An Uncertain Place (12 page)

‘Get inside and see a doctor about the rib.’

‘Will do,’ said Retancourt and rang off.

Adamsberg snapped his mobile shut. Retancourt had no intention of getting herself examined.

‘Émile may have broken her rib,’ he said. ‘Painful.’

‘Could have been worse, he could have kicked her in the balls.’

‘That’ll do, Noël.’

‘Not the same horse farm?’ Justin chipped in.

Adamsberg took up the piece of horse manure again, biting back a more angry retort to Noël, who never stopped needling Retancourt, saying she wasn’t a woman at all, but an ox or something. Whereas for Adamsberg, if Retancourt wasn’t exactly a woman in the ordinary sense, it was because she was a goddess. The polyvalent goddess of the squad with as many talents as the God-knows-how-many-armed goddess Shiva.

‘How many arms does that Indian goddess have?’ he asked his juniors, still holding the scrap of dung.

The four
lieutenants
shook their heads.

‘Always the same,’ said Adamsberg. ‘When Danglard’s not here nobody knows the answer to anything.’

He closed up the sachet again, shut the zip and gave it to Voisenet.

‘We’ll have to call him to get an answer. Now, what it is, I think
this
horse, the one that produced this shit, familiarly known as Émile’s horse shit, was out in a field and has eaten nothing but grass. And I think the other one, the origin of the pellets in the villa, which we’ll call “the killer’s horse shit”, was fed in a stable on granules.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘I spent my childhood collecting horse manure for fertiliser, and cowpats for burning in the fireplace. I still do that, and I can assure you, Voisenet, that depending on what they’ve been fed, you get a different kind of horse manure.’

‘OK,’ agreed Voisenet.

‘When will we get the lab results?’ asked Adamsberg, as he punched in Danglard’s number. ‘Give them a kick up the pants: we need this stuff urgently – the shit, the Kleenex, fingerprints, body parts, all that.’

He walked away as Danglard came on the line.

‘Nearly five o’clock, Danglard. We need you for this Garches mess. It’s all cleared up, we’re on our way back, we’re going to do the first summary. Oh, one second, how many arms has that Indian goddess got? The one that sits inside a ball? Shiva?’

‘Shiva’s not a goddess at all,
commissaire
. He’s a god.’

‘A god! It’s a man,’ added the
commissaire
for his
lieutenants
’ benefit. ‘So Shiva’s a man, and how many arms does he have?’ he asked Danglard.

‘Depends on the different images, because Shiva’s powers are immense and contradictory, covering practically the whole spectrum, from destruction to blessing. Sometimes two, sometimes four, but it can go up to ten. Depends what he’s embodying at the time.’

‘And roughly speaking, Danglard, what does he embody?’

‘Well, to cut a long story short, “at the vacuum in the centre of Nirvana-Shakti is the supreme Shiva whose nature is emptiness”.’

Adamsberg had turned up the speaker, and looked at his colleagues who seemed as lost as he was and were making signs to forget it. Finding out that Shiva was a male deity was quite enough for one day.

‘Has this got anything to do with Garches?’ asked Danglard. ‘Not enough arms?’

‘Émile Feuillant’s inherited Vaudel’s estate, except the legal share that goes to Pierre junior. Mordent broke the rules and told him he was about to be arrested. So Émile, aka Basher, floored him and made a break for it.’

‘And Retancourt couldn’t catch him?’

‘She didn’t manage it. She can’t have had all her arms working, and he’d broken one of her ribs when he took off. We’re expecting you,
commandant
. Mordent’s out of it more or less.’

‘I dare say. But my train doesn’t leave until nine twelve in the evening. I don’t think I can change my ticket.’

‘What train, Danglard?’

‘The train that goes through the goddam tunnel,
commissaire
. Don’t imagine I’m doing this for my own amusement. But I saw what I came to see. And if he didn’t cut off my uncle’s feet, it came pretty close.’

‘Danglard, where are you?’ asked Adamsberg slowly, sitting back down at the table and turning off the speaker.

‘Where the heck do you think I am? I’m in London, and they’re pretty sure now, the shoes are almost all French, some good quality, some bad. Different social classes. Believe me, we’re going to get the whole lot on our plate, and Radstock is already rubbing his hands.’

‘But what the devil took you back to London?’ Adamsberg almost shouted. ‘Why the hell did you have to go and get mixed up with the damned shoes again? Leave them in Higg-Gate, leave them to Stock!’

‘Radstock you mean.
Commissaire
, I told you I was going and you agreed, it was necessary.’

‘Don’t mess me about, Danglard, it was that woman Abstract, and you swam the Channel to see her.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her again!’

‘I didn’t say that, but that’s got nothing to do with the shoes.’

‘I certainly hope not, Danglard.’

‘If you thought that someone had cut off your uncle’s feet, you’d want to go and take a look too.’

Adamsberg looked up at the sky which was clouding over, watched as a duck flew across the horizon, and turned back to the phone more calmly.

‘What uncle? I didn’t know there was an uncle involved.’

‘I’m not talking about a living uncle, I’m not talking about someone walking around with no feet. My uncle died about twenty years ago. My aunt’s second husband, and I was very fond of him.’

‘Without wanting to upset you,
commandant
, nobody would be capable of recognising their uncle’s dead feet.’

‘Not his feet, no, the shoes. As our friend Lord Clyde-Fox rightly said.’

‘Clyde-Fox?’

‘That eccentric English lord we met.’

‘Ah. Yes,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh.

‘I saw him again yesterday, incidentally. He was down in the dumps because he’s mislaid his new Cuban pal. We had a few drinks, he’s a specialist on Indian history. And as he quite rightly said, what can you put into shoes? Feet of course. Usually your own. And if the shoes belonged to my uncle, there was every chance the feet did too.’

