An Uncertain Place (27 page)

‘Kisilova. It’s a little village in Serbia on the Danube.’

‘This still the Garches case?’

‘Yes, still the same one.’

‘You smoke?’ Weill asked, as he lit Adamsberg’s cigarette for him.

‘Began again today.’

‘Worries,’ said Weill.

‘Probably.’

‘Certainly. That’s why I needed to talk to you.’

‘Why didn’t you phone?’

‘You’ll understand. The storm is brewing over your head, don’t go to sleep under a tree and don’t walk out holding a spear. Stay in the shadows and run fast.’

‘Details please, Weill, I need them.’

‘I’ve got no proof.’

‘Well, give me your hunch then.’

‘This Garches killer is being protected by someone.’

‘High up?’

‘Very. Some heavyweight with no scruples. They don’t want you to solve the case. They want you out of the way. A rather flimsy file has been opened on you, for allowing a suspect to escape – Émile Feuillant – and for failing to check an alibi. They’ve asked for you to be stood down temporarily. The idea was that Préval would take over.’

‘Préval’s for sale.’

‘Famous for it. I’ve managed to lose your file.’

‘Thanks.’

‘They’ve worse things they can do, and my humble power will be no good. Have you got anything in mind? Apart from flying the coop, that is?’

‘Keep one step ahead of them, catching the ball before it hits the ground.’

‘You mean you’re going to catch the killer by the scruff of the neck, and present everyone with the proof? Nonsense,
mon ami
. You still believe they can’t tamper with evidence?’

‘No.’

‘Right. So you need a triple plan. Plan A, yes, agreed, find your killer, everyone can agree about that, but it’s not a priority because the truth won’t necessarily get you out of jail free, especially if someone doesn’t want that. Plan B, find out who it is up there who wants you out of the way, and prepare a counter-offensive. Plan C, prepare your escape route. Via the Adriatic perhaps.’

‘You don’t sound very cheerful, Weill.’

‘We’re not dealing with cheerful people here.’

‘I have no way of identifying the man up there. The only way I can get to him is by getting closer to the killer.’

‘Not necessarily. What happens up aloft is hidden from us lesser mortals. So start at the bottom. Because the top people always use those lower down the scale who want promotion. Then work your way up. You know already who’s on the lowest rung, the bottom level?’

‘My
commandant
, Mordent. They’re using him, with a promise to get his daughter off a charge. Her case comes up in a couple of weeks, she’s accused of dealing.’

‘Or murder. The girl was apparently pretty out of it when Stubby Down was killed. Her friend Bones could very well have put the gun in her hand and pulled the trigger.’

‘And that’s what happened, Weill, is it? Really?’

‘Yes. Technically, she fired the shot. So Mordent has to deliver something really big to get a deal. Who’s on the next rung up? In your view.’

‘Brézillon. He’s giving Mordent orders. But I can’t think he’s involved in any plot.’

‘Never mind. Third rung of the ladder has to be the judge who’s agreed in advance to get the Mordent girl off. What does he get out of it? That’s what you need to know, Adamsberg. Who asked him to go easy on her, who’s he working for?’

‘Sorry,’ said Adamsberg, finishing his beer. ‘I haven’t had time to worry about all this. Danglard was the one who twigged. I’ve been dealing with cut-off feet, that bloodbath in Garches, Émile getting shot, the Austrian murder, the Serbian uncle, my own fuses blowing, the cat out there having kittens, so, sorry, I’ve got no idea and I’ve had no time to study this ladder you’re talking about, with all these people on it.’

‘But they’ve had plenty of time to worry about
you
. You’re way behind.’

‘I can believe that. Shavings from my pencil are already with the Avignon police, picked up in Pierre junior’s kitchen. All I’ve been able to do is stall the procedure. I’ve got about five or six days before they’ll be on to me.’

‘It’s not that I really want to get into this,’ said Weill slowly, ‘but I don’t like these people. They work on my mind like bad cooking on my stomach. Since you need to make yourself scarce, I could probe some of the rungs on the ladder for you.’

