An Uncertain Place (18 page)

He put his hand on the photograph of the young man, spreading his fingers as if to hold it down. ‘Anything found in the apartment?’

‘No, of course not. He’d had plenty of time to scarper.’

‘Once the news got out this morning.’

‘Maybe even before that. Someone could have tipped him off and told him to get out. Then the press reports would simply be a cover for the leak.’

‘What are you suggesting? That this man has some relative in the squad – a brother, or cousin, or girlfriend? That’s ridiculous. Or an uncle? Another of those uncles.’

‘No need to go as far as that. One of us tells someone, and that person tells someone else. Garches was a dreadful business. People might feel the need to get it off their chest.’

‘Even if that’s true, why give away the guy’s name?’

‘Because he’s called Louvois. Armel Guillaume François Louvois. Which is funny.’

‘What’s so funny, Danglard?’

‘Well, the name of course. François Louvois, like the marquis de Louvois.’

‘I don’t get the point, Danglard. Was he a murderer or something?’

‘Yes, you could say that, because he was the man who built up Louis XIV’s armies.’

Danglard had dropped the paper and his hands were waving in the air orchestrating the melodies of his encyclopedic knowledge.

‘And a brutal realpolitik kind of diplomat. He was the one that sent death squads out against the Huguenots, no choirboy.’

‘Frankly, Danglard,’ Adamsberg interrupted, laying a hand on his arm, ‘I would be very surprised if anyone in our squad (a) knew the first thing about François Louvois, or (b) would find anything remotely funny about it.’

Danglard stopped his arm movements and his hand dropped dejectedly on to the newspaper.

‘Just read the article.’

Following a call from the gardener, detectives from
Commissaire
J.-B. Adamsberg’s Serious Crime Squad arrived early on Sunday morning in the quiet suburb of Garches. There in a luxury villa, they discovered the atrociously mutilated body of the owner, Pierre Vaudel (78), a retired journalist. The neighbours are in shock. They say they can think of no reason why anyone would carry out such a vicious attack. We are informed that the body had not only been dismembered but chopped up and scattered around the house, making a nightmare scene. The investigation quickly turned up clues which may identify the homicidal maniac, including a paper tissue. Swift DNA analysis has yielded the name of a man the police wish to help them with their inquiries. The apparent suspect is one Armel Guillaume François Louvois (29), an apprentice jeweller. Louvois was on file for his involvement, along with two accomplices, in a gang rape twelve years ago of two underage girls.

Adamsberg stopped as his mobile rang.

‘Yes, Lavoisier. Yes, nice to speak with you again, indeed. No. Lots of problems … What! Isn’t he getting better?’

He stopped to pass the word on to Danglard.

‘Some bastard’s tried to poison Émile. He’s got a very high temperature. Lavoisier, I’m just putting the speaker on for my colleague.’

‘Frightfully sorry,
mon vieux
, someone got in wearing a mask and a white coat, you can’t be everywhere at once. Seventeen different departments at the hospital and we’re squeezed for cash. I’ve put two paramedics on now, taking it in turns by his door. Émile’s afraid he’s going to die, and I have to say it’s not impossible. He said he had two messages for you. Got a pen?’

‘Hang on,’ said Adamsberg and tore a scrap off the newspaper.

‘First, the code word is on a postcard too. No idea what that means, I didn’t insist, poor man’s on the edge.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘He was fine first thing this morning. The nurse paged me at two thirty this afternoon, his temperature shot up around midday. Second message: for the dog.’

‘What about the dog?’

‘Allergic to peppers. I hope you know what he’s talking about, it seemed to matter a lot to him. Perhaps it’s the rest of that code, because why would you give a dog peppers anyway?’

‘What’s this code word?’ Danglard asked, when Adamsberg had shut the phone.

‘It’s some word in Russian like a billet-doux. “Kiss lover”. Vaudel used to be in love with some woman in Germany.’

