An Uncertain Place (10 page)

Émile held his hands in a shape the size of a child’s football.

‘Are there any horses on this farm?’

‘Gérault, he does mostly cattle, three-quarters dairy, quarter beef. But he’s got a few horses an’ all.’

‘Who knows about this?’

‘That I go see the dog?’

‘Yes, Émile, we’re not talking about the farm animals. Did Vaudel know?’

‘Yeah, he’d never let me have a dog here, but he understood. He let me have Saturday nights off: me mum and me dog.’

‘But Vaudel’s not around any more to back up your story.’

‘No.’

‘Nor the dog either.’

‘Yeah,
he
’s around. You come with me any Saturday night and you’ll see I’m not making it up. You’ll see, he’ll jump the gate, and come to the van. That proves it.’

‘No. That isn’t proof you went there
this
Saturday night.’

‘No, OK, you’re right, but you can’t expect a dog to know which Saturday it was. Even a dog like Cupid.’

Cupid
, eh, said Adamsberg to himself.

He closed his eyes, resting against the stone lintel of the doorway, turning his face to the sun, like Émile. Behind the thick wall, the collection of evidence was coming to an end, the platforms were being folded up. The square metres of carpet had been numbered and their contents put in containers. Now they would have to start looking for some meaning in all this. It was possible that Pierre junior might have wanted to kill the old bastard. Or the daughter-in-law, who seemed a strong-willed type, risking everything on her husband’s behalf. Or Émile. Or the family of that painter who covered horses in liquid bronze, and had unfortunately done the same to a woman. Painting your patron in bronze was one more thing that had never been heard of, on Stock’s dark continent. On the other hand, killing an old man with plenty of money had been known about for a long time. But why reduce him to mincemeat and scatter his remains? Why? There was no answer to that. Until you have the reason, you won’t find the man.

Mordent came towards them with his awkward gait, his long neck thrust forward, his grey hair cropped close to his skull, his eye movements rapid, just like a crafty heron on the lookout for fish. He came over to Émile and looked at Adamsberg without indulgence.

‘He’s asleep,’ whispered Émile. ‘Stands to reason, anyone can see that.’

‘Was he just talking to you?’

‘So what, it’s his job, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course. But we’re still going to wake him up.’

‘Strewth,’ said Émile bitterly, ‘can’t a man kip for a few minutes without getting a bollocking?’

‘I’m hardly likely to give him a bollocking, since he’s my boss. That’s the
commissaire
.’

Adamsberg opened his eyes as Mordent tapped his shoulder. Émile stood up, and put some distance between them. He was rather shocked to learn that this man was the
commissaire
, as if the proper order of things had been disturbed and beggars could become kings without warning. It was one thing to chat about your bad genes and your dog Cupid with an ordinary cop, quite another if he was a
commissaire
. In other words someone who knew all the sneaky techniques of interrogation. And this one was supposed to be an ace, or so he had heard. And he had just been rabbiting on, and probably saying far too much.

‘Stay where you are,’ Mordent said, holding Émile back by the sleeve. ‘This is going to interest you.
Commissaire
, we’ve been on to the solicitor. Vaudel made a will three months ago.’

‘Leave a lot of money?’

‘I’ll say. He owned three houses out here in Garches, another in Vaucresson and a big building let out for rent in Paris. Plus about the equivalent in stocks and insurance.’

‘Nothing too surprising about that,’ said Adamsberg, getting up and brushing his trousers.

‘Apart from the legal requirement for the son’s share, he left it all to someone outside the family. Émile Feuillant.’

É
MILE SAT DOWN AGAIN ON THE STEP, LOOKING STUNNED
. Adamsberg remained standing, leaning against the doorpost, head bowed and arms crossed on his stomach, the only visible sign that he was thinking, according to his colleagues. Mordent paced up and down, swinging his arms, his eyes darting here and there. Adamsberg was not in fact lost in thought, but was telling himself that Mordent looked more than ever like a heron that’s just pounced on a fish and is still happily holding it in its beak. A fish called Émile in this case. Who broke the silence, as he started, clumsily this time, to roll himself another cigarette.

