Read Online Have Mercy On Us All by Fred Vargas - Free Book Online Page A

way he could.
    Danglard, looking stolid after a copious lunch, was at his desk, testing the computer network that had just been booted.
    “I can’t manage to download the fingerprint files from the central server,” he grumbled as Adamsberg wandered past. “What are they playing at, I ask you? Do we have authorised access or do we not?”
    “It’ll download eventually,” Adamsberg said soothingly. It was easier for him to keep calm about it, as he never got too involved with computers.
    Adamsberg’s informatic incompetence didn’t bother Danglard one bit, since he was as happy as a sandboy when playing with data bases. His capacious and well-ordered mental faculties were entirely suited to saving, sorting and merging as many megabytes as came his way.
    “There’s a message on your desk,” Danglard said without raising his eyes from the screen. “Queen Matilda’s girl. She’s back.”
    Danglard only ever called Camille “Queen Matilda’s girl”; the habit went back to the time when the Matilda in question had given him quite an upset, of an aesthetic and sentimental sort. He worshipped Queen Matilda and his devotion spilled over on to her daughter Camille. Danglard thought Adamsberg fell far short of the level of care and attention that Camille deserved; some of Danglard’s grunts and his silent reproaches made Adamsberg quite aware of the disapproval of his number two, despite the fact that the latter was generally quite careful not to meddle in other people’s business. The present moment was a case in point: without saying anything directly, Danglard was making it clear that Adamsberg had been wrong not to try to get news of Camille for the past two months. And he blatantly disapproved of Adamsberg going around of an evening with another girl on his arm, no more than a week ago. On that occasion neither man had said a word to the other.
    Adamsberg walked behind his deputy and looked over his shoulder at the flickering screen.
    “Listen, Danglard, there’s some bloke playing around at painting funny kinds of 4s on apartment doors. In three different blocks, actually. One in the thirteenth arrondissement, and two in the eighteenth. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t go take a look.”
    Danglard’s fingers hovered over his keyboard.
    “When?”
    “Well, right now. As soon as we can get the photographer lined up.”
    “What for?”
    “Well, so as to photograph the things before people scrub them off. Unless they’ve already been wiped.”
    “But what for?”
    “I don’t like those 4s. Not one bit.”
    Damn. Now he’d said it. Danglard hated him saying “I don’t like this” or “I don’t like that”. It wasn’t a
flic
’s job to like or to dislike. A
flic
’s job is to get on with the job and to keep on thinking at the same time. Adamsberg went back into his office and found the note from Camille. If he was free this evening she would be too. If not, please call. Adamsberg nodded to himself. Yes, of course he would be free.
    Feeling better for that, he picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to the photographer. Meanwhile, Danglard, whose face expressed perplexity and irritation, had burst into his office.
    “Danglard, tell me, what does the photographer look like?” Adamsberg asked. “And what is his name?”
    “The whole team was introduced to you three weeks ago,” said Danglard, “and you shook the hand of every man jack in the room, and every woman too. You even spoke to the photographer.”
    “Well, that’s as may be, Danglard. In fact, you’re surely right. But all the same it does not provide an answer to my question. What does he look like and what’s he called?”
    “Daniel Barteneau.”
    “Barteneau, Barteneau, that’s a hard one. And his face?”
    “Quite thin. Sparky, big smile, excitable.”
    “Anything special?”
    “Lots of little freckles, reddish hair.”
    “That’s handy,” said Adamsberg as he reached for the list in his drawer. “That’s