The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (28 page)

‘Émeri, calm down, getting tetchy won’t solve anything. When will the SOC people get here?’

‘They’ve got to get here from Lisieux, work it out. If only that wretched Glayeux had listened to me and at least let us keep a watch on the house.’

‘OK, OK, cool it, Émeri. Is it because you feel sorry for him?’

‘No, not at all, he can go to Hellequin for all I care! But what I’m seeing now is that two of the people “seized” by the Riders have been killed. Know what effect that will have in Ordebec?’

‘Panic.’

‘Most people wouldn’t give a toss if they saw Mortembot go the same way. But we don’t know the name of the fourth victim. We can protect Mortembot, but not the whole town. If I wanted to find out who’s got something on their conscience, someone who’s afraid they’ve been picked out by Hellequin, this would be the moment to keep a close watch. By seeing who seems agitated and who seems calm. Then I could make a list.’

‘Wait for me,’ said Adamsberg, closing his phone. ‘Commandant Danglard’s outside, I’m going to fetch him.’

‘Can’t he come in on his own?’

‘I don’t want him to see Glayeux.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘He can’t stand the sight of blood.’

‘And he’s a
cop
?’

‘Cool it, Émeri.’

‘He’d have run away on a battlefield then.’

‘It’s not a big deal. He’s not descended from a marshal. All his forefathers were down the pit. Just as tough, but no glory attached.’

A small crowd had gathered in front of Glayeux’s house. People knew he
had been one of those seen in the ghostly cavalcade, they had seen the gendarmes’ car arrive, and that had been enough to spread the word. Danglard was standing at the back of the crowd, making no attempt to move forward.

‘I’ve got Antonin with me,’ he explained to Adamsberg. ‘He wants to talk to you and Émeri. But he doesn’t dare try to push through the crowd on his own, we need to clear a passage for him.’

‘Let’s go round the back,’ said Adamsberg, gently taking hold of Antonin’s hand. He had understood, during the home massage, that the hand was solid but the wrist was made of clay. It had to be handled with care.

‘How’s the count now?’ Adamsberg went on.

‘Back on his feet. And dressed again, furious that they removed his shirt. Dr Turbot has completely changed sides, by the way. He humbly arranged a room, and his colleague Hellebaud is this minute holding forth and having lunch with the warders. Turbot’s sticking to him like a leech, he looks as if his preconceptions have been blown away by a cyclone. So what’s happened to Glayeux?’

‘You’d better not see him.’

Adamsberg and Danglard went round the house, protecting Antonin from each side. They met Mortembot, trudging out like a harassed ox, and being shown, quite kindly, by Brigadier Blériot towards the car. Blériot stopped the commissaire with a discreet gesture.

‘The capitaine’s blaming you for Glayeux’s death. He’s saying – pardon my language, sir – that you’ve done fuck all to solve the case. I’m just saying that to warn you, he can be very, erm, tetchy.’

‘Yes, I saw.’

‘Don’t take too much notice, it’ll pass.’

Antonin sat down carefully on one of the chairs in Glayeux’s kitchen and placed his arms under the table.

‘Lina’s at work, Hippo went to buy some wood and Martin is in the forest,’ he explained. ‘So I came.’

‘Right, we’re listening,’ said Adamsberg patiently.

Émeri was standing somewhat to the side, making it quite plain that he wasn’t in charge of inquiries, and that Adamsberg, famous as he was, had made no more headway in the case than he had.

‘People are saying that Glayeux has been killed.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You know that Lina saw him crying for mercy in among the Riders?’

‘Yes, and Mortembot, and another one we don’t know.’

‘Well, what I came to say is that when the Riders kill someone, they do it their own way. Not with modern weapons, I mean. Not guns. Because Hellequin didn’t have those, he’s too ancient.’

‘That wasn’t the case for Herbier.’

‘All right, but perhaps it wasn’t Hellequin who killed Herbier.’

‘It’s true for Glayeux,’ admitted Adamsberg. ‘He wasn’t killed with a gun.’

‘But was it with an axe?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because our axe has disappeared. That’s what I came to say.’

‘Fancy that,’ said Émeri with a short laugh, ‘you’ve come all this way, fragile as you are, to tell us about the murder weapon! Very kind of you, Antonin.’

‘My mother said it might help.’

‘Aren’t you afraid it might get you into trouble? That is, unless you think we’ll find it anyway, and you prefer to get in first.’

