The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (35 page)

Émeri came into the house, only two of the buttons on his tunic done up this time.

‘Émeri, I’m sorry,’ said Adamsberg. ‘It was a crossbow bolt through the lavatory window. When he was taking a leak.’

‘That window? But it’s barred.’

‘But that’s what happened. And it got him in the throat.’

‘A crossbow? Not a serious weapon. You could just about wing a deer with one, at ten metres.’

‘Not this kind, Émeri. Did you call Lisieux?’

‘They’re on their way. It’s your responsibility, Adamsberg. You’re in charge of the case, and your men were on the watch.’

‘My men can’t be expected to see forty metres into the woods. And you might have foreseen the gap at this window. You checked out the place for access.’

‘Why would I think of a crossbow being used to get through a mouse-hole?’

‘A rathole, I’d call it.’

‘The rathole was blocked with thick glass, impossible to get a clear shot through it. The killer wouldn’t choose that angle.’

‘Take a look at the window, Émeri. There’s not a single shard of glass attached to the frame. It must have been cut out carefully beforehand, so that a slight pressure, even a finger, would make it fall out.’

‘So that it wouldn’t deflect the shot?’

‘No. And we didn’t notice the trace left by the glass-cutter close to the window frame.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why he chose a crossbow.’

‘Because it’s silent. And the killer must have been familiar with Mortembot’s mother’s house. There are fitted carpets everywhere, even in the toilet. So the glass didn’t make a clatter when it fell out either.’

Émeri adjusted his tunic collar, muttering crossly. ‘Round here, they
mostly have shotguns. If he wanted not to be heard, he could have used a silencer and a subsonic bullet.’

‘Even that would make a noise. Something like a .22 airgun and a lot more than a crossbow.’

‘But the cord vibrates and makes a noise.’

‘Yes, but not the kind of sound people would be listening out for. And from that distance it wouldn’t sound much louder than a bird flapping its wings. Anyway, it fits the idea of Hellequin’s weapon, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Émeri bitterly.

‘Think about it, Émeri. It’s not only the perfect choice of weapon but an artistic one. Historic and poetic.’

‘He didn’t kill Herbier poetically.’

‘Let’s say he’s refining his methods. More subtle.’

‘You reckon the killer thinks he’s Hellequin himself?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Adamsberg. ‘All we know is he’s a crack shot with a crossbow. At least that’s a clue to start with. We could try checking the local shooting clubs, and get hold of their membership lists.’

‘Why did he change his clothes?’ Émeri asked, looking down at Mortembot’s body.

‘To get rid of the smell of the police cell,’ said Veyrenc.

‘The cells are perfectly clean at my station. And the blankets. What do you think, Adamsberg?’

‘I’m wondering why you and Veyrenc are getting so steamed up about his changing his clothes. Although it all counts,’ the commissaire added, looking wearily at the window. ‘Even a hole big enough for a rat. Especially that.’

XL

Adamsberg helped search the woods until 7 a.m., being joined by the five other men who had all been called from their beds. Danglard looked worn out. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep much either, Adamsberg reflected: he would have been searching for a safe haven for his thoughts, as one tries to shelter from the wind. But for the moment, Danglard had no place of shelter. His brilliant mind, normally incapable of anything stupid or shameful, was lying in pieces at his feet.

At first light, they quite quickly ascertained where the killer had lain in wait. Faucheur called the others. Unusually, it was apparent that the assassin, protected by a many-branched oak tree, had sat on a small camping stool, and the marks of its metal base could be seen imprinted on the carpet of leaves.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ said Émeri, who seemed almost scandalised. ‘A murderer who takes trouble over his comfort. He’s preparing to kill a man, but he doesn’t want to tire his legs.’

‘Perhaps he’s old,’ ventured Veyrenc. ‘Or someone who has trouble standing for a long time. He could have had hours to wait before Mortembot went into the lav.’

‘Not as old as all that,’ said Adamsberg. ‘To draw a crossbow and take the recoil, you have to be pretty strong. Sitting down would enable him to aim with more precision. And you make less noise than trampling the undergrowth. How far are we from the target?’

‘Forty-two or forty-three metres,’ said Estalère, who had, as Adamsberg had always remarked, very good eyesight.

‘In Rouen Cathedral,’ said Danglard, in a very quiet voice, as if his lost eminence now disqualified him from speaking normally, ‘the heart of King Richard is preserved. He was killed in battle by a crossbow.’