‘Why write “
kiss lover
” in Russian script? It’s English.’

‘
I
don’t know, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, picking up the paper again.

Louvois was acquitted of rape, but the judge gave him a nine-month suspended sentence for being a party to violence and non-assistance to persons in danger. Since that time, Armel Louvois has not been involved in any further offence, at least on paper. His arrest is regarded as imminent.

‘Imminent indeed,’ said Adamsberg, looking at both his wristwatches. ‘Well, he’ll be far away by now, this Louvois. But we’d better keep a watch on the flat, not everyone reads the papers.’

From the cafe, Adamsberg phoned through his instructions. Voisenet and Kernorkian were to follow up the family of the artist who painted his benefactor; Retancourt, Mordent and Noël were to check the suspect’s apartment; Weill must be warned – he would be aghast to see any cops in his private space, and would be capable of raising Cain; Froissy and Mercadet were to check Louvois’s phone and email accounts; Justin and Lamarre were to check his car if he had one; the Avignon police were to be alerted and told to check the whereabouts of Pierre Vaudel junior and his wife. Stations and airports to be watched, picture of suspect to be circulated.

As he spoke, Adamsberg could see Danglard making signs to him which he couldn’t interpret, no doubt because he was incapable of doing two things at once: talking and seeing, seeing and listening, listening and writing. Drawing was the only thing he could do as a background activity to anything else.

‘We question Louvois’s neighbours?’ asked Maurel.

‘Yes, but go and consult Weill first, he’s right on the spot. Concentrate on the flat itself – you never know, Louvois may not have seen the news, he might come back. See where he works, shop, workshop, whatever.’

Danglard had written five words on the edge of the newspaper and was holding it in front of him. ‘Not Mordent. Replace by Mercadet.’

Adamsberg shrugged.

‘Correction,’ he said into the phone. ‘Mordent to work with Froissy, and Mercadet to go to the flat. That way if he drops off, there’ll be two others around, including Retancourt which makes seven in practice.’

‘Why did you want me to change Mordent?’ he asked.

‘He’s spooked, I don’t trust him,’ said Danglard.

‘Just because a man is spooked, there’s no reason he can’t keep an eye on a flat. Anyway, Louvois isn’t there.’

‘It’s not that. There’s been a leak.’

‘Come on, out with it,
commandant
, if you’ve got something at the back of your mind. Mordent’s been in the force twenty-seven years, he’s seen it all. Never a whisper of corruption, even when he worked in Nice.’

‘I know.’

‘So I don’t see it, Danglard. Frankly, I don’t see it. You were saying just now that it was probably someone gossiping. Careless talk costs lives. Carelessness, not deliberate treachery.’

‘I always put the best complexion on things in public, but I always believe the worst. He short-circuited you yesterday, and he triggered Émile’s escape.’

‘Danglard, Mordent’s head is a million miles from here, because his daughter has banged
her
head against a wall in Fresnes. Of course he’s going to make blunders. He’s doing either too much or too little, he’s tetchy, he’s not in control. We just have to put someone alongside him, that’s all.’

‘He made a mess of checking the alibi in Avignon.’

‘So?’

‘So that’s two professional errors in a row, and not minor ones: one suspect escapes arrest, and an alibi any fool could have dealt with can’t now be checked. Who’s legally responsible? You are. With those two mistakes, people will be able to say that in less than forty-eight hours, two days, you’ve made a complete mess of the first stage of the inquiry. With Brézillon after your guts as usual, you could be stood down for less than that. And now this latest disaster: press leak, killer on the run. If someone wanted to have you taken out of circulation, they wouldn’t have put a foot wrong.’

‘Oh, come on, Danglard. Mordent sabotaging the inquiry? Mordent wanting to land me in the shit? No way. Why would he?’

‘Because otherwise you might find the killer. And that would be embarrassing.’

‘Who for? Embarrassing for Mordent?’

‘No. For someone upstairs.’