‘Don’t stand to reason that, to cut out his own kid.’

He had too much paper at the end of the roll-up, and it flared up, singeing his grey hair.

‘Whether he liked it or not, that was his kid,’ Émile went on, rubbing the lock of hair which smelt like burnt pork. ‘And he didn’t like
me
that much. Even if he knew I’d be nost-algic, and I
am
nost-algic. It should’ve gone to Pierre.’

‘You’re a one-man charity, are you?’ asked Mordent.

‘No, I’m just saying it should’ve gone to him, stands to reason. But I’ll take my share, gotta respect the old man’s wishes.’

‘Respect – that’s handy for you.’

‘Not just respect, the law.’

‘Ah. The law’s handy too.’

‘Yeah, sometimes. Will I get this house?’

‘This one or the others,’ Adamsberg intervened. ‘On the part of the estate that comes to you, you’ll have to pay big death duties. But you’ll probably end up with a couple of houses and quite a lot of money.’

‘I’ll get me mum to come and live with me, and I’ll buy back me dog.’

‘You’re getting organised very fast,’ said Mordent. ‘Anyone’d think you were expecting it.’

‘So? Stands to reason to get your mother a proper house, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m saying you don’t seem all that surprised. I’m saying that you’re already making plans. You could at least observe a decent interval to take it in. That’s the normal thing.’

‘Normal thing be buggered. I’ve taken it in already. Don’t see why I’d be hours taking it in.’

‘What I’m saying is you knew quite well that Vaudel was going to leave you his money. I’m saying you knew about the will.’

‘No, I never. But he did promise me I’d be rich one day.’

‘Same thing,’ said Mordent, curling his lip, as if moving in for an assault from the side. ‘He good as told you you’d inherit.’

‘No, he never. He read my hand. He knew how to do that, and he showed me an’ all. See,’ said Émile putting out his right hand palm up, and pointing to the base of his ring finger. ‘That’s the bit told him I was going to be rich. Didn’t mean to say it was
his
money, did it? I play the lottery, thought that’d be it.’

Émile suddenly fell silent, looking at his palm. Adamsberg, watching the cruel game of heron and fish, saw a trace of an ancient fear cross his face, one that had nothing to do with Mordent’s aggressive questions. The stabs from the
commandant
’s beak had neither troubled nor irritated him. No, it was this business of reading his palm.

‘Did he see anything else in your hand?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘No, not much, just that I’d come into some money. He said my hands looked ordinary, and that was a bit of luck, I wasn’t bothered. But when I wanted to see his hand, no, that wasn’t allowed, he closed ’em both up, and said there was nothing to see, no lines. As if he could have no lines! He looked so cross, wasn’t worth going on, and we didn’t play our game that night. But no lines, that ain’t normal. If I could see the body, I’d see if it was true.’

‘No one gets to see the body. Anyway, the hands are unrecognisable.’

Émile shrugged regretfully, and watched
Lieutenant
Retancourt come over to them, with her long ungainly strides.

‘She seems nice,’ he commented.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She’s the most dangerous wolf in the pack, and she’s been here since early yesterday morning, without a break.’

‘How does she do that?’

‘She can sleep standing up.’

‘That don’t stand to reason.’

‘No,’ Adamsberg agreed.

Retancourt stopped in front of them and nodded to the two men. ‘Yes, it’s OK,’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Mordent. ‘Shall we get on with it,
commissaire
? Or do we do a bit more chiromancy?’

‘I don’t know what that means, chiromancy,’ said Adamsberg shortly.

