An Uncertain Place (37 page)

‘I swear to you that’s what I was thinking about:
kobasice
.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Yes, I guess so. What are
kobasice
anyway?’

‘Sausages. What else did you think about?’

‘I was concentrating on breathing one breath at a time. And on a line of poetry – “
In the night of the tomb, Thou who consolest me
.”’

‘And did anything console you? The thought of heaven?’

‘No heaven.’

‘Or some person?’

‘No, nothing, Vlad. I was alone.’

‘If you were thinking about nothing and nobody,’ said Vlad, with an edge of anger, ‘you wouldn’t have thought of that line. Who or what consoled you?’

‘I don’t have an answer to that. Why does it bother you?’

The young man with the sunny disposition hung his head, mashing up his food with his fork.

‘It bothers me that we looked but we didn’t find you.’

‘You couldn’t have guessed.’

‘I didn’t believe any of it, I didn’t care where you’d gone. It was Danica who forced me to go and look. I should have gone with you when you went out yesterday.’

‘I didn’t want any company then, Vlad.’

‘Arandjel had told me to do it,’ he whispered. ‘Arandjel had told me not to leave you alone for a minute. Because you had gone into the place of uncertainty.’

‘And that made you laugh.’

‘Of course. I didn’t ask myself any questions. I don’t believe in that stuff.’

‘Nor do I.’

The young man nodded.

‘Plog.’

Danica served the two policemen their meal. Looking anxious, her eyes went from Adamsberg to Veyrenc. Adamsberg guessed that there was a hesitation there, due to the presence of another newcomer. He was not offended, since he had now resolved never to sleep with anyone for the rest of his life.

‘Did you think while you were walking?’ asked Veyrenc.

Adamsberg looked at him in surprise, as if Veyrenc didn’t know him at all, as if he were asking the impossible of him.

‘Sorry,’ said Veyrenc, gesturing that he took back the question. ‘I mean, is there anything you want to say?’

‘Yes. Once you had seen Zerk’s face in the papers, you started following my every move, to stop me setting hands on him. Just because he’s your nephew. So I suppose you’re fond of him, you must know him well.’

‘Yes.’

‘When you heard him talking outside the vault, was that his voice?’

‘I was too far away. What about you, when he locked you in, was that his voice?’

‘He only spoke to me once the door was shut. And the door was too thick to hear through, even if he had shouted, which he didn’t want to do. He slid a little speaker under the door. It altered his voice. But his way of talking was perfectly recognisable: “Know where you are now, scumbag?”’

‘Oh, I don’t think he would say that,’ Veyrenc reacted.

‘He damn well did, and you’d better believe it.’

‘If someone knew him well, they might have imitated him.’

‘Yes, one could imitate him. In fact, you might say he imitates himself, sometimes.’

‘There, you see.’

‘Veyrenc, have you even a shred of evidence on your side?’

‘Well, I smell a rat when a murderer leaves something at a crime scene with his DNA.’

‘Yes, me too,’ agreed Adamsberg, thinking of the cartridge case under the fridge. ‘You mean that convenient little tissue in the garden?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Why would Armel only have spoken to you
after
he got you locked inside the vault?’

‘So as not to be heard by other people.’

‘Or so that you wouldn’t hear his voice, because it would be a voice you didn’t recognise?’

‘Veyrenc, this kid has never denied doing the murder. How are you going to get him out of this mess?’

‘By knowing what he’s like. I do know him. My sister stayed in Pau after he was born. She couldn’t come back to the village with a baby and no father. I was still at school, and I stopped being a boarder and went to lodge with her for seven years. Then I did my teacher training, and started work. And I stayed with them all that time. I know Armel like the back of my hand.’

‘And you’re going to tell me he’s a gentle lad who wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Why not? From when he was little until now, I’ve hardly ever seen him fly off the handle. Anger isn’t part of his makeup, nor is attacking people or insulting them. He’s vague, lazy, undisciplined, and doesn’t care much about anything. But it’s hard to get him worked up. And I think we can agree that the man who did all that to Vaudel was worked up.’

