The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (14 page)

‘That she knew about Herbier’s death, because Léo always knows everything about everyone.’

‘She doesn’t gossip.’

‘No, but she’s very sharp, and she has a good memory. Unfortunately, she didn’t tell me anything. It might have saved her life if she had.’

Émeri opened the bonbonnière, filled with sugared almonds, and pushed it across to Blériot.

‘We’re in deep shit now, Blériot. Someone who knocks down an old lady is not to be messed with. A brute. And I’ve let him run around for days. What are they saying about it in the town?’

‘I told you, sir, I don’t know.’

‘Oh yes you do, Blériot. What are they saying about me? That I haven’t done my job properly, is that it?’

‘It’ll blow over, sir. People gossip, then they forget.’

‘No, Blériot, they’re right. It’s eleven days since Herbier disappeared, and nine days since I was alerted about it. I decided to ignore the whole thing because I thought the Vendermots were laying a trap for me, you know that. I was covering myself. And then when his body turned up, I decided he must have killed himself, because that was convenient for me. I went on persuading myself, I was pig-headed about it and I didn’t lift a finger. If they say I’m responsible for Léo’s death, they’ll be right. When
Herbier’s murder was still fresh, there might have been some chance of getting a trail.’

‘We weren’t to know that.’

‘
You
weren’t, no. But I was. And now there are no clues at all. Always the way. It’s when you try to protect yourself that you make yourself most vulnerable. Remember that.’

Émeri offered the brigadier a cigarette and the two men smoked in silence.

‘What’s so serious, capitaine? What can happen?’

‘A reprimand from the General Inspection of Gendarmes, that’s what!’

‘For you?’

‘Obviously. You needn’t worry, you’re not responsible.’

‘Get some help, capitaine. You can’t win with one hand behind your back.’

‘Where from?’

‘The count. He’s got a long arm. He can pull strings in Paris. And with the General Inspection.’

‘Get out the cards, Blériot. We’ll play a couple of hands, it’ll do us good.’

Blériot dealt the cards with the heavy manner in which he did everything and Émeri felt a bit better.

‘The count is very attached to Léo,’ Émeri objected, as he fanned out his hand.

‘Ah, well, they do say he never loved anyone else.’

‘And he’d be entitled to think I’m responsible for what happened to her. So
he
’ll wish me to the devil.’

‘Don’t say that name, sir.’

‘Why not?’ said Émeri with a short laugh. ‘You believe the devil’s here in Ordebec?’

‘Well…Lord Hellequin has been seen.’

‘Oh, my poor Blériot, if you believe that…’

‘You never know, capitaine.’

Émeri smiled and put down a card. Blériot put an 8 on top of it.

‘You’re not concentrating.’

‘No, sir…’

XIII

‘Commissaire,’ Mo was begging.

‘Just shut up!’ Adamsberg cut him off. ‘Your head’s on the block, and time’s running out.’

‘But I don’t kill people, man, I don’t kill anyone, all I ever kill is cockroaches in my flat.’

‘Will you, for Pete’s sake, shut up!’ said Adamsberg, making an imperious gesture.

Mo fell silent in surprise. Something about the commissaire had clearly changed.

‘That’s better,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You heard me just now. I’m not in the mood to let murderers run around free.’

An image of Léo passed in front of his eyes, triggering a pain at the back of his neck. He rubbed it with his hand, to expel the bubble of electricity to the ground. Mo looked at him, thinking he must have caught some invisible insect. Instinctively he did the same, putting a hand to his neck.

‘You got a bubble there too?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘A bubble?’

‘Electricity. You’ve got good reason.’

Mo shook his head, failing to understand.

‘In your case, Mo, we’re dealing with a cynical, calculating and very powerful killer. The opposite of the frantic and impulsive murderer we’ve got in Ordebec.’

‘I dunno what you mean,’ murmured Mo.

‘Never mind. Someone eliminated Antoine Clermont-Brasseur. I won’t bother explaining
why
this rich old man was blocking someone’s light, we don’t have time, and it’s not your problem. What you’ve got to realise is that you’re going to take the rap for it. That was planned from the start. You might get out for good conduct in twenty-two years, that’s if you don’t set fire to your cell.’

‘
Twenty-two years
?’

