Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (9 page)

‘Feared, rather, Trabelmann. He handed down heavy sentences.’

‘Well, justice has to be done.’

‘He had a long arm too. When he was in Nantes, he could strike the fear of God into the assizes at Carcassonne.’

‘Because he had authority, because his views commanded respect. Well. As I said, at least you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg.’

A man in a white coat hurried up to them.

‘Please, gentlemen, show some respect.’

‘Morning, Ménard,’ said Trabelmann.

‘My apologies,
commandant
, I didn’t see it was you.’

‘Let me introduce a colleague from Paris,
Commissaire
Adamsberg.’

‘I’ve heard the name,’ said Ménard, shaking hands.

‘He’s got a remarkable sense of humour,’ said Trabelmann. ‘Ménard, we need to see the caisson containing Elisabeth Wind.’

Ménard carefully pulled up the mortuary sheet to display the body of the young victim. Adamsberg looked at it without moving for several seconds, then gently lifted the head to examine bruises on the neck. After that, he concentrated on the puncture wounds in the abdomen.

‘As I recall,’ Trabelmann said, ‘the line of wounds runs to about 21 or 22 centimetres.’

Adamsberg shook his head doubtfully, and took a tape measure out of his bag.

‘Can you help me, Trabelmann? I’ve only got one good hand.’

The
commandant
ran out the tape measure. Adamsberg put one end at the outside edge of the first wound and measured the exact length from there to the outside edge of the third.

‘16.7 centimetres, Trabelmann. I told you, it’s never much more than that.’

‘Matter of pure chance.’

Without replying, Adamsberg used a wooden ruler as a marker and measured the maxium width of the wounds.

‘0.8 centimetres,’ he announced, snapping the tape measure back in its case.

Trabelmann, looking slightly bothered, contented himself with a slight twitch of his head.

‘I suppose you can provide me with a note of the penetrative depth of the wounds, back at the station?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘Yes, I can – along with the awl, and the man who was holding it. And his fingerprints.’

‘But will you at least do me the favour of taking a look at these files?’

‘I’m no less professional than you,
commissaire
. I don’t leave any lead unexplored. Ha!’

Trabelmann laughed again, for no reason that Adamsberg could detect.

* * *

At Schiltigheim
gendarmerie
, Adamsberg put the bundle of files on the
commandant
’s desk, while an officer brought him the murder weapon in a sealed plastic bag. The tool was of a standard make and brand new, except for the dried blood on the shaft.

‘If I’m following you rightly,’ said Trabelmann, sitting down at the desk, ‘and that’s a big if, we would need to look for someone buying four of these, not just the one.’

‘Yes, but it would probably be a waste of time. The man in question’ – Adamsberg dared not pronounce the name of Fulgence again – ‘would never make the elementary mistake of walking into a hardware store and buying four identical tools. That would attract attention to him in the most amateur way. That’s why he chooses ordinary cheap makes. He can get them from several different shops, spacing out his purchases.’

‘That’s true, it’s what I’d do too.’

Once back in the office, the
commandant’s
tough persona was becoming more established and his sense of humour was vanishing. Perhaps it was because he was now sitting behind his desk, in his official surroundings, Adamsberg thought.

‘He might have bought one of these in Strasbourg in September, another in Roubaix in July, and so on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got no chance of following that lead.’

‘That’s that, then,’ said Trabelmann. ‘Well, do you want to see the suspect? Another few hours in here and he’ll be confessing. I’m warning you, when we picked him up, he had the equivalent of about a bottle and a half of whisky inside him.’

‘That’s why he can’t remember anything.’

‘The amnesia is what’s getting you worked up, isn’t it? Well I’ll tell you something,
commissaire
, it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Because by saying he can’t remember a thing, and pleading temporary insanity, this character’s sure to get ten or fifteen years knocked off the sentence. Worth a try, isn’t it? And everyone knows that. So I believe in your killers and their amnesia about as much as in your Prince Charming turning into a dragon. But go ahead, Adamsberg, take a look at him yourself, if you want to.’

* * *

Bernard Vétilleux, a gaunt man in his middle years, with an unhealthily puffy face, lay sprawled across the bed in his cell. He watched without displaying the remotest interest as Adamsberg walked in. This or any other cop, why should he give a shit? Adamsberg asked if he was prepared to answer some questions, and he agreed.