‘It could be lurking under the surface.’

‘Adamsberg, the core of this killer’s mind is destruction. Armel doesn’t think about destroying things, because he doesn’t even think of constructing. Do you know how he lives? He makes home-made jewellery and he sells it to market traders. He has no ambition. He just drifts through life without attaching much importance to anything. So tell me, how does a guy like that work up enough rage and energy to spend hours chopping up Vaudel and Plögener?’

‘Well, the young man who came to see me wasn’t placid at all – I saw the other side of your nephew. I saw someone who was worked up all right – a brute: rude, insulting, full of hate, and saying he’d come to “fuck up my life”. And it was him, wasn’t it, that you saw leaving my house? Your Armel?’

‘Yes,’ said Veyrenc, looking distressed, and not even noticing as Danica changed the plates and brought their dessert.

‘
Zavitek
,’ she said.

‘
Hvala
, Danica. Accept it, Veyrenc. Your Armel is a Zerk in disguise.’

‘Or perhaps Zerk is an Armel in disguise?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean: he could be acting a part.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Adamsberg, putting his hand out on Veyrenc’s arm to interrupt him. ‘A part. Yes, that could be it.’

‘Because?’

‘First, because he was talking this tough-guy “scumbag” language, and laying it on too thick. And second, because the T-shirt looked brand new. Have you ever seen him kitted out like a goth before?’

‘No, never. He dresses any old how, whatever comes to hand. He doesn’t bother to try and look good, or original, or classy. A bit like his idea of himself.’

‘How did he react when his father was mentioned?’

‘When he was little, he was ashamed, when he was older he just looked down.’

‘There could be something there, Veyrenc. Better than this too-convenient handkerchief, and better than your faith in your nephew, and better than the new T-shirt. But it depends if you have the information.’

Veyrenc looked closely at Adamsberg. Whatever his bitterness and suspicion in the past he had always admired his boss, always hoped for something from his elegant leaps of intuition, just when you thought his brain was completely overwhelmed, even if you had to sift through barrels of mud to find a gram of gold.

‘In your mother’s family, among your ancestors, men and women, is there anyone with a name like Arnold Paole?’

Veyrenc felt disappointment surge through him. Just another barrel of mud.

‘P-a-o-l-e,’ said Adamsberg, detaching each letter. ‘It could have been altered into Paoulet, or made to sound more French like Paul, Paulus, whatever. Or any surname that starts with P or A.’

‘Paole. What kind of name is that?’

‘Serbian, like Plogojowitz, which has been changed into several forms, into surnames like Plogerstein, Plögener, Plog, Plogodrescu. Not Plogoff – that’s a place in Brittany, nothing to do with anything.’

‘You mentioned this Plogojowitz before.’

‘Don’t say that name too loudly in here,’ said Adamsberg, looking around the dining room.

‘Why not?’

‘I already told you. Peter Plogojowitz is a vampire, the greatest of them, and he lives here.’

Adamsberg said this quite naturally, as if he was used to the Kisilova beliefs. Veyrenc’s worried face surprised him.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand we have to talk quietly about him?’

‘I don’t get what you’re doing. You’re trying to trace a
vampire
?’

‘Not exactly. I’m trying to trace the descendant of a vampire who was the victim of another vampire, down all the line of descent since 1727.’

Veyrenc slowly shook his head.

‘I know what I’m doing, Veyrenc. You can ask Arandjel.’

‘The man with the key.’

‘Yes. The man who stops Plogojowitz escaping from his grave. It’s in that clearing at the edge of the wood, not far from the hut you slept in. Maybe you saw it.’

‘No,’ said Veyrenc firmly, as if he was refusing to believe even in the existence of the grave.