‘Oh really?’ said Émeri, who always perked up at any mention of glorious battlefields.

‘Yes. He was wounded at the siege of Châlus-Chabrol in March 1199 and died eleven days later of gangrene. And in his case at least, we know the name of the murderer.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Émeri.

‘Pierre Basile, a minor noble from the Limousin.’

‘For crying out loud, what’s that got to do with anything?’ said Adamsberg, irritated by the fact that even in a state of collapse, Danglard persisted in showing off his knowledge.

‘It’s just,’ said Danglard still in his muted voice, ‘that he was one of the most famous victims of a crossbow.’

‘And after Richard the Lionheart, the despicable Michel Mortembot,’ said Émeri. ‘What a comedown,’ he concluded, shaking his head.

*   *   *

The men continued to search the forest, beating down undergrowth, looking without much hope for any trace of the murderer’s tracks. The leaves underfoot were dry with the summer heat and retained no footprints. Émeri called the searchers together with a whistle after a further three-quarters of an hour. He was standing to attention, his tunic by now buttoned, a few metres from the far edge of the wood, in front of a patch of newly dug earth, imperfectly covered with scattered leaves.

‘The crossbow!’ said Veyrenc.

‘I think so,’ said Émeri.

The hole wasn’t deep, only about thirty centimetres, and the men quickly unearthed a plastic sheath.

‘That’s it all right,’ said Blériot. ‘Didn’t want to destroy his precious weapon, did he? He buried it here, quickly like. Must have dug the hole before.’

‘Like he cut the glass in the window earlier.’

‘How could he have guessed that Mortembot would barricade himself in like that?’

‘Not so difficult to work out that after Glayeux’s death Mortembot would be in his mother’s house,’ said Émeri. ‘It’s very carelessly buried,’ he added, looking scornful. ‘Just like he didn’t bother hiding the axe properly.’

‘Perhaps he’s not much of a thinker,’ suggested Veyrenc. ‘Someone good at immediate action but who doesn’t work out the long term. With gaps in the thinking.’

‘Or perhaps this weapon belongs to someone else, like the axe did,’ said Adamsberg, who was starting to feel dizzy with fatigue. ‘For example one of the Vendermots. And the killer wanted us to find it.’

‘You know what I think of them,’ said Émeri. ‘Still, I don’t know that Hippo has a crossbow.’

‘What about Martin? He’s always in the forest, collecting things.’

‘I can’t see him capturing insects with a modern weapon. But someone who certainly
did
have one of these was Herbier.’

‘Two years ago,’ Faucheur confirmed, ‘we found a wild sow with a crossbow bolt in its side.’

‘The killer could well have taken the crossbow from his house, after his death and before the seals were placed on it.’

‘Although,’ Adamsberg remarked gently, ‘there are ways and means of replacing the seals.’

‘Got to be a professional, though, to do that.’

‘That’s true.’

*   *   *

Émeri’s team collected up the material to be taken to Lisieux, fenced off the area round the hole, and the place where the stool had been, and left Blériot and Faucheur waiting for the SOC team.

They returned to Mortembot’s house, arriving at the same time as Dr Turbot, who had been called in to make a preliminary report. The regular pathologist, Dr Chazy, was in Livarot, where a slater had fallen
from a roof. No suspicious circumstances at first sight but the gendarmes had preferred to call her in, because the slater’s wife had said, shrugging her shoulders, that her husband had had a bellyful of cider.

Turbot looked down at Mortembot and shook his head. ‘If a man can’t even take a piss in safety,’ he said simply.

Rather a bleak funeral oration, Adamsberg thought, but to the point. Turbot confirmed that the shot must have hit him between about 1 and 2 a.m., certainly no later than three. He extracted the bolt without moving the body, so as to leave the scene unchanged for his colleague.

‘Bloody savage weapon,’ he said, waving it in front of Adamsberg. ‘My colleague will do the autopsy but it looks as if the bolt went through the larynx to the oesophagus. I think he choked to death before the haemorrhage set in. Shall we adjust his pants?’

‘We can’t, doctor. Crime scene team has to check him.’

‘All the same,’ said Turbot with a grimace.

‘Yes, doctor, I know.’

‘And as for you,’ said the doctor, looking at Adamsberg intently, ‘you’d better get some sleep as soon as possible. And he should too,’ he said, gesturing towards Danglard. ‘Some people round here aren’t getting enough sleep. You’ll keel over like skittles if you don’t watch it.’