‘But I ain’t got nothing to say,’ he said in a voice without expression. ‘I dunno what happened, can’t remember.’

‘Yes, I know. But before all that, before they picked you up on the road?’

‘Don’t even know how I got there, guv. Don’t like walking. Couple of kilometres is a long way for me.’

‘Yes, but before that,’ repeated Adamsberg. ‘Before you were on the road, what were you doing, can you remember?’

‘Yeah, I remember that, course I can. I haven’t forgotten the rest of my bleedin’ life, have I? Just how I got to be on the fuckin’ road and all that stuff after.’

‘I know,’ Adamsberg repeated patiently, ‘but before that.’

‘I was drinking, wasn’t I?’

‘Where?’

‘At the counter, to start with.’

‘What counter?’

‘In the bar,
Le Petit Bouchon
, by the greengrocer’s. See, I know where I
was
, at least.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then they chucked me out, as per usual, I was broke. But I was so pissed I couldn’t even hold my hand out. So I looked for somewhere to kip down. Because it’s bleedin’ cold here, I tell you. And my usual spot, these other so-and-sos had pinched it, and they had dogs with ’em. So I had to move on, and where I went was in this playground I know, with a sort of plastic cube-thing the kids play in. It’s a bit warmer in there, it’s kind of like a dog kennel. Little door, and on the floor there’s soft stuff like moss, only not real moss, so the kids don’t get hurt.’

‘What playground was this?’

‘It’s got ping-pong tables, it’s by the bar, ’cause I don’t like walking, I told you.’

‘And after that? You were on your own there, were you?’

‘Ah no, there was this fella, wasn’t there, he was after the same pitch. Bugger that, I thought. But I changed my mind pretty quick, ’cause this guy he had a couple of litres with him. My lucky day, seemingly, so what I said was, you want to come in here, you share the hooch. And he said OK, you’re on, fair enough. Piece of luck.’

‘Remember anything about him, what he looked like?’

‘Can’t remember everything, can I? I’d had a skinful already, and it was pitch dark. Anyway you don’t ask questions, someone comes along with some booze. I wasn’t interested in him, just his bottles.’

‘Come on, surely you can remember something about him. Try. Just tell me anything you noticed, what he talked like, how he drank. Was he big or small, old or young, does anything at all come back?’

Vétilleux scratched his head as if to try and get his mind working, then sat up on the bed and looked at Adamsberg through red-rimmed eyes.

‘They don’t give me nothing in here.’

Adamsberg had come forearmed, with a small hip flask of brandy in his pocket. He looked meaningfully at Vétilleux, indicating the officer on guard at the cell door.

‘Ah,’ said Vétilleux, catching on.

‘Wait a minute,’ mouthed Adamsberg, silently.

Vétilleux got the message immediately and nodded.

‘Come on, I’m sure your memory’s not that bad,’ Adamsberg continued. ‘Tell me about this other man.’

‘Oldish,’ said Vétilleux, ‘but kind of youngish too. Can’t say exactly what I mean. He wasn’t decrepit. But old.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Looked just like any other wino on the streets, wanting a place to shelter. Old coat, scarf, couple of woolly hats, gloves, tucked up against the cold, you gotta, haven’t you, unless you want your balls to freeze off.’

‘Glasses? Beard?’

‘Nah, no glasses, could see his eyes under his cap. No beard neither, but he hadn’t shaved for a bit. He didn’t smell, mind.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I wouldn’t share a kip with a guy who smells, it’s just a thing with me. I go to the showers twice a week, I don’t like smelling bad. And I don’t piss in the kids’ playground either. Just because I like a drink don’t mean I’m going to be nasty to kids, does it? They’re nice, they talk to me. They say “ain’t you got no mummy or daddy?” They’re OK, kids are, till the grown-ups get at them. So I don’t piss in their playground. They respect me, I respect them.’

Adamsberg turned to the duty guard.

‘Officer,’ he said, ‘would you mind fetching me a couple of aspirin and some water. It’s for the pain,’ he added, lifting the bandaged arm.

The officer nodded and went out. Vétilleux shot out his hand to snatch the hip flask, and put it in his pocket. When, a minute or so later, the officer came back with a plastic cup of water and the aspirin, Adamsberg forced himself to swallow them.