What on earth was up with Mordent? Good old bird, with ruffled feathers, normally so benign and competent? Irreproachable at work, an expert on stories and legends, talkative and conciliatory. Adamsberg knew that of his two
commandant
s, he had chosen Danglard to go to London, and that Mordent had been miffed. But he was due to be on the next foreign trip, to Amsterdam, which was fair, and Mordent was surely not the sort of man to harbour resentment or to begrudge Danglard a trip to his beloved England.

‘It’s the science of reading hands. In other words, a waste of time. And we’re wasting time now. Émile Feuillant, you were wondering where you were going to sleep tonight, well, we’ve got the answer now.’

‘In the house,’ said Adamsberg.

‘No, in the shed,’ said Retancourt. ‘The house is still sealed.’

‘In the police cells,’ said Mordent.

Adamsberg detached himself from the wall and took a few steps down the path, hands in pockets. The gravel crunched under his feet, a sound he rather liked.

‘That’s not up to you,
commandant
,’ he said, detaching every word. ‘I haven’t called the
divisionnaire
yet, and he hasn’t spoken to the examining magistrate. Too soon, Mordent.’

‘No, too late,
commissaire
. The
divisionnaire
telephoned me, to say the magistrate has ordered Émile Feuillant’s arrest.’

‘Really,’ said Adamsberg, turning round, with folded arms. ‘The
divisionnaire
called, and you didn’t pass the call to me.’

‘He said he didn’t want to speak to you. I had to do what he said.’

‘Not normal procedure.’

‘Well, you don’t exactly play by the book yourself.’

‘Right now I am. And procedure says this arrest is premature and without sufficient cause. One might as well pull the son in for questioning, or someone from the painter’s family. Retancourt, what’s that family like?’

‘They’re devastated, they all think the same way, still hellbent on revenge. The mother killed herself a few months after the son. The father’s an engine driver, two other sons are away somewhere, one’s a truck driver, the other’s in the Legion.’

‘What do you say to that, Mordent? Worth checking out surely? And Pierre, the disinherited son? Do you think he didn’t know about the will? What could be easier than to accuse Émile and get the whole of the estate? Did you tell the
divisionnaire
that?’

‘I didn’t have that information. But it was the magistrate who insisted. Because Émile Feuillant’s got a record as long as your arm.’

‘And since when do we pull someone in on a hunch? Without waiting for forensics? Without any serious evidence?’

‘We do have two serious pieces of evidence.’

‘Right, I agree to be informed about them. Retancourt, are you up to speed on this?’

Retancourt scraped the gravel with her toe, like a restless animal. She had many remarkable qualities, but was not gifted for social relations. An ambiguous or tense situation, requiring subtle reactions or pretence left her looking awkward and disarmed.

‘What is all this bullshit anyway, Mordent?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘Since when is the judicial system in such a hurry? And who’s behind it?’

‘I don’t know, I’m just following orders.’

‘You’re following them a bit too closely,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So what are your two pieces of evidence?’

Mordent looked up. Émile was making himself inconspicuous, fiddling about setting fire to a twig.

‘We contacted the retirement home where Feuillant’s mother lives.’

‘S’not a retirement home, it’s a death camp.’

He was still blowing at the twig trying to kindle it. Too green, thought Adamsberg, it won’t catch.

‘The matron confirmed it. At least four months ago, Émile told his mother that they would soon be going somewhere else and they’d be able to live off the fat of the land. Everybody knew about it.’

‘Course they did,’ said Émile. ‘I told you, Vaudel told me I’d be rich, and I told my mother. Stands to reason, don’t it? Do I have to tell you twenty times? Man could go barmy here.’

‘All right,’ said Adamsberg calmly. ‘And the other element, Mordent?’

This time Mordent smiled. This time, he’s sure of himself, thought Adamsberg, he’s got the fish belly-up now. Looking closely, he thought Mordent’s face was showing signs of strain. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his cheeks were drawn.

‘There was horse manure on the floor of his van.’ He pointed to Émile.