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

humour. There was perhaps some chink of hope there for opening the impossible dossier he was bringing. Trabelmann shook hands, giving a brief laugh, for no reason. He spoke loudly and distinctly.
    ‘Battle wound?’ he said, pointing to the arm in the sling.
    ‘A difficult arrest,’ Adamsberg confirmed.
    ‘How many does that make?’
    ‘Arrests?’
    ‘Scars.’
    ‘Four.’
    ‘I’ve got seven. There’s not a flic in the regular police who can beat me for stitches,’ concluded Trabelmann of the gendarmerie . ‘So, commissaire , you’ve brought along your childhod memory, is that it?’
    Adamsberg pointed to his briefcase with a smile.
    ‘It’s all in here. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’
    ‘Well. It costs nothing to listen,’ said the other, opening his car door. ‘I’ve always enjoyed fairy stories.’
    ‘Even ones about murder?’
    ‘Do you know any other kind?’ asked Trabelmann, as he started theengine. ‘Cannibalism in Little Red Riding Hood , attempted infanticide in Snow White , the ogre in Tom Thumb.’
    He braked at a traffic light and laughed again.
    ‘Murders, nothing but murders everywhere,’ he went on. ‘As for Bluebeard, he was the original serial killer. What I used to like in the Bluebeard story was the fatal spot of blood on the key, that would never come off. It was no use trying to wash it or scrub it off, it kept coming back like a mark of guilt. I often think about that when a criminal gets away. I say to myself, all right, my boy, run all you like, but the bloodstain will come back and then I’ll catch up with you. Don’t you do that?’
    ‘The story I’ve got here is a bit like Bluebeard. There are three bloodstains in it that are wiped out and then keep coming back. But it’s like in the stories: only people who believe in them can see them.’
    ‘I’ve got to go round by Reichstett to pick up one of my men, so we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us. Why don’t you start telling me your story now? Once upon a time there was a man …’
    ‘Who lived alone in a huge manor with two dogs,’ Adamsberg went on.
    ‘A good start, commissaire , I like it!’ said Trabelmann with a fourth burst of laughter.
    By the time they had reached the small car park in Reichstett, the commandant was looking more serious.
    ‘All right. Your story’s got some convincing elements, I won’t deny that. But if it was your man who killed our Mademoiselle Wind – and I’m saying if, please note – that would mean he’s been going round the country with this all-purpose trident for fifty years or more. Do you realise that? How old was your Bluebeard when he started on his killing spree – still in short pants?’
    Different style from Danglard, thought Adamsberg, but the same objection; naturally.
    ‘Not quite.’
    ‘Come on, commissaire , out with it, what’s his date of birth?’
    ‘That I don’t know,’ Adamsberg prevaricated. ‘I don’t know anything about his family.’
    ‘Yeah, but come on, he can’t be a young man by now, can he? He’s got to be between seventy and eighty minimum, am I right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do I have to tell you how strong you’ve got to be to overcome an adult, and then stab them with a weapon?’
    ‘The trident gives the blow extra power.’
    ‘Maybe so, but the killer then dragged the victim – and her bike – off into the fields, about ten metres off the road, and there was a ditch to cross and a bank to climb over. You know what it’s like pulling a deadweight along, don’t you? Elisabeth Wind weighed 62 kilos.’
    ‘Last time I saw this man, he wasn’t young, but he still seemed very strong physically. He really did, Trabelmann. He was over one metre eighty-five, and he gave an impression of vigour and energy.’
    ‘An “impression” you say, commissaire,’ said Trabelmann, opening the back door for the gendarme , and saluting him briefly in military style. ‘And when might that have been?’
    ‘Twenty years