Free Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand by Fred Vargas Page A

looking in 1987. I told you I tracked him for fourteen years, but not for thirty.’
    Danglard looked up in surprise.
    ‘But why? Did you get fed up? Did someone lean on you?’
    Adamsberg stood up and walked about for a moment or two, his head hanging down towards his injured arm. Then he came back to the table, supported himself with his right hand and leaned forward towards his deputy.
    ‘Because in 1987, he died.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘He died. Judge Fulgence passed away, about sixteen years ago, of natural causes, in Richelieu, the last place he was living, on 19 November 1987. The death certificate indicated a heart attack.’
    ‘Good God, are you sure?’
    ‘Of course. I heard about it straight away and I went to his funeral. The press was full of obituaries. I saw his coffin lowered into the grave and saw the monster buried under the earth. And on that terrible day, I despaired of ever being able to clear my brother’s name. The judge had got away from me for good.’
    There was a long silence, which Danglard did not know how to break. Out of countenance, he automatically smoothed the files on the table with his hand.
    ‘Go ahead, Danglard, say something. Say what you’re thinking.’
    ‘Schiltigheim,’ murmured Danglard.
    ‘Precisely. Schiltigheim. The judge has come back from hell, and I’ve got a chance to catch him again. Do you understand? One more chance . And this time he isn’t going to get away with it.’
    ‘If I’m reading you right,’ Danglard said hesitantly, ‘he’s got a disciple, a son perhaps, or an imitator.’
    ‘No, that’s not it at all. He wasn’t married, he has no children. The judge is a solitary predator. Schiltigheim is his work, not some copycat crime.’
    Anxiety stopped the capitaine speaking for a moment. He wavered, then opted for sympathy.
    ‘This recent murder has unsettled you. It’s a terrible coincidence.’
    ‘No, Danglard, no, it’s not.’
    ‘Commissaire,’ Danglard began carefully, ‘the judge has been dead for sixteen years. He’s nothing but dust and bones.’
    ‘So what? Do you think I give a damn? It’s the Schiltigheim girl that matters to me now.’
    ‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Danglard, running out of patience, ‘what do you believe in? The resurrection of the body?’
    ‘I believe in actions. It’s him all right and one more chance for me to catch him. And I’ve had signs too.’
    ‘What do you mean “signs”?’
    ‘Signs, warnings. The barmaid, the poster, the drawing pins.’
    Danglard stood up as well now, this time really alarmed.
    ‘Great God in heaven, “signs”? Are you turning into a mystic? What are you chasing after, commissaire? A ghost? A zombie? And where does the creature live? In your mind?’
    ‘I’m going after the Trident. Who was living not far from Schiltigheim quite recently.’
    ‘But he’s dead! Dead!’
    Under his capitaine’s thunderstruck gaze, Adamsberg started to put the files back in his briefcase, carefully, one by one.
    ‘The devil snaps his fingers at death, Danglard.’
    Then he picked up his coat and, waving his good arm, said goodbye.
    Danglard sat down again, in desperation, and raised the can of beer to his lips. Adamsberg was a lost soul, caught up in a spiral of folly.Babbling about drawing pins, a barmaid, a poster and a zombie. It had gone much further than he had realised. Mad, doomed, carried off by some evil wind.
    After a few hours sleep, Danglard arrived late at the office. A note had been left on his desk. Adamsberg had taken the train to Strasbourg that morning and would be back the following day. Danglard spared a sympathetic thought for Commandant Trabelmann and prayed he would be indulgent.

X
    FROM A DISTANCE, ACROSS THE FORECOURT OF STRASBOURG RAILWAY station, Commandant Trabelmann looked short, thickset and tough. Setting aside the military haircut, Adamsberg concentrated on the commandant ’s round face and detected in it both determination and a sense of