Adamsberg looked at Danglard’s index finger pointing at the ceiling which was his way of referring to higher authority, though it could equally well mean ‘downstairs’ in the caves of Hades.

‘Somebody up there,’ Danglard said, without moving his finger, ‘doesn’t want this Garches affair to be solved, or for you to carry on investigating it.’

‘And Mordent’s on their side? That’s unthinkable.’

‘On the contrary, it’s highly thinkable, because his daughter is in the hands of the judicial system. Upstairs, a murder can be covered up easily. Mordent gives them the ammunition to get rid of you, his daughter gets off the charge. Her case comes up in two weeks, don’t forget.’

Adamsberg made a dismissive sound.

‘He’s not the type.’

‘Nobody’s not the type if their child is under threat. Easy to see you haven’t got any kids.’

‘Don’t start, Danglard.’

‘I mean a kid you really look after,’ said Danglard bitingly, going back to the major bone of contention between them. Danglard stood on one side, protecting Camille and her child from the very elusive ways of Adamsberg, and Adamsberg on the other, living as he pleased, leaving behind him, almost without noticing, a trail of calamities in other people’s lives.

‘I do look after Tom,’ said Adamsberg, clenching his fist. ‘I babysit him, I take him out, I tell him stories.’

‘Oh yeah, so where is he now?’

‘None of your business, just stop bugging me, Danglard. He’s on holiday with his mother.’

‘Yes, but where?’

Silence fell on the two men, the dirty table, the empty glasses, the crumpled newspapers and the killer’s photograph. Adamsberg was trying to remember where Camille had gone with little Tom, somewhere healthy, that was for sure. Seaside probably. Normandy, something like that. He called them on the mobile every three days, they were fine.

‘In Normandy,’ he said.

‘In Brittany,’ said Danglard. ‘In Cancale.’

If Adamsberg had been Émile at that moment, he would have punched Danglard on the jaw right away. He imagined the scene, which pleased him. He contented himself with getting up.

‘What you are thinking with respect to Mordent,
commandant
, is unworthy.’

‘It’s not unworthy to want to save your daughter.’

‘I said what you are thinking is unworthy. It’s what’s in your head that’s unworthy.’

‘Yes, of course it’s unworthy.’

L
AMARRE BURST INTO THE
D
ICE SHAKER.

‘Urgent,
commissaire
! Vienna wants to talk to you.’

Adamsberg looked at Lamarre in puzzlement. The young
brigadier
was not good with words, and if he had to make a report, his lack of confidence usually meant he had to speak from notes. Had he got a name wrong?

‘Who’s Vienna?’

‘Vienna, the place. Thalberg, name like yours, with berg on the end, like the composer he said.’

‘Alban Berg, or more likely Sigismund Thalberg, 1812–1871, Austrian composer,’ murmured Danglard.

‘But he’s not a composer, he’s a
police chief
.’

‘A Viennese police chief,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You might have said so.’

He got up and followed the
brigadier
across the road.

‘And what does this man from Vienna want?’

‘Didn’t ask, it’s you he wants, sir. Tell me,’ said Lamarre, looking back, ‘why is the cafe called the Dice Shaker when there aren’t any dice players or even tables for them?’

‘Well, why aren’t there any philosophers in the Brasserie des Philosophes?’

‘That’s not an answer, just another question.’

‘Often the way,
brigadier
.’

Kommissar
Thalberg in the Viennese police headquarters had asked for a videoconference, and Adamsberg went into the technical suite, with Froissy to help him get the equipment working. Justin, Estalère, Lamarre and Danglard all squeezed in behind him. Perhaps it was just the mention of the romantic Austrian composer, but it seemed to Adamsberg as if the man who now appeared on screen belonged to an earlier century: a refined and ethereal face, a little pale, set off by his turned-up shirt collar and the perfect blond curls.

‘Do you speak German,
Commissaire
Adamsberg?’ asked the gracious Viennese colleague, lighting a long cigarette.