Read Online An Uncertain Place by Fred Vargas - Free Book Online Page A

behind the fixed glass of his eyes.
    ‘Were there some less happy endings?’ he asked.
    ‘He said the truth was a two-way street. He was also responsible for getting three men found guilty. One of them hanged himself in jail after protesting his innocence.’
    ‘When was this?’
    ‘Just before my father retired, about thirteen years ago.’
    ‘Who was it?’
    ‘Jean-Christophe Réal.’
    Adamsberg nodded, indicating that he recognised the name.
    ‘Réal hanged himself on his twenty-ninth birthday.’
    ‘Were there any letters after that, threatening vengeance?’
    ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Pierre’s wife, who, unlike her husband, had regular and unremarkable features. ‘Father’s death wasn’t from natural causes. Is that it? You’ve got doubts about it? If so, say so. Since early this morning, the police haven’t given us a single clear fact. Father’s dead, but we don’t even know if it’s him. Your colleague says we can’t see the body. Why?’
    ‘Because it’s difficult.’
    ‘Are you telling us that Father – if it is Father – died in embarrassing circumstances? In bed with a prostitute? I hardly think so. Or some upper-class woman? Is this a cover-up, to protect people in high places? Because yes, my father-in-law did know a lot of those people who think they’re untouchable, the ex-minister of justice for a start. Totally corrupt.’
    ‘Hélène, please,’ said Pierre, but he was allowing her to go on.
    ‘Let me remind you, this is Pierre’s father we’re talking about, and he has a perfect right to see anything and to know anything there is to know, before you, and certainly before people in high places. We see the body, or we don’t answer any more questions.’
    ‘That seems reasonable, doesn’t it?’ said Pierre, in the manner of a lawyer finding a satisfactory compromise.
    ‘There is no body,’ said Adamsberg, looking straight at the wife.
    ‘No body,’ repeated Pierre mechanically.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, then how do you know it’s him?’
    ‘Because he’s in the villa.’
    ‘Who’s in the villa?’
    ‘The body.’
    Adamsberg opened the window and looked out at the lime trees. They had been in flower for a few days and their scent floated in on a breath of air.
    ‘The body’s in pieces,’ he said. ‘He was’ – what word to choose? chopped up? pulverised? – ‘cut into pieces and scattered round the room. The big room with the piano. There’s nothing left to identify. I don’t recommend that you see it.’
    ‘There’s some kind of cover-up going on,’ the wife insisted. ‘You’re hiding something. What are you doing with him?’
    ‘We’ve collected what’s left of him, by going over every square metre of the room and placing what we find in numbered containers. Forty-eight square metres, forty-eight containers.’
    Adamsberg turned back from the lime-tree blossom and towards Hélène Vaudel. Pierre was still looking down, leaving matters to his wife.
    ‘People do say that it’s hard to grieve properly unless you have seen with your own eyes,’ Adamsberg went on. ‘But I’ve known cases where people have regretted it, and all things considered would prefer not to have seen. Still, the photos taken when the police arrived are available here,’ he said, passing his mobile to Hélène. ‘And we can send you to Garches in a car, if you insist. But perhaps you should have some inkling what’s there before you decide. These aren’t good quality, but they’ll give you an idea.’
    Hélène seized the mobile and started viewing the images, She stopped at the seventh which showed the piano.
    ‘Very well,’ she said, putting it down with an altered expression.
    ‘No car?’ said Pierre.
    ‘No car.’
    This was issued like a command and Pierre nodded. Not a sliver of rebellion, although it was his father they were discussing. No curiosity about the photos. Apparently simple and direct neutrality. A provisional and deliberate submission