‘Forget Plogojowitz,’ said Adamsberg, waving away the misunderstanding with his hand. ‘But just think about your maternal ancestors, and therefore Zerk’s. Do you know who they were?’

‘Pretty well. I traced the family tree till I got tired of it.’

‘Perfect. Write it on the tablecloth. How far do you go back?’

‘To about the 1760s, with about twenty-seven surnames.’

‘That should do.’

‘It’s not that difficult. All the ancestors married people from the next village. If they were really adventurous they moved about six kilometres away. I dare say they all went down to the bridge over the Jaussène to make love.’

‘That seems to be the tradition.’

Adamsberg tore the paper tablecloth when Veyrenc had finished his list, which had no trace of any name like Paole.

‘Listen carefully, Veyrenc. The killer of Pierre Vaudel-Plog and Conrad Plögener belongs to the line of descent from Arnold Paole, who died in 1727, in a place called Medwegya, not far from here. Zerk isn’t descended from any Paole. So there are just two possibilities for your nephew.’

‘Stop calling him my nephew. He’s your son as well.’

‘I don’t want to say “my son”. I prefer to say “your nephew”.’

‘Yes, I did gather that.’

‘Either your nephew did commit these crimes, because he was being manipulated by this Paole. Or it was Paole himself who was the killer, and planted the convenient little tissue belonging to your nephew. Either way, we need to find this descendant of Arnold Paole.’

Danica put two small glasses on the table.

‘Watch out,’ said Adamsberg, ‘it’s
rakija
.’

‘So?’

‘Try it. I tell you, if I’d had some of this stuff in the vault, I’d never have come close to dying.’

‘Ah, Froissy,’ said Veyrenc with an air of nostalgia, remembering the three little bottles of cognac. ‘But how are we going to find a descendant of Paole?’

‘We know one thing about him. It must have been a Paole who has some kind of hold over your nephew, and knows him well enough to imitate him. Think of someone in his circle of people, a substitute father figure, whom he sees often, whom he admires or fears.’

‘He’s twenty-nine. I don’t know everything about his life in Paris.’

‘What about his mother?’

‘She married this man four years ago. She lives in Poland now.’

‘You can’t think of anyone who might correspond?’

‘No. And it doesn’t explain why, if he didn’t do the murder, he would have boasted about it to you.’

‘Yes, it does,’ said Adamsberg. ‘By reversing their roles, Armel finds he has been transformed into Zerk, a sort of miraculous change. He’s no longer weak but strong, no longer good but bad. If there’s a Paole manipulating him, he counted on that. The son will crush the father. That’s what Zerk said to me. So Armel gets tipped off by Mordent, he obeys, he runs away, and he discovers what’s in the papers. Agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘His face is all over the front page, suddenly he’s become a personality, a celebrity, an impressive monster. And who is he up against?
Commissaire
Adamsberg. At first he goes into shock. But he soon sees it as a golden opportunity. A new power and it’s fallen into his lap. A brilliant way to get his revenge on his father. What does he risk by acting the part of the monster for a day? Nothing. What does he get out of it? A lot. He can lay right into his father, show him his sins, make him feel guilt and responsibility. Does he even think about the handkerchief? No. His DNA at the murder scene? No, to him it’s just some mistake, they’ll find out soon enough. The proof is that he was tipped off, and told to lie low until things settle down. He hasn’t much time. This is a chance to be taken, a stroke of fate, and he’d better make the most of it. So he turns up at his father’s place dressed for the part. He talks like a killer, he turns into Zerk, he insults this bastard of an Adamsberg, he’s going to demolish him. Look, Adamsberg, your son’s a monster, your son’s got the upper hand now! And it’s all your fault, so now you’re going to suffer the way I’ve suffered. No good shouting and saying you’re sorry, it’s too late. Then once he’s put on his little show, he pushes off, leaving remorse and distress in Adamsberg’s head. His father’s out of action, he’s got his revenge. Your nephew’s not as sweet-tempered as all that.’