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Authors: Fred Vargas
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the same.”
“More than enough.”
“What’s to be done?”
Johnstone came closer to Camille and put his hands on her shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what my father always said.”
“OK,” Camille said.
“
Steer clear and keep your trap shut
.”
“Sure. And then?”
“We stay shtumm. But if by any mischance people outside of Les Écarts got wind of the old bag’s claim, then it’d be a bad lookout for Massart. You know what people did to suspected werewolves, not more than a couple of hundred years ago, in your country?”
“Tell me. Might as well know it all.”
“They sliced them open from neck to crotch to see if the hair really was on the inside. By then, it was a bit too late to say sorry about the mistake.”
Johnstone gripped Camille’s shoulders.
“It mustn’t go one centimetre beyond the fence of her sodding farm,” he impressed on her.
“I don’t think other people here are as brainless as you imagine. They wouldn’t jump on Massart. They know perfectly well that the killer is a wolf.”
“You’re right. In normal times you would be completely right. But you’re forgetting one thing: this is no ordinary wolf. I saw its bite marks. And you can believe me when I tell you that this is one hell of a beast, Camille. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
“I believe you,” Camille whispered.
“And I won’t be the only person who knows that for much longer. The lads aren’t blind, they’re even quite knowledgeable, despite what the old bag says. They’ll catch on soon enough. They’ll know they’re dealing with something out of the ordinary, something they’ve not seen before. Do you see, Camille? Do you see the risk? Something not normal. So they’ll be afraid. And that’ll be their downfall. Fear will make them believe in idols and burn loners at the stake. And if the old bag’s gossip gets around, they’ll hunt down Massart and slice him open from throat to crotch.”
Camille gave a taut nod. Johnstone had never said so much in one go before. He wouldn’t let go, it was as if he was trying to protect her. Camille felt his hands warm on her back.
“That’s why we absolutely must find the animal, dead or alive. If they find it, it’ll be dead, and if I find it, it’ll still be alive. But until then, mum’s the word.”
“What about Suzanne?”
“We’ll go and see her tomorrow and tell her to keep her trap shut.”
“She doesn’t like being told what to do.”
“But she likes me.”
“She might have told someone else already.”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she thinks the inhabitants of Saint-Victor are fuckwits one and all. I’m different because I’m a foreigner. And also she told me because I know about wolves.”
“Why didn’t you say anything on Wednesday evening when you got back from Les Écarts?”
“I thought the trackers would raise the beast and that all this would be forgotten. I didn’t want to demolish your view of Suzanne for nothing.”
Camille nodded.
“She’s a nutcase,” Johnstone said gently.
“I’m fond of her all the same.”
“I know.”
X
NEXT MORNING AT seven-thirty Johnstone kick-started his motorbike. Camille was hardly awake, but she got on the pillion, and slowly they covered the two kilometres to Les Écarts. Camille held Johnstone by the waist with one hand, and in the other she held the empty grape jar. Suzanne did not supply grapes in alcohol unless you brought the old jar back. That was the rule.
Johnstone turned left up the stony path leading to the shack.
“Police!” Camille yelled, shaking Johnstone by the shoulder.
Johnstone signalled that he had seen, stopped the engine and dismounted. He and Camille took off their helmets and looked at the blue van parked at the farm, just as it had been the other day, with the same two
gendarme
s, the tall one and the medium one, going from the vehicle to the building and back again.
“Shit,”
“More than enough.”
“What’s to be done?”
Johnstone came closer to Camille and put his hands on her shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what my father always said.”
“OK,” Camille said.
“
Steer clear and keep your trap shut
.”
“Sure. And then?”
“We stay shtumm. But if by any mischance people outside of Les Écarts got wind of the old bag’s claim, then it’d be a bad lookout for Massart. You know what people did to suspected werewolves, not more than a couple of hundred years ago, in your country?”
“Tell me. Might as well know it all.”
“They sliced them open from neck to crotch to see if the hair really was on the inside. By then, it was a bit too late to say sorry about the mistake.”
Johnstone gripped Camille’s shoulders.
“It mustn’t go one centimetre beyond the fence of her sodding farm,” he impressed on her.
“I don’t think other people here are as brainless as you imagine. They wouldn’t jump on Massart. They know perfectly well that the killer is a wolf.”
“You’re right. In normal times you would be completely right. But you’re forgetting one thing: this is no ordinary wolf. I saw its bite marks. And you can believe me when I tell you that this is one hell of a beast, Camille. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
“I believe you,” Camille whispered.
“And I won’t be the only person who knows that for much longer. The lads aren’t blind, they’re even quite knowledgeable, despite what the old bag says. They’ll catch on soon enough. They’ll know they’re dealing with something out of the ordinary, something they’ve not seen before. Do you see, Camille? Do you see the risk? Something not normal. So they’ll be afraid. And that’ll be their downfall. Fear will make them believe in idols and burn loners at the stake. And if the old bag’s gossip gets around, they’ll hunt down Massart and slice him open from throat to crotch.”
Camille gave a taut nod. Johnstone had never said so much in one go before. He wouldn’t let go, it was as if he was trying to protect her. Camille felt his hands warm on her back.
“That’s why we absolutely must find the animal, dead or alive. If they find it, it’ll be dead, and if I find it, it’ll still be alive. But until then, mum’s the word.”
“What about Suzanne?”
“We’ll go and see her tomorrow and tell her to keep her trap shut.”
“She doesn’t like being told what to do.”
“But she likes me.”
“She might have told someone else already.”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she thinks the inhabitants of Saint-Victor are fuckwits one and all. I’m different because I’m a foreigner. And also she told me because I know about wolves.”
“Why didn’t you say anything on Wednesday evening when you got back from Les Écarts?”
“I thought the trackers would raise the beast and that all this would be forgotten. I didn’t want to demolish your view of Suzanne for nothing.”
Camille nodded.
“She’s a nutcase,” Johnstone said gently.
“I’m fond of her all the same.”
“I know.”
X
NEXT MORNING AT seven-thirty Johnstone kick-started his motorbike. Camille was hardly awake, but she got on the pillion, and slowly they covered the two kilometres to Les Écarts. Camille held Johnstone by the waist with one hand, and in the other she held the empty grape jar. Suzanne did not supply grapes in alcohol unless you brought the old jar back. That was the rule.
Johnstone turned left up the stony path leading to the shack.
“Police!” Camille yelled, shaking Johnstone by the shoulder.
Johnstone signalled that he had seen, stopped the engine and dismounted. He and Camille took off their helmets and looked at the blue van parked at the farm, just as it had been the other day, with the same two
gendarme
s, the tall one and the medium one, going from the vehicle to the building and back again.
“Shit,”
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