‘Now then,’ said Vétilleux, pointing to Adamsberg’s cup. ‘That reminds me. The guy who shared with me, he did something funny. He had a cup just like that. And he had his bottle, and I had mine. He didn’t drink it straight from the bottle, see. So he was a bit la-di-da, bit of a toff.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yeah, course I am. And I said to myself,
he’s
seen better days, I’ll bet. There’s people like that, you know. Some woman chucks ’em out, they start drinking, then it’s downhill all the way. Or their business goes bust or something. No guts. Giving up just because you’ve lost your woman or your job. Me, I’d carry on. But then me, it’s different, s’not that I haven’t got guts. But no way I could go downhill, see, ’cause I was already bottom of the pile. It’s not the same, is it?’

‘No, I see,’ Adamsberg agreed.

‘Mind you, I’m not setting myself up to judge anyone, but there’s a difference. And when my Josie left me, maybe it did give me an extra push. But I was already drinking by then, and that’s
why
she left me, you wanna know. Can’t blame her, I’m not judging her. Or anyone really. Except for those rich buggers who never even throw me a coin. Yeah, I’ve gone and dumped sometimes on their doorsteps, people like that. But I wouldn’t do it in the kids’ playground.’

‘Are you sure this other man had seen better days?’

‘Oh yeah, easy to see. And not so long ago, I’d say. ’Cause once you’re down and out, you don’t go round with your own cup for long. Maybe you hang on to it for three, four months, then you just drink from any old bottle like everyone else. Except I won’t drink with guys who smell bad, that’s different, that’s just me, I don’t like smells, I’m not judging them.’

‘So you think he hadn’t been on the streets that long? Three or four months?’

‘How would I know? But I’d say not long. My guess is some woman’s chucked him out, he finds himself with nowhere to go, something like that.’

‘Did you talk to him much?’

‘Nah, not a lot. Just stuff like nice drop of wine, bloody cold outside, that sort of thing.’

Vétilleux had his hand resting on his thick sweater, over the shirt pocket where he had slipped the flask.

‘Did he stay long?’

‘Don’t ask me that, time don’t mean much to me.’

‘What I’m saying is, did he go away again? Or did he sleep there, same place as you?’

‘No idea. That’s when I must have passed out. Or gone walkies, I don’t know.’

‘And after that?’

Vétilleux opened his arms and dropped them again.

‘Found myself on the road, in the morning,
gendarmes
all over me.’

‘Did you dream? Remember seeing anything, smelling anything, any sensations at all?’

The man frowned, looking puzzled, his hand on his worn old sweater, and his long nails scratching at the wool. Adamsberg turned to the guard, who was stamping his feet to keep his circulation going.

‘Officer,’ he said, ‘could you fetch me my briefcase? I need to make some notes.’

With the rapidity of a reptile, Vétilleux abandoned his slouched pose,
whipped out the flask, undid the top, and swallowed several mouthfuls. By the time the officer was back, the whole thing was back under the pullover. Adamsberg admired such skill and dexterity. Practice had perfected the reflexes. Vétilleux was not stupid.

‘There was one thing,’ he said, with a little more colour in his cheeks. ‘I dreamed I was in a nice comfortable place all warm, ready to doze off. But I was fed up because I couldn’t use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I wanted to throw up.’

‘Does that usually happen? Do you throw up often?’

‘Nah, never!’

‘Do you usually dream you’re in a warm place?’

‘Listen, mate, if I spent every night dreaming I was warm, I’d be in heaven.’

‘Do you own a carpenter’s awl?’

‘No, how would I, not unless that guy gave it me. The one who’d seen better days. Or maybe I pinched it? How do I know? All I know is I must’ve killed that poor girl with it. Maybe she fell off her bike in the road, and I thought she was a bear or something and went for her, how do I know?’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘They say my prints are on it, and I was right there, near her.’

‘But why would you have dragged the bear, and the bicycle, off the road?’

‘Someone like me, when I’ve drunk that much, who knows what’s going on in my head? All I know is I’m really sorry, because personally I wouldn’t hurt a soul. I don’t hurt animals, why would I hurt people, know what I mean? Even if I was a bear. Not even afraid of bears. Lot of bears in Canada. They go round the dustbins, like I do. Wouldn’t mind that, going round the dustbins with the bears.’

‘Vétilleux, if you want to know something about bears …’