‘Cool it, Émeri,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Antonin, when did you notice the axe had gone?’

‘This morning, but before I heard about Glayeux. I never use it, it’s too dangerous for me. But I noticed it wasn’t where it usually is, by the woodpile.’

‘So anyone could have taken it?’

‘Yes, but people don’t.’

‘Does it have any distinguishing marks, this axe, so we could recognise it?’

‘Hippo had carved a V on the handle.’

‘And you think someone else has used it so that you’ll be accused?’

‘That’s possible, but what I mean is, that wouldn’t be very clever, would it? If we had wanted to kill Glayeux, we wouldn’t have used our own axe, would we?’

‘Of course you might. Very clever,’ interjected Émeri. ‘It would look so stupid that nobody would believe you’d done it. Especially not you, the Vendermots, the smartest family in Ordebec.’

Antonin shrugged his shoulders cautiously.

‘You don’t like us, Émeri, so I’m not going to listen to you. Even if your ancestor
was
a good soldier, outnumbered or not.’

‘Leave my family out of it, Antonin.’

‘Well, you’ve got it in for
my
family, haven’t you? But do you take after your ancestor? You go charging off after the first hare you see, you never look around, you never ask what other people think. Anyway, you’re not in charge of the case now, so I’m talking to the commissaire from Paris.’

‘Bravo,’ said Émeri with his warlike grin. ‘As you can see, he’s been super-efficient ever since he arrived.’

‘His way’s not yours. It takes time, to work out what people are thinking.’

The SOC team from Lisieux was arriving, and Antonin looked up, his delicate features expressing alarm.

‘Danglard will take you home, Antonin,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. Émeri, I’ll see you tonight, and take up your dinner invitation, if it’s still on offer. I don’t like quarrelling. Not out of the goodness of my heart, but because I find it tiring, whether justified or not.’

‘All right,’ said Émeri after a moment. ‘My table?’

‘Your table. I’ll leave you with the technical team. Keep Mortembot in the cells as long as you can, say you’re holding him to help with inquiries. At least in the gendarmerie he’ll be safe.’

‘What are you going to do? Have lunch? See someone?’

‘I’m going for a walk, I need to walk.’

‘You mean you’re going searching for something?’

‘No, just for a walk. You know that Dr Hellebaud says these bubbles of electricity don’t exist.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Let’s have a word about it later.’

All his ill humour had vanished from the capitaine’s face. Brigadier Blériot was right, it went over quite quickly, which was a rare advantage.

XXXI

Anxiety would reach a higher pitch in Ordebec now, fear would spread, people would be seeking answers and, thought Adamsberg, they were more likely to be wondering about the haunting of the area by the ghostly riders than about the failures of the Parisian commissaire. For who around here would seriously believe that a man, a mere mortal, could thwart the darts of Lord Hellequin? Nevertheless, Adamsberg chose to take a little-frequented route, to avoid meeting anyone and answering questions – although he knew Normans were not the kind to ask directly. But they made up for that with long stares or heavy insinuations that stabbed you in the back, and forced you in the end to tackle the question head-on.

Under a scorching sun, he went round the edge of Ordebec, past the pond with its dragonflies, cut through the wood of the Petites Alindes, and headed for the Chemin de Bonneval. There was no risk of meeting anyone on this cursed path in present circumstances. He ought to have come here before and walked the length of it. Because it was here and here alone that Léo must have discovered or realised something. But he had had to deal with Mo, with the Clermont-Brasseurs, with Retancourt going under cover, with Léo’s coma, the count’s commands, and he hadn’t acted fast enough. It was also possible that a certain fatalism had got to work on him, causing him to blame everything on Lord Hellequin instead of looking for the real-life man, the mortal, who went round killing people with an axe. There was no news from
Zerk. In that respect, his son was following instructions – he had been forbidden to contact him. Because by now, after the arrival of the men from the Ministry, his second mobile had surely been detected and tapped. He would have to warn Retancourt not to contact him either. God knows what fate awaited a mole uncovered in the great rabbit warren of the Clermonts.

At a crossroads on the way was an isolated farm, guarded by a dog that was tired of barking. There was no chance this phone would be tapped. Adamsberg tugged several times on the old bell pull and called out. Receiving no answer, he pushed open the door and found a telephone on a table in an entry porch full of letters, umbrellas and muddy boots. He picked it up to ring Retancourt.

