Read Online The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) by Fred Vargas - Free Book Online
Authors: Fred Vargas
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explained. ‘Car was in the fifth arrondissement, rue Henri-Barbusse. Top-of-the-range Mercedes, as per usual.’
‘This man who died, do they know who he was?’
‘Not yet. Nothing left of his ID, or the number plates. The lads areworking on the motor. Attack on a toff, it’s got Momo written all over it. He never tries anything outside the fifth.’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg, shaking his head. ‘This one’s not Momo. We’d be wasting our time.’
In itself, wasting time didn’t bother Adamsberg. He was impervious to impatience and didn’t rush to follow the usually hasty rhythms of his colleagues, just as his colleagues couldn’t follow his slower meanderings. Adamsberg didn’t have a method, still less a theory, but it seemed to him that as far as time was concerned it was in the almost imperceptible interstices of an inquiry that the choicest pearls were sometimes to be found. Like the little shells that slip into cracks in the rock, far from the crashing breakers of the open sea. At any rate, it was there that he tended to come across them.
‘Go on, it’s classic Momo,’ Noël was insisting. ‘The old geezer must have been waiting for someone in the car. It was dark, and he must have dropped off. Best-case scenario, Momo didn’t notice him. Worst-case, he set fire to the car, passenger and all.’
‘No, it can’t be Momo.’
Adamsberg visualised quite clearly the face of the young man in question, obstinate and intelligent, rather delicate under his shock of dark curly hair. He didn’t know why he hadn’t forgotten Momo, or why he liked him. While listening to his colleagues, he was simultaneously phoning about train times to Ordebec, since his car was in the garage for repairs. The little woman hadn’t appeared again and the commissaire presumed that since she had failed in her mission, she had gone back to Normandy. The commissaire’s ignorance about the Furious Army must have overwhelmed the last shreds of her courage. Because it must have taken courage to come and tell a cop about a horde of thousand-year-old demons.
‘Commissaire, he’s already torched ten cars, he’s famous for it. They all admire him on his estate. He’s moving up, he wants to go big time. For him there’s not much difference between a Merc and the guy inside it, they’re both class enemies.’
‘There’s all the world of difference, Noël, and he won’t make the jump.I know this lad, he’s been in youth custody twice before. But Momo would never torch a car without checking if there was someone in it.’
* * *
There was no station at Ordebec, it seemed; you had to get off at Cérenay and take a bus. He wouldn’t be there until five o’clock, which was rather a long excursion for a short walk. But it would be light enough in the summer evening to give him time to cover the five kilometres known as the Chemin de Bonneval. If a murderer had wanted to exploit the Lina girl’s madness, or fantasies, this was where, perhaps, he might have left the body. This escape to the forest was no longer a half-formed duty he felt vaguely obliged to fulfil for the little woman, but a healthy break. He could already imagine the smell of the path, the shadows, the carpet of leaves under his feet. He could easily have sent one of his juniors, or even persuaded Capitaine Émeri to go there. But the idea of exploring it for himself had made its way in his head that morning, gradually, inexplicably, though with the obscure feeling that certain inhabitants of Ordebec were in deep trouble. He switched off his mobile and turned his attention to the two lieutenants.
‘Find out everything you can about this old man who was burnt,’ he said. ‘Momo’s got a reputation in this part of the fifth arrondissement, and it would be easy to frame him for murder by using his MO, which isn’t complicated. All the killer would need would be some petrol and a short fuse. He gets the man to wait in the car, comes back under cover
‘This man who died, do they know who he was?’
‘Not yet. Nothing left of his ID, or the number plates. The lads areworking on the motor. Attack on a toff, it’s got Momo written all over it. He never tries anything outside the fifth.’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg, shaking his head. ‘This one’s not Momo. We’d be wasting our time.’
In itself, wasting time didn’t bother Adamsberg. He was impervious to impatience and didn’t rush to follow the usually hasty rhythms of his colleagues, just as his colleagues couldn’t follow his slower meanderings. Adamsberg didn’t have a method, still less a theory, but it seemed to him that as far as time was concerned it was in the almost imperceptible interstices of an inquiry that the choicest pearls were sometimes to be found. Like the little shells that slip into cracks in the rock, far from the crashing breakers of the open sea. At any rate, it was there that he tended to come across them.
‘Go on, it’s classic Momo,’ Noël was insisting. ‘The old geezer must have been waiting for someone in the car. It was dark, and he must have dropped off. Best-case scenario, Momo didn’t notice him. Worst-case, he set fire to the car, passenger and all.’
‘No, it can’t be Momo.’
Adamsberg visualised quite clearly the face of the young man in question, obstinate and intelligent, rather delicate under his shock of dark curly hair. He didn’t know why he hadn’t forgotten Momo, or why he liked him. While listening to his colleagues, he was simultaneously phoning about train times to Ordebec, since his car was in the garage for repairs. The little woman hadn’t appeared again and the commissaire presumed that since she had failed in her mission, she had gone back to Normandy. The commissaire’s ignorance about the Furious Army must have overwhelmed the last shreds of her courage. Because it must have taken courage to come and tell a cop about a horde of thousand-year-old demons.
‘Commissaire, he’s already torched ten cars, he’s famous for it. They all admire him on his estate. He’s moving up, he wants to go big time. For him there’s not much difference between a Merc and the guy inside it, they’re both class enemies.’
‘There’s all the world of difference, Noël, and he won’t make the jump.I know this lad, he’s been in youth custody twice before. But Momo would never torch a car without checking if there was someone in it.’
* * *
There was no station at Ordebec, it seemed; you had to get off at Cérenay and take a bus. He wouldn’t be there until five o’clock, which was rather a long excursion for a short walk. But it would be light enough in the summer evening to give him time to cover the five kilometres known as the Chemin de Bonneval. If a murderer had wanted to exploit the Lina girl’s madness, or fantasies, this was where, perhaps, he might have left the body. This escape to the forest was no longer a half-formed duty he felt vaguely obliged to fulfil for the little woman, but a healthy break. He could already imagine the smell of the path, the shadows, the carpet of leaves under his feet. He could easily have sent one of his juniors, or even persuaded Capitaine Émeri to go there. But the idea of exploring it for himself had made its way in his head that morning, gradually, inexplicably, though with the obscure feeling that certain inhabitants of Ordebec were in deep trouble. He switched off his mobile and turned his attention to the two lieutenants.
‘Find out everything you can about this old man who was burnt,’ he said. ‘Momo’s got a reputation in this part of the fifth arrondissement, and it would be easy to frame him for murder by using his MO, which isn’t complicated. All the killer would need would be some petrol and a short fuse. He gets the man to wait in the car, comes back under cover
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