said Adamsberg, getting up. ‘You’ll need all day, and I know them by heart. I’m going to visit my brother. I’ll see you on Tuesday morning.’

Laliberté frowned.

‘I suppose I
am
free to come and go? Yes or no?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘Cool it, Adamsberg, of course you are.’

‘OK. So I’m going to visit my brother.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Detroit. Can I borrow a pool car?’

‘I guess so.’

Adamsberg set off to find Retancourt, who had remained sitting slumped in the superintendent’s office.

‘I know you’ve got your orders,’ Laliberté said with a grin. ‘But, don’t take this personally, I don’t know what good she’s going to be to you, your fatso
lieutenant
. She doesn’t look as if she could rub two sticks together. Wouldn’t want her in my squad.’

XXXIV

BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM
,
ADAMSBERG WONDERED IF HE SHOULD CALL
Danglard, and warn him to pull out the papers connected with his brother’s case. But perhaps his line was bugged. And once Laliberté learned that Fulgence was dead, things would heat up, in any case. Well, so what? The superintendent didn’t know about his liaison with Noëlla, and if it hadn’t been for the anonymous letter, he wouldn’t have thought about him at all. On Tuesday, they would have to say goodbye and agree to differ, as with Trabelmann, and then each go their separate ways.

He packed quickly and closed his overnight bag. He was intending to drive through the night, snatching a couple of hours’ sleep on the way, and to arrive at Detroit at dawn, so as to be sure to catch his brother. It was such a long time since he had seen Raphaël that he could feel no emotion, so unreal did the situation seem. He was changing his T-shirt when Retancourt walked in.

‘Christ, Retancourt, you might knock.’

‘Sorry, but I was afraid you might already have gone. When do we leave?’

‘I’m going on my own. Private trip.’

‘I’ve got my orders,’ the
lieutenant
repeated obstinately. ‘I’m supposed to accompany you. Everywhere.’

‘Look, I appreciate your sympathy and help, Retancourt, but this is my brother, and I haven’t seen him for thirty years. Just leave me alone.’

‘Sorry, sir, but I’m coming. I’ll leave you alone with him, don’t worry.’

‘Lieutenant
, will you please just leave me alone, full stop.’

‘OK, but I’ve got the car keys. You won’t get far on foot.’

Adamsberg took a step towards her.

‘You may be strong,
commissaire
, but you won’t get these keys off me. I suggest we stop messing about like kids. We go together, and we can take it in turns to drive.’

Adamsberg gave up. Fighting it out with Retancourt might take at least an hour of his time.

‘Very well,’ he said resignedly. ‘Since I’m stuck with you, get your things. You’ve got three minutes.’

‘All done. I’ll see you at the car.’

Adamsberg finished getting dressed and met her in the car park. His blonde bodyguard had channelled her energy into sticking to him like glue for his personal protection.

‘I’ll drive first,’ said Retancourt. ‘You’ve been arguing all afternoon with the superintendent, while I was taking a nap. I’m perfectly fresh.’

She pushed back the driving seat to accommodate her legs, and took off on the highway to Detroit. Adamsberg had to remind her of the ninety kilometre speed limit and she slowed down. In fact, Adamsberg was not reluctant to let someone else do the driving. He stretched out his legs, and put his hands on his thighs.

‘You didn’t tell them he’s dead, did you?’ said Retancourt after a few kilometres.

‘They’ll find that out soon enough tomorrow. But you’re worrying unnecessarily. Laliberté hasn’t any evidence against me. It’s just that anonymous letter that’s bugging him. I’ll finish my business with him Tuesday, and we’re out of here Wednesday.’

‘If you finish your business with them on Tuesday, we certainly won’t get away on Wednesday.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if you set foot there on Tuesday, they’re not going to have any more friendly chats. They’re going to charge you.’

‘You certainly like to dramatise, Retancourt.’

‘I’m simply observing. There was a car outside the hotel. They’ve been following us since Gatineau. They’re following
you
to be precise. Philibert Lafrance and Rhéal Ladouceur.’

‘Putting a tail on someone isn’t the same as arresting him. You’re channelling your energy into exaggerating things.’

‘You know that anonymous letter that Laliberté didn’t want you to see? There were two faint black lines on it, five centimetres from the top of the page, one centimetre from the bottom.’

‘A photocopy, you mean?’

‘Yep. With the heading and bottom of the page covered up. A hasty DIY job. The paper, the typeface and layout were all just like the paper we used on the course. I had to put together the dossier in Paris if you remember. And the formula “Has taken a personal interest in it” sounded a bit official to me. The RCMP fabricated that letter.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘To provide a credible motive to get your bosses to send you back over. If Laliberté had revealed why he really wanted you, Brézillon would never have allowed him to extradite you.’

‘Extradite
me? What are you driving at,
lieutenant?
Laliberté will want to know what I was doing on the night of the 26th, yes, OK. I wonder the same thing myself. And he may well wonder what I was up to with Noëlla. I wonder about that myself too. But good grief, Retancourt, I’m not a suspect for her murder!’

‘This afternoon, you all went off to send faxes, forgetting fat old Retancourt on her chair, yes? Remember?’

‘Sorry, you could perfectly well have come along.’