‘The judge?’

‘Beyond the judge, I would hope. I’ll call you. But not on your regular number or mine.’

Weill put two brand-new mobiles on the table and slid one across to Adamsberg.

‘Yours, mine. Don’t switch it on until you’re over the frontier, and never when you’re using your other phone. Your regular mobile doesn’t have GPS, does it?’

‘Yes. I need Danglard to be able to get hold of me if my mobile gives out. What if I’m all alone at the edge of the forest?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ Adamsberg said, smiling. ‘Just this demon who prowls around at Kisilova. And then there’s Zerk who’s on the loose somewhere.’

‘Who’s Zerk?’

‘The
Zerquetscher
. That’s what the Viennese call him. The Crusher. Before Vaudel, he massacred someone in Pressbaum.’

‘Well,
he
won’t be looking for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Neutralise the GPS, Adamsberg, you’re being imprudent. Don’t give them a way to reach and arrest you, or cause some accident, you never know. I repeat: you’re looking for a murderer and someone wants at all costs to stop you finding him. Keep your regular phone switched off as much as possible.’

‘There’s no risk, only Danglard has the GPS signal.’

‘Trust no one, when the high-ups get started with their bribes and their deals.’

‘Danglard is the exception.’

‘Nobody’s an exception. Every man has his price, his demons, everyone has a grenade under the bed. It makes a great chain of people around the globe who’ve got each other by the balls. Let’s call Danglard an exception, if you like, but someone somewhere will be watching Danglard’s every movement.’

‘What about you, Weill? What’s your price?’

‘Well, I have the good fortune to be very fond of myself. It reduces my greed and what I can ask the world for. All I want is to live in grand style, in a big eighteenth-century town house, with a staff of cooks, a live-in tailor, two cats purring at my feet, my own personal orchestra, a park, a terrace, a fountain, a few mistresses and chorus girls about the place, and the right to insult anyone I like. But no one is about to give me anything like that. So they don’t try to buy me, I’m too complicated and far too expensive.’

‘I can give you a cat. There’s a little girl-cat here, one week old, as soft as cotton wool. She’s always hungry, precious and delicate, she’d fit your grand house very well.’

‘I haven’t got the first brick of the house yet.’

‘It’s a start, the first rung on the ladder.’

‘I might be interested. But get rid of the GPS, Adamsberg.’

‘I’d have to trust you.’

‘Men who are dreaming of ancient glories don’t make good traitors.’

Adamsberg passed him the phone and drank the very last drop of beer. Weill removed the battery and took out the location chip with his thumbnail.

‘That was why I had to see you in person,’ he said, giving it back.

C
OACH 17 FOR
B
ELGRADE HELD A LUXURY COMPARTMENT
: two bunks were made up with white sheets and red blankets, and there were bedside lamps, polished side tables, a washbasin and towels. Adamsberg had never travelled in such luxury before, and checked his tickets. Yes, berths 22 and 24. There must have been some mistake at the accounts department of Travel and Foreign Missions at police headquarters, and there would be hell to pay at some point. Adamsberg sat down on his couchette, feeling as satisfied as a burglar who happens on a fortune. He settled in as if in a hotel, spread out his files on the bed, examined the menu for dinner ‘alla francese’ which would be served at ten: cream of asparagus soup, solettes à la Plogoff, blue cheese from the Auvergne, tartufo, coffee and Valpolicella to drink. He felt just the same jubilation as when he had returned to his foul-smelling car in Châteaudun and found Froissy’s surprise provisions. So, he mused, it’s not the actual quality that gives pleasure but the unexpected well-being, regardless of the components.

He went on to the platform to light one of Zerk’s cigarettes. The young man’s lighter was black too, with a red design on it depicting the circuits of the brain. He had no difficulty spotting Uncle Slavko’s grandson, whose hair was as straight and black as Dinh’s, tied back in a ponytail, and whose eyes were amber-coloured and narrow over high Slavic cheekbones.