‘Go on,’ said Émeri, tapping Adamsberg on the shoulder. ‘I’ll wait for the others. Blériot and I have had some sleep.’

*   *   *

Hellebaud had left signs in the bedroom of his morning walk, leaving birdseed scattered everywhere. But he had returned to occupy the commissaire’s left shoe, and he cooed when he saw Adamsberg arrive. There was one big advantage to this choice of shoe, unnatural though it might be. The pigeon no longer left droppings as it flew round the room, but strictly inside the shoe. When he had slept, Adamsberg thought, he’d clean it out. With what? A knife? A spoon? A shoehorn?

The violence of the hunting crossbow had made him feel sick, the sharp wings of the bolt piercing holes in the victim’s neck as he stood taking a piss. Much worse than the bread in the old woman’s throat. Tuilot, Lucette:
that method of killing, in its rather homespun way, was even strangely touching. And then Danglard had got on his nerves, spouting about Richard the Lionheart, as if that had any relevance. Veyrenc was no better, fussing about Mortembot having changed his clothes. Adamsberg’s irritability had come over him quickly, and was unfair, only proving how exhausted he was. Mortembot had taken off his blue jacket – which probably smelt of the cell, whatever anyone said, if only because of the disinfectant – and had put on a grey tracksuit, jogging pants with dark grey piping. Well, so what? What if Mortembot had felt like being more comfortable? Or looking smarter? Émeri had also annoyed him once more, with his habit of announcing that he was letting Adamsberg carry full responsibility for this new disaster. Émeri, not the bravest of soldiers. This third murder would finally rouse Ordebec to a state of panic, and it would spread to the entire region. The local papers were already going to town about Lord Hellequin and his sinister fury, and some readers had already written in, pointing the finger at the Vendermot family, without naming them directly. It had seemed to him the day before that the streets emptied much more quickly than usual in the evening. Moreover, if the murderer could attack from a distance with a crossbow, nobody was safe in their little ratholes. Himself least of all, since somebody had intended him to be sliced in three by a train. If the murderer could have known how much at a loss he was, and how little he knew, he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble of arranging for a train to kill him. But perhaps Lina Vendermot’s splendid breasts were blinding him to the possibility of finding fault with the Vendermot family.

XLI

Adamsberg opened his eyes three hours later, conscious of the buzzing of a fly that was crashing furiously around the room without noticing – nor did Hellebaud – that the window was wide open.

On waking, his first thought was not for Mo and Zerk on the verge of danger, nor of the victims of Lord Hellequin, nor even old Léo. He was asking himself why he had thought that Mortembot was wearing a blue jacket in his police cell, since it had actually been brown.

He opened the door, and scattered some birdseed on the step, to encourage Hellebaud to venture at least a metre away from the shoe, then went into the kitchen to fix some coffee. Danglard was already there, not speaking, his eyes fixed on a newspaper without reading it, and Adamsberg began to feel some pity for his old comrade, still unable to heave himself out of the cesspit he was in.

‘They say in the
Ordebec Reporter
that the Paris cops haven’t caught anyone. To put it briefly.’

‘They’re not wrong,’ commented Adamsberg, pouring hot water on to the ground coffee in the filter.

‘They say that back in 1777 it was the same; Lord Hellequin dodged the constables of the day easily.’

‘That’s not untrue either.’

‘There is something though. Nothing to do with the case, but I’m thinking about it all the same.’

‘If it’s King Richard’s heart, please don’t bother, Danglard.’

Adamsberg went out into the large courtyard, leaving the water boiling on the gas. Danglard shook his head, heaved up his body which seemed ten times more ponderous than normal, and finished pouring hot water on to the coffee grounds. He went over to the window to look at Adamsberg strolling under the apple trees, hands in the pockets of his shapeless trousers, and his gaze, it seemed, empty and vacant. Danglard busied himself with the coffee – should he take it outside, or drink it on his own without calling Adamsberg? – while watching the courtyard out of the corner of his eye. Adamsberg disappeared from his field of vision, then re-emerged from the cellar and walked rather quickly back to the house. He sat down more heavily than usual on a bench in the kitchen, put both hands on the table and looked hard at Danglard without speaking. Danglard didn’t feel at this moment any right to question or criticise, but put two cups on the table and poured out the coffee like a kindly housewife, for want of anything else to do.