‘Absolutely not. The whole point was that I was already invisible, none of them realised they’d left me there on my own. Alone, sitting next to the big green dossier. I had time to get away with it.’

‘Get away with what?’

‘Photocopying it. I’ve got the essentials in my bag.’

Adamsberg looked at his
lieutenant
in the dark. The car was going well over the speed limit.

‘Do you do that back home? Photocopy dossiers whenever you feel like it?’

‘When we’re back home, I’m not on a mission to protect.’

‘Slow down. It’s not the moment to get caught by those inspectors with a timebomb in your bag.’

‘You’re right,’ said Retancourt, taking her foot off the gas. ‘It’s these damned automatics, I can’t seem to go slowly.’

‘That’s not the only risk you’ve taken. The shit would really have hit the fan if one of those cops had caught you at the photocopier.’

‘The shit would have hit all right if I hadn’t made the copies. It was Sunday and there was no one else around. I could hear everything you were saying echoing down the corridor. At the least scrape of a chair, I would have been able to get back in position. I know what I’m doing.’

‘I wonder.’

‘They’ve done their homework on you. A lot of it. They know you were sleeping with the girl.’

‘How? From the friends she was staying with?’

‘No. But Noëlla had a pregnancy test in her handbag, a urine sample.’

‘And was she? Pregnant?’

‘Can’t have been. There aren’t any tests that would give a result in a few days, but men wouldn’t know that.’

‘So why did she have the test in that case? Her old boyfriend?’

‘Just to get you hooked. Find the report, it’s in my bag. Blue file, round about page 10.’

Adamsberg opened Retancourt’s capacious bag which seemed to contain an entire survival kit: pliers, rope, pitons, make-up, knife, flashlight, various plastic bags. Putting on the overhead light, he looked up page 10, analysis of Noëlla Corderon’s urine, evidence item RRT 3067. ‘Residual traces of semen,’ he read. ‘Comparison with sample STG 6712, taken from the bedding in the apartment of Adamsberg, Jean-Baptiste. DNA comparison positive. Formal identification of sexual partner.’

Underneath the text were two diagrams showing the DNA sequences in 28 strips, one taken from the test tube, one from his own sheets. Exactly the same. Adamsberg put away the file and turned off the light. Although
he would not have been over-intimidated by talking about semen to his
lieutenant
, he was grateful to her for letting him read this stuff in silence.

‘Why didn’t Laliberté say anything about this before?’ he asked quietly.

‘He likes the chase. He’s having fun. He’s watching you get deeper in and he likes that. The more lies you feed him, the bigger his pile of false statements.’

‘Even so,’ sighed Adamsberg. ‘Even if he knows I slept with Noëlla, he surely can’t link that to her murder. It must be a coincidence.’

‘You don’t believe in coincidence, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Neither does he. Where do you think the girl was found? On your portage trail.’

Adamsberg froze.

‘Oh no, impossible, Retancourt,’ he gasped.

‘Yes. In a little pool near the bank,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s stop and have something to eat.’

‘I couldn’t eat anything,’ said Adamsberg in an exhausted voice.

‘Well, I’m going to, otherwise I can’t carry on, and it would do you good too.’

Retancourt pulled into the next lay-by, and got out some sandwiches and apples. Adamsberg chewed a few mouthfuls mechanically, staring into the distance.

‘Even so,’ he repeated. ‘What does that prove? She was always on that damned path, morning and evening. She said herself it was dangerous. I wasn’t the only person to use it.’

‘In the evening there wasn’t anyone else much. Maybe the odd homosexual who wasn’t interested in Noëlla Corderon. The cops know a lot. They know that you were on that trail for a long time, from half past ten till half past one.’

‘Well, I didn’t see anything, Retancourt. I was drunk, as I told you. I must have been going up and down. When I fell, I lost my torch. Your torch, I should say.’

Retancourt took out a bottle of wine.

‘Don’t know what this is like,’ she said. ‘But have a little.’

‘I’m never going to drink again.’

‘Just a few mouthfuls. Please.’

Adamsberg obeyed, feeling shattered. Retancourt took back the bottle and corked it carefully.

‘They questioned the barman at
L’Ecluse:
apparently you said to him: “Any nearer and I’ll spear ye”.’

‘I was talking about my grandmother. She was a tough old bird who said it to the Germans.’

‘Tough old bird or not, they didn’t like the sound of that at all.’

‘Is that all, Retancourt?’

‘No. They also know you can’t remember anything about that night.’

There was a long silence. Adamsberg leaned back in his seat, looking at the roof, in a state of shock.

‘The only person,’ he said, ‘the
only
person I told that to was Danglard.’

‘Well, anyway, they know.’

‘I was always on the path, every day,’ he went on in the same dull voice. ‘But where’s any motive, or evidence?’

‘Well, there is a motive, isn’t there? The pregnancy test, blackmail.’

‘Unthinkable, Retancourt. A conspiracy, a devilish conspiracy.’

‘By the judge?’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s dead,
commissaire.’

‘I don’t care. And they haven’t got any evidence.’

‘Well, yes. The girl was wearing a belt, bought that very day, a leather belt.’

‘So he said. What about it?’

‘They found it lying in leaves near the pool.’

‘And?’

‘I’m sorry,
commissaire
, but it’s got your fingerprints on it. They compared them with prints from your apartment.’