‘Vladislav Moldovan,’ the young man who was about thirty introduced himself, with a grin that covered his whole face. ‘You can call me Vlad.’

‘Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg. Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.’

‘On the contrary, it’s my pleasure. Dedo only took me twice to Kiseljevo, the last time I was fourteen years old.’

‘Dedo?’

‘My grandfather. I’ll go and visit his grave and tell him stories like he used to me. Is this our compartment?’ he asked, hesitating.

‘Foreign Missions must have mixed me up with someone important.’

‘Wow,’ said Vladislav, ‘I’ve never slept like someone important before. You need that if you’re going to confront the demons of Kiseljevo. I know some people who would rather stay hidden in a hut.’

Chatty fellow, said Adamsberg to himself, thinking that this was probably a professional deformation in someone who worked as a translator and interpreter. Vladislav translated from nine languages, and for Adamsberg, who could hardly remember Stock’s full name, this kind of brain was as strange as Danglard’s encyclopedic equipment. He was only afraid the young man with the sunny disposition would engage him in endless conversation.

‘Adrien Danglard – Adrianus, my grandfather used to call him – didn’t tell me why you’re going to Kiseljevo. As a general rule, people don’t go to Kiseljevo.’

‘Because it’s a small place, or because it has demons?’

‘Do you come from a village?’

‘Yes, Caldhez, a tiny place in the Pyrenees.’

‘Are there demons in Caldhez?’

‘Two: a nasty troll in a cave, and a singing tree.’

‘Wow. And what are you looking for in Kiseljevo?’

‘The roots of a story.’

‘It’s a very good place for roots.’

‘Have you heard about the murder in Garches?’

‘The old man who was chopped to bits?’

‘That’s it. Well, we found a note in his writing with the name of Kiseljevo in Cyrillic script.’

‘What has this got to do with my dedo? Adrianus said this was for Dedo.’

Adamsberg looked out of the window, trying to come up with an instant idea, which was not his strong point. He should have thought earlier of a plausible explanation. He didn’t intend to tell the young man that some Zerk had cut off his dedo’s feet. Things like that might pierce holes in the soul of a grandson, and destroy his sunny disposition.

‘Danglard listened to a lot of Slavko’s stories. And Danglard collects information the way a squirrel collects nuts, much more than he would need for twenty winters. He thinks he recalls that this man Vaudel – that was the victim’s name – went to live at some point in Kisilova, and that it was your Slavko who told him about this. It seemed perhaps that Vaudel was getting away from some kind of enemy by going to Kisilova.’

Not a very brilliant cover story, but it was enough, since just then a bell rang to say dinner was served. They decided to eat it in their compartment like really important people. Vladislav asked what ‘solettes à la Plogoff’ meant. And the steward explained in Italian that this meant sole cooked in the Breton fashion, with a sauce of oysters specially flown in from Plogoff, a village on the Pointe du Raz, the furthest western point in Brittany. He took their order, seeming to consider that this young man in a T-shirt and ponytail, with black hair covering his arms, was not a really important person, any more than his travelling companion.

‘If you’re as hairy as I am,’ Vlad said, once the steward had disappeared, ‘people send you to ride in a cattle truck. I inherited this on my mother’s side,’ he said sadly, pulling at the hairs on his forearm before breaking into a peal of laughter as abrupt as a vase shattering.

Vladislav’s laugh was deeply infectious and he seemed capable of laughing at anything without any assistance.

After the solettes à la Plogoff and the Valpolicella and the dessert, Adamsberg stretched out on the couchette with his files. He had to read everything and start from scratch again. This was the most wearing aspect of his work for him. Notes, files, reports, formal statements, where you couldn’t get through to any real sensation.

‘How do you get on with Adrianus?’ Vladislav interrupted, as Adamsberg was painfully deciphering the German file and conscientiously reading the report on Frau Abster, domiciled in Cologne, seventy-six years old. ‘And did you know that he reveres you,’ he went on, ‘but at the same time you’re driving him to distraction?’