Have Mercy On Us All (35 page)

“Did the girl get pushed about as well?”

“A bit. It wasn’t me, honest.”

“You’re lying. Get out of this office, I don’t want to set eyes on you again.
Run
away to what’s at the end of your road, Kevin Roubaud, it’s no skin off my nose.”

“It wasn’t me,” Roubaud hissed, “I swear. I’m not an animal. A bit of a rough customer when someone winds me up, but I’m not like the others. I was just having a bit of a giggle, I was the back-up man.”

“I believe you,” said Adamsberg, who didn’t believe a word of it. “What made you giggle?”

“Well, what they were doing.”

“Spit it out, Roubaud, you’ve got five minutes, then I’m throwing you out of here.”

Roubaud took a deep, noisy breath.

“They stripped him,” he went on, speaking almost in a whisper. “Then they poured kerosene on his …”

“Genitals?” Adamsberg prompted.

Roubaud nodded. Drips of sweat were forming on his brow and trickling down to his chest.

“They got their lighters, they went round and round, closer and closer to his …to his thing. The guy, he was screaming his head off, he was scared to death that his thing was going to go up in smoke.”

“So that’s ‘pushing around’,” Adamsberg muttered. “And then?”

“Then they flung him on his front on the gym table and tacked him.”

“Tacked him?”

“Sure. It’s what’s called a poster job. They stuck drawing pins in him all over, then stuck a club up his, up his, his arse.”

“Tremendous,” Adamsberg said between clenched teeth. “And the girl? Don’t tell me you left her alone.”

“I didn’t do it! I was just the back-up man. Only, I had a giggle.”

“Are you still giggling now?”

Roubaud lowered his head. He was still holding on tight to his chair.

“The girl,” Adamsberg repeated.

“Gang-raped, five guys, took it in turns. She started bleeding. When it was over she was out cold. I even thought we’d done something stupid and that she’d died. Actually, she’d gone off her rocker, she didn’t know who anyone was any more.”

“Five guys? I thought there were seven of you.”

“I did not touch her.”

“And number six? He didn’t either?”

“Number six was a girl. Her,” Roubaud said, pointing to the photograph of Marianne Bardou on the desk. “She and one of the guys was an item. We didn’t want any birds but she was hitched and so we let her come along.”

“And what did she do?”

“She was the one who poured the kerosene. She was having the time of her life.”

“Real good fun.”

“Yes,” said Roubaud.

“What next?”

“When the guy had made his phone call, all covered in sick, we threw them out stark naked with all their gear, and we all went off to get sloshed.”

“Nothing wrong with a pint after a hard day’s night, right?” Adamsberg said.

“Honest, sir, it really pissed me off. I’ve kept well away ever since, and I never clapped eyes on any of them ever again. I got the dough in the mail, as agreed, and that was the end of that.”

“Until this week.”

“Yep.”

“When you recognised the murder victims.”

“Only that one, and that one, and the woman,” said Roubaud, pointing to the photos of Viard, Clerc and Bardou. “I only saw them that one time.”

“Did it click straight away?”

“Only when the woman got done in. I recognised her because she had loads of moles on her face. So then I looked at the other mugshots and the penny dropped.”

“That he’s come back, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why he waited so long?”

“No, no idea.”

“Because he did five years inside straight after. His girlfriend, the lass
you
drove out of her mind, threw herself out of an upstairs window four weeks later. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Roubaud. That’s if you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own crap already.”

Adamsberg got up and opened the windows to get some fresh air in his lungs and to get rid of the smell of sweat and horror. He leaned for a while on the railing, looking down on people walking in the street, people who hadn’t heard the story he’d been listening to. Seven fifteen. The monger was still asleep.

“Since he’s in custody, what are you afraid of?”

“Because he’s not the one,” Roubaud hissed. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. The beanstalk we roughed up was a real pushover. A doormat, if you know what I mean. A patsy and a nerd who couldn’t swat a fly to save his life. But the bloke you put on telly is a big brawny fellow. No relation, believe you me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Our guy had a face like a bird, I can see it clearly. He’s still out there, and he’s waiting for me. I’ve told you everything now, so I want protection. Honest, I didn’t do anything, I was just the …”

“Back-up man, sure. We know that already. Don’t you think that five years inside might change a man, though? Especially if he’s got one thing on his mind, and one thing only: to get his own back. Don’t you think you can build your own body? Not the same as the brain, is it? You’ve stayed as thick as you ever were. But maybe he worked on himself and ended up with those biceps.”

“Why should he do that?”

“To wipe the slate clean, to survive without shame, and to get you for good.”