‘This is a Clermont-Brasseur who was killed, not some two-bit cafe owner. Justice isn’t blind.’

‘But if you know I didn’t do it, you can tell them, so I won’t go to prison.’

‘In your dreams, lad. The Clermont-Brasseur clan won’t allow one of their own members to come under suspicion. We can’t even get near them for some simple questioning. Whatever happened the other night, our leaders are going to protect the clan. So when I say neither you nor I count for anything, it’s an understatement. You’re
nothing
, they’re everything. If one can put it that way. And you’ve been chosen as the fall guy.’

‘But there isn’t any
evidence
,’ Mo whispered. ‘How can they charge me without any evidence?’

‘Of course they can, Mo. Stop wasting time. I’m offering you a deal: two years’ prison instead of twenty-two. Are you up for it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You escape from here and you go into hiding. But you have to understand that when they find you gone tomorrow, I’m going to have some explaining to do.’

‘Ye-ah?’

‘What you’ve done is this: you’ve taken Mercadet’s gun and phone – Mercadet’s the lieutenant with a side parting and small hands who brought you here – because he fell asleep in the interview room. He’s always dropping off.’

‘But he
didn’t
drop off, commissaire.’

‘Don’t argue with me. He fell asleep, you took his gun. And his mobile. You hid them in your pocket. Mercadet didn’t notice a thing.’

‘What if he swears he’s had his gun on him all the time?’

‘He’ll be wrong, because I’m just now going to take it from him, and his mobile as well. The idea is, you’ve used the phone to call a pal and got him to wait for you outside. Now I’ve come in, you pull out the gun, you hold it to my head, and force me to take off your handcuffs, and put him on myself. Then I open the back door of the station. Listen carefully. There are two men on duty in the street, one each side of the door. You come out, holding the gun to my head with a determined expression. So determined they don’t try to intervene. Think you can do all that?’

‘Oh…I can try.’

‘Right. So I tell the lads outside to take it easy, not to move. You’ve got to look tough, ready for anything. Agreed?’

‘What if I don’t look tough enough?’

‘In that case, it’s your own neck you’re risking. Just do it. At the corner of the street, there’s a no-parking sign. You walk me that far, we turn right, you punch me on the jaw, and I fall to the ground. Then you run straight down that road. You’ll see a car parked there in front of the butcher’s shop, about thirty metres along; it’ll flash its lights once. You chuck away the gun, and you jump in.’

‘And the mobile?’

‘You leave that here. I’ll destroy it.’

Mo looked at Adamsberg, thunderstruck, raising his heavy eyelids in surprise.

‘Why are you doing this? They’ll say you couldn’t even deal with a yob from an estate.’

‘What they say will be my business.’

‘They’ll suspect you.’

‘Not if you do what you have to do convincingly.’

‘This isn’t a trap, is it?’

‘Two years’ prison, or eight months if you keep your nose clean inside. Best-case scenario, I get my hands on the real killer, but you’ll still be charged with an armed attack on the commissaire, plus evading arrest. So is it on?’

‘Yes,’ breathed Mo.

‘OK. Now pay attention. It may be that they build a wall so high around this inquiry that I
never
get to catch the murderer. In which case you’ll have to run a long way, maybe overseas.’

Adamsberg looked at his watch. If Mercadet was subject to his usual cycle, he ought to be fast asleep by now. Adamsberg opened the door and called Estalère.

‘Keep an eye on this so-and-so for me, I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Getting close. I’m counting on you, don’t take your eyes off him.’

Estalère smiled. He liked it when Adamsberg referred to his eyes. The commissaire had told him one day that he had excellent eyesight, capable of spotting anything.

Adamsberg slipped upstairs quietly, remembering to miss the ninth step, which always tripped everyone up. Lamarre and Morel were on duty in reception, and he didn’t want to attract their attention. In the room with the coffee machine, Mercadet was in situ, fast asleep on the cushions, with the cat stretched out on his legs. The lieutenant had unfastened his holster so the gun was easy to reach. Adamsberg patted the cat’s head and lifted the Magnum without making a sound. It was trickier to extract the mobile from Mercadet’s trouser pocket. Two minutes later, he sent Estalère away again, and locked himself in with Mo.

‘Where am I to hide?’ Mo asked.

‘Somewhere the police will never look. In a cop’s house.’