‘A bit like the horse shit and the horse,’ Adamsberg commented. Fatigue was starting to give him a backache.

‘Like the container and the contents. But I’m not sure whether it’s actually my uncle or not. It could be a cousin, or someone from the same village. They’re all cousins of some kind over there.’

‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, sliding along to the end of the table. ‘Even if some nutter
has
made a collection of French feet and his path unfortunately crossed that of your uncle, or his cousin, what the hell has that got to do with us?’

‘You said yourself that there was no rule against taking an interest,’ said Danglard, sounding disgruntled. ‘You were the one who wouldn’t let the Highgate feet drop.’

‘While we were there, yes, maybe. But now we’re in Garches and I’m not interested. And that was a big mistake to go back, Danglard. Because if these feet are French, Scotland Yard will want us to collaborate. It could have been sent to a different squad, but now, thanks to you, our squad is the one with its head above the parapet. And I need you here, for this bloodbath in Garches, which is a damn sight more scary than some necrophiliac who went round cutting off feet right and left twenty years ago.’

‘Not “right and left”. I think they were selected.’

‘Did Stock tell you that?’

‘No, that’s my idea. Because when my uncle died, he was in Serbia, and so were his feet.’

‘And you’re wondering why the amputator went all the way to Serbia to collect feet, when there are sixty million of them in France.’

‘A hundred and twenty million. Sixty million people, a hundred and twenty million feet. You’re making the same mistake as Estalère in reverse.’

‘But what was your uncle doing in Serbia anyway?’

‘He was a Serb himself,
commissaire
. His name was Slavko Moldovan.’

Justin arrived, out of breath.

‘There’s this guy outside demanding an explanation. We rolled out the crime scene tapes, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants to come in.’

L
IEUTENANTS
N
OËL AND
V
OISENET WERE STANDING FACING
each other and, with their outstretched arms blocking the door, forming a barrier in front of the man, who did not look particularly intimidating.

‘How do I know you’re policemen?’ he kept repeating. ‘How do I know you’re not burglars – especially you,’ he said, pointing at Noël, whose head was close-shaved. ‘I’ve got an appointment, five thirty, and I’m always on time.’

‘Yeah, well, your appointment can’t see you!’ said Noël with an aggressive sneer.

‘Show me your police badges. You haven’t shown me any proof.’

‘We’ve already explained,’ Voisenet said. ‘Our badges are in our jackets and our jackets are inside, but we have to keep this door shut, so that you can’t go in there. The whole site is forbidden to the public.’

‘But of course I’m going inside!’

‘Can’t be done.’

As Adamsberg approached from inside the house, he judged that the man was either singularly obtuse or else rather brave, given his average height and corpulent figure. If he really did think they were burglars, he’d have done better to stop arguing and get away fast. But he looked like someone from the professional classes, self-confident and self-possessed, with the pompous air of a man doing his duty or at any rate his job, whatever the circumstances, at least if it didn’t harm his fee. Was he an insurance agent, an art dealer, a lawyer, a banker? His manner of approaching these two policemen with their shirt-sleeved arms indicated a clear class reflex. He wasn’t somebody who could be sent packing, and certainly not by the likes of Noël and Voisenet. Negotiating with them would be beneath him, and perhaps it was that social conviction, that basic caste scorn, which made him brave beyond foolishness. He had nothing to fear from his social inferiors. Apart from his present attitude, his shrewd and old-fashioned face might be quite attractive in repose. Adamsberg laid a hand on the plebeian arms and nodded to the newcomer.

‘If this really is something to do with the police, I’m not leaving till I see your superior officer,’ the man was saying.

‘I am their superior officer,
Commissaire
Adamsberg.’

Astonishment, disappointment. Adamsberg had seen these all too often on people’s faces. But almost immediately afterwards there would be submission to the superior rank, in however odd a form it had appeared.

‘Enchanté,
commissaire
,’ said the man, holding out his hand. ‘Paul de Josselin. I’m Monsieur Vaudel’s doctor.’

Too late, thought Adamsberg, as they shook hands.

‘I’m sorry, doctor, but you can’t see Monsieur Vaudel.’

‘So I gather. But as his doctor, I surely have the right and indeed the duty to be informed about it. Is he ill, in hospital? Dead?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘And he died at home? Is that why there’s all this police presence?’

‘Correct, doctor.’

‘But when? How? I examined him a couple of weeks ago, and he was in good health.’

‘The police are obliged to keep details confidential. Normal procedure in a murder case.’

The doctor frowned, muttering ‘murder!’ to himself. Adamsberg realised that they were talking to each other across the outstretched arms, like neighbours talking across a fence. The two
lieutenants
had maintained their stiff attitude without anyone thinking to change it. Adamsberg tapped on Voisenet’s shoulder and lifted the barrier.

‘Let’s go round into the garden,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t contaminate the floor.’

‘I understand, I quite understand. So you can’t tell me anything about it?’

‘I can tell you as much as the neighbours have been told. It was during the night from Saturday to Sunday, and we discovered the body yesterday morning. The alarm was raised by the gardener when he got home at about five o’clock.’

‘Why did he raise the alarm? Did he hear cries?’

‘According to the gardener, Vaudel normally left his lights on all night. But when he arrived back, there were no lights showing – he said his employer had a pathological fear of the dark.’

‘I know, it goes back to his childhood.’

‘Were you his doctor or his psychiatrist?’

‘I was his GP, but also his somatopathic osteopath.’

‘I see,’ said Adamsberg, who didn’t. ‘Did he tell you much about himself?’

‘No, absolutely not, he hated the idea of psychiatry. But what I could feel in his bones told me a lot. I was actually very attached to him, medically speaking. Vaudel was an exceptional case.’