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Authors: Fred Vargas
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with me’, and Adamsberg hadn’t been able to rid himself of the habit.
Inspecteur Delille replied:
‘Her papers were on the body – the murderer didn’t take anything. Her name was Madeleine Châtelain, aged fifty-one.’
‘Have you searched her bag?’
‘Not thoroughly, but it doesn’t look as if there’s anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Tell me all the same.’
‘A knitting magazine, a tiny penknife, some of those little soaps you get in hotels, her wallet and keys, a pink plastic eraser and a pocket diary.’
‘Anything in the diary for yesterday?’
‘Yes, but not a rendezvous, if that’s what you were hoping. She’d written “It’s not much fun working in a knitting shop.”‘
‘Any other entries like that?’
‘Quite a few. Three days ago, for instance: “God knows why Maman’s so keen on dry Martinis.” And the week before that: “Nothing could ever persuade me to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.” ‘
Adamsberg smiled. The police pathologist was muttering that you couldn’t expect miracles if bodies weren’t dis covered quickly enough, that he thought she had probably been killed between ten-thirty and midnight, but that he would prefer to check the stomach contents before stating anything with confidence. The knife wound had been made with a medium-sized blade, following a massive blow to the head.
Adamsberg stopped thinking about the little entries in the diary and looked at Danglard. The inspector was pale and gave the impression of being on the point of collapse, his arms dangling at the sides of his shapeless body. He was also frowning.
‘You’ve seen what’s wrong?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘I’m not sure. What bothers me is that the trail of blood has run over the chalk circle and covered quite a bit of it.’
‘Yes, exactly, Danglard. And the lady’s hand is right up against the line. If he drew the circle after killing her, the chalk might have made a channel through the blood. And if I had been the murderer, I think I would have gone wider around the body to draw the circle. I don’t think I would have gone so close to her hand.’
‘So it’s as if the circle was drawn first, is that what you mean? And then the murderer arranged the body inside it?’
‘Looks a bit like that. But that seems stupid, doesn’t it? Danglard, would you go and check all this out with the scene-of-crime people and with the graphologist – Meunier, I think he’s called. This is where Conti’s photos are going to help us, and so will the dimensions of all the previous circles and the chalk samples you collected. We’ll have to compare them all with this new circle. We have to find out whether it’s the same man who drew it, and whether he drew it before or after the murder. Delille, can you follow up this lady’s address, her neighbours, friends and contacts? Castreau, check her place of work, if she had one, who her colleagues were, and what her income was. Nivelle, you take the family side of things, any family quarrels, inheritances, love affairs.’
Adamsberg had spoken without haste. It was the first time Danglard had seen him giving orders. He did so without seeming either self-important or apologetic about doing so. It was an odd thing, but all the inspectors seemed to be becoming porous, letting Adamsberg’s way of behaving seep into them. It was like being caught in the rain when your jacket can’t help absorbing water. The inspectors were becoming damp and without realising it they were imitating Adamsberg; their movements were slower, they smiled more, and were absent-minded. The one most altered was Castreau, who as a rule liked the gruff, manly responses their previous commissaire had expected of them, the military commands barked out without any superfluous commentary, the ban on looking to either side, the slamming of car doors, the fists clenched in the tunic pockets. Today, Danglard hardly recognised Castreau. He was leafing through the victim’s pocket
Inspecteur Delille replied:
‘Her papers were on the body – the murderer didn’t take anything. Her name was Madeleine Châtelain, aged fifty-one.’
‘Have you searched her bag?’
‘Not thoroughly, but it doesn’t look as if there’s anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Tell me all the same.’
‘A knitting magazine, a tiny penknife, some of those little soaps you get in hotels, her wallet and keys, a pink plastic eraser and a pocket diary.’
‘Anything in the diary for yesterday?’
‘Yes, but not a rendezvous, if that’s what you were hoping. She’d written “It’s not much fun working in a knitting shop.”‘
‘Any other entries like that?’
‘Quite a few. Three days ago, for instance: “God knows why Maman’s so keen on dry Martinis.” And the week before that: “Nothing could ever persuade me to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.” ‘
Adamsberg smiled. The police pathologist was muttering that you couldn’t expect miracles if bodies weren’t dis covered quickly enough, that he thought she had probably been killed between ten-thirty and midnight, but that he would prefer to check the stomach contents before stating anything with confidence. The knife wound had been made with a medium-sized blade, following a massive blow to the head.
Adamsberg stopped thinking about the little entries in the diary and looked at Danglard. The inspector was pale and gave the impression of being on the point of collapse, his arms dangling at the sides of his shapeless body. He was also frowning.
‘You’ve seen what’s wrong?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘I’m not sure. What bothers me is that the trail of blood has run over the chalk circle and covered quite a bit of it.’
‘Yes, exactly, Danglard. And the lady’s hand is right up against the line. If he drew the circle after killing her, the chalk might have made a channel through the blood. And if I had been the murderer, I think I would have gone wider around the body to draw the circle. I don’t think I would have gone so close to her hand.’
‘So it’s as if the circle was drawn first, is that what you mean? And then the murderer arranged the body inside it?’
‘Looks a bit like that. But that seems stupid, doesn’t it? Danglard, would you go and check all this out with the scene-of-crime people and with the graphologist – Meunier, I think he’s called. This is where Conti’s photos are going to help us, and so will the dimensions of all the previous circles and the chalk samples you collected. We’ll have to compare them all with this new circle. We have to find out whether it’s the same man who drew it, and whether he drew it before or after the murder. Delille, can you follow up this lady’s address, her neighbours, friends and contacts? Castreau, check her place of work, if she had one, who her colleagues were, and what her income was. Nivelle, you take the family side of things, any family quarrels, inheritances, love affairs.’
Adamsberg had spoken without haste. It was the first time Danglard had seen him giving orders. He did so without seeming either self-important or apologetic about doing so. It was an odd thing, but all the inspectors seemed to be becoming porous, letting Adamsberg’s way of behaving seep into them. It was like being caught in the rain when your jacket can’t help absorbing water. The inspectors were becoming damp and without realising it they were imitating Adamsberg; their movements were slower, they smiled more, and were absent-minded. The one most altered was Castreau, who as a rule liked the gruff, manly responses their previous commissaire had expected of them, the military commands barked out without any superfluous commentary, the ban on looking to either side, the slamming of car doors, the fists clenched in the tunic pockets. Today, Danglard hardly recognised Castreau. He was leafing through the victim’s pocket
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