Then he replaced it. He had suddenly become aware that in the back pocket of his trousers was a bulky packet, containing the photos Valleray had given him the day before. Going back outside, he took shelter behind a hay barn to take a longer look at them, without understanding why they had suddenly seemed to call insistently for his attention. There was Christian doing his imitation of somebody or other, in front of a crowd of laughing admirers, Christophe looking clumsy but smiling, with a gold tiepin in the shape of a horseshoe. All the guests were holding champagne glasses, the dishes were decorated with flower arrangements, the women’s dresses were low-cut, there were jewels everywhere, rings embedded in the flesh of aged fingers, waiters in tuxedos. Plenty for a zoologist who specialised in the parades and habits of the super-rich, but nothing for a cop trying to find a parricide. He was distracted by a flight of wild ducks in an impeccable V-shape, and looked up at the pale blue sky – still with some clouds to the west – then he put the photos back again, patted the nose of a nearby mare who was shaking her mane over her eyes, and consulted his watches. If anything had happened to Zerk, he would surely have been informed. By now they should be getting near Granada, safe from the most diligent searchers. He hadn’t foreseen that he would start worrying about Zerk, and couldn’t work out whether it was because of guilt, or a growing affection he was as yet unaware of. He imagined the two youngsters approaching the city, looking rather dishevelled; he saw
Zerk’s small bony face bearing a grin, and Mo with a nice short haircut like a good boy.
Skinhead Mo.

Replacing the photos quickly in his pocket, he hurried back to the still-deserted farm, checked the surroundings and dialled Retancourt’s mobile.

‘Violette,’ he said, ‘you know the photo you took of Saviour 1?’

‘Yes.’

‘His hair is very short. But in the photos from the evening reception, his hair was longer. So when did you take it?’

‘The day after I got here.’

‘So three days after the father’s death. Try to find out when he got his hair cut. To the hour. Before or after he returned from the reception. You’ve got to find this out.’

‘I’ve made friends with the grouchiest butler in the house. He won’t speak to anyone else but he makes an exception for me.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. Send me the answer somehow but don’t use the mobiles any more and then get out of there fast.’

‘A problem?’ Retancourt asked placidly.

‘Yeah, big time.’

‘OK.’

‘If he actually cut his hair that night before getting back, there could be some on the headrest. Has he driven himself anywhere since the murder?’

‘No, he’s always had the chauffeur drive him.’

‘Well, look and see if there are any tiny bits of hair on the driver’s seat.’

‘But without a search warrant.’

‘Correct, lieutenant, we’d never get one.’

He walked on for twenty minutes before reaching the Chemin de Bonneval, his mind occupied but confused by Christian Clermont-Brasseur’s unexpected haircut. But he hadn’t been driving his father in the Mercedes. He’d left earlier, having drunk a lot, and if he had visited a woman later, her name would never be discovered. And it was quite possible that after the news he’d cut his hair in order to look more respectable in mourning.

Well, maybe. But what about Mo, whose hair sometimes got singed by the flames from his fires? If Christian really had set the car alight, and if his hair had been slightly singed, he would have made haste to cover that up with a quick haircut. But Christian hadn’t been at the scene, and that was what he always returned to. Nothing exhausted Adamsberg so much as going round in circles, contrary to Danglard, who could doggedly pursue a problem to the point of vertigo, going round and round in his own footsteps.

Adamsberg forced himself to ignore the blackberries, so that he could concentrate on the path, and any traces left by Léo. He passed the big tree trunk where he had sat down with her, and paused to send heartfelt wishes for her recovery, then he spent some time by the Chapel of St Antony, who helps people find things they have lost. His mother had always annoyed him by sending up prayers to the saint whenever she had lost the slightest thing: St Antony of Padua, finder of everything.

As a child, Adamsberg had been a bit shocked that his mother was not embarrassed to call on St Antony just to find a thimble. But now the saint wasn’t being any help, and there was nothing to be seen on the path. He decided conscientiously to retrace his steps back to the beginning and, at the halfway point, sat down on the felled tree trunk, this time having collected a few blackberries which he laid down beside him. He looked again, on his mobile, at the photos Retancourt had sent him, and compared them with those Valleray had given him. Suddenly there was a rustling sound behind him, and Fleg bounded out of the woods with the happy expression of a lad who had just made a successful visit to the girl at the farm. Fleg put his drooling head on Adamsberg’s knee and looked up at him with that pleading expression that no human being can reproduce as obstinately. Adamsberg patted his head.