‘Where?’

‘My place.’

‘No shit.’

‘That’s how it is, we have to improvise. I haven’t had time to arrange anything else.’

Adamsberg had sent a quick message to Zerk, who reported that Hellebaud had spread his wings, and looked ready to fly.

‘It’s time now,’ said Adamsberg, getting up.

Handcuffs on his wrists, Mo pressing the gun to the back of his neck, Adamsberg opened the two barred doors on to the large courtyard where
the squad’s cars were parked. As they approached the back entrance, Mo put his hand on Adamsberg’s shoulder.

‘Commissaire, I…I dunno what to say.’

‘Save it for later, concentrate.’

‘My first-born son, I’ll call him after you, I swear to god.’

‘Just keep moving, for god’s sake,’ said Adamsberg angrily. ‘And look tough.’

‘Commissaire, just one thing.’

‘What? Your yo-yo?’

‘No, my mother.’

‘She’ll be informed.’

XIV

Danglard had done the washing-up and was lying on his old brown sofa with a glass of white wine to hand, while his children finished their homework. Five children, all growing up, five children who would leave home one day and he didn’t want even to think about that this evening. The youngest, who was not actually his son, and continually presented the enigma of his blue eyes inherited from an unknown father, was the only one now still a small child rather than a teenager, and Danglard was trying to keep him that way. He had been unable to hide his depression during the evening, and the older of the boy twins had shown insistent concern about it. Danglard had not offered much resistance before telling him about the confrontation with the commissaire, about Adamsberg’s harsh tone and how he supposed his boss was declining into mediocrity. The twin gave a doubtful grimace, as did his brother, and their double expression now haunted Danglard’s saddened mind.

He overheard one of his twin daughters reciting her homework about Voltaire, the man who laughs at the way people are taken in by illusions and lies. And he suddenly sat up, leaning on one elbow. It had been a sham, that was what he had witnessed. A lie, an illusion. He felt his mind start ticking over in a higher gear, finding itself back on track again. He stood up, pushing aside the glass. Unless he was mistaken, Adamsberg would be needing him, and now.

Twenty minutes later, he hurried into the squad office, out of breath. Nothing was untoward, it seemed. The night-duty officers were nodding
off under the fans rotating on the ceiling. He went quickly into Adamsberg’s empty office, then saw the gate open into the courtyard and ran, if you could call it running in Danglard’s case, to the back entrance of the building. The two guards were helping Adamsberg back along the darkened street. The commissaire seemed dazed, and was leaning on their shoulders to walk. Danglard took over from them.

‘Just get that little bastard back for me,’ Adamsberg was telling the officers. ‘I think he had a getaway car. I’ll send you reinforcements.’

Danglard helped Adamsberg back into his office without a word, having shut the gates behind them. The commissaire refused to sit on a chair, and let himself collapse to the floor, between his precious deer’s antlers, leaning his head against the wall.

‘Doctor?’ asked Danglard drily.

Adamsberg signalled no.

‘Some water then. That’s what you need if you’ve had a knock.’

Danglard went out to instruct the reinforcements, and ordered a top-level alert on roads, stations and airports, before coming back with a glass of water, an empty glass and his bottle of white wine.

‘So how did he manage to do this to you?’ he asked, offering the glass, then uncorking the bottle.

‘He’d taken Mercadet’s gun. Couldn’t do a thing,’ said Adamsberg, drinking off the water then holding out the empty glass towards the bottle.

‘Not a good idea to drink wine, in your condition.’

‘Nor in yours, Danglard.’

‘So what it adds up to, you let yourself be hoodwinked, like a raw recruit?’

‘That’s what it adds up to, yes.’

One of the uniformed officers knocked and came in without waiting. Holding the Magnum by his little finger, he offered it to the commissaire.

‘Found it in the gutter,’ he said.

‘And the mobile?’

‘No, sir. The butcher was in his shop doing his accounts, and he says this car took off at speed. It had been parked for about five minutes in front of his shop. And a man jumped into it.’

‘Mo, presumably,’ said Danglard, with a sigh.

‘Yes, sir,’ the officer said. ‘Description fits.’

‘Didn’t get the number, did he?’ asked Adamsberg, without betraying any tension.

‘No, sir. He didn’t come out of the shop. What shall we do?’