Adamsberg went over to the cupboard, took out a plastic bag, withdrew an ivory envelope from it and waved it in front of Roubaud’s nose.

“Seen that before?”

Roubaud furrowed his brow.

“Yes. There was one lying on the ground when I left the flat to come here. There wasn’t anything in it, it was empty, it had already been opened.”

“That’s him then, that’s the monger. It’s the envelope he used to get his fleas on to you.”

Roubaud hugged himself.

“Are you frightened of the plague?”

“Not really,” Roubaud answered. “I don’t swallow it. I think it’s nonsense, it’s eyewash, it’s meant to lead us up the garden path. I think he’s a choker.”

“And you’re right to think that. Are you sure the envelope was not lying there yesterday?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

Adamsberg stroked his cheek pensively.

“Come and look at him,” he said as he stepped towards the door.

Roubaud hesitated.

“Not such a giggle now, is it? Those were the days! Come on, he’s not dangerous, the animal’s in a cage.”

Adamsberg dragged Roubaud to Damascus’s cell. He was still sleeping soundly, his head resting easily on the blanket.

“Now look at him properly’, Adamsberg said. “Take your time. Don’t forget you last saw him eight years ago, and he wasn’t in very good shape at the time.”

Roubaud stared through the bars, in a state close to fascination.

“And so?”

“Could be,” Roubaud said. “The mouth, could be. But I’d need to see his eyes.”

When Adamsberg unlocked the cell door Roubaud’s eyes filled with alarm.

“You prefer the door closed? Or do you want me to lock you two in together so you can have a good giggle for old times’ sake?”

“Cut the crap,” Roubaud said darkly. “He could be dangerous.”

“And you’re not? In your time you were bloody dangerous too.”

Adamsberg shut himself in the cell with Damascus and Roubaud looked on as if watching a lion-tamer stepping into the ring. The
commissaire
shook Damascus by the shoulder.

“Wake up, Damascus, you’ve got visitors.”

Damascus sat up with a groan and looked in bewilderment at the walls of his cell. Then it came back to him, and he threw his hair back over his shoulders.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Can I go?”

“Stand up. There’s a fellow wants to get a good look at you. An old acquaintance of yours.”

Obedient as ever, Damascus did as asked and stood up with his blanket wrapped around him. Adamsberg watched each man in turn. Damascus seemed to narrow his face, slightly. Roubaud gave a wide-eyed stare, then moved away.

“So?” Adamsberg enquired once they were back in his office. “Can you see it now?”

“Could be,” said Roubaud, far from confidently. “But if it is him, he’s doubled his weight.”

“Face?”

“Could be. He didn’t have long hair.”

“You’re covering yourself, aren’t you? Because you’re scared.”

Roubaud nodded.

“You could be right, of course,” Adamsberg put in. “The avenger is probably not a lone wolf. I’ll keep you here until we can see our way through a bit better.”

“Thanks,” said Roubaud.

“Tell me who the next target is.”

“Me, sod it.”

“I know that. But the one after? There were seven, minus five who are dead already makes two, minus you leaves one. Who’s left?”

“He had an ugly mug and was as thin as a rake. I reckon he was the nastiest one in the bunch. The one who did the thing with the club.”

“Name?”

“We didn’t give our names or our first names. On a job like that nobody takes risks.”

“Age?”

“Same as everyone else. Twenty-something.”

“Parisian?”

“I suppose so.”

Adamsberg put Roubaud in a cell but did not lock it. Then he put his head through the bars of Damascus’s cell and gave him back his clothes.

“The magistrate’s given clearance for us to put you on remand.”

“All right,” the placid young man replied from the bench seat.

“Can you read Latin, Damascus?”

“No.”

“Isn’t there anything you want to tell me? About the fleas, for example?”

“No.”

“Or about six guys who gave you third degree one Thursday, on a seventeenth of March? Nothing to tell me? Or about a girl who had a real giggle?”

Damascus remained silent, wringing his hands in his lap, with his right thumb touching the diamond ring.

“What did they rob you of, Damascus? Apart from your girl, your body and your honour? What were they after?”

Damascus didn’t move an inch.

“All right. I’ll send you some breakfast. Get dressed.”

Adamsberg drew Danglard to one side.

“That shitbag Roubaud won’t give a positive ID,” Danglard said. “Leaves you up the creek.”

“Danglard, Damascus has an accomplice who’s still out there. The fleas were put under Roubaud’s door when Damascus was already here. Someone took over the message system, too, as soon as he was arrested. And he did it on the trot, without bothering to paint 4s for protection.”

“An accomplice would account for why he’s so cool and collected. He’s got someone to carry on the job, and he’s relying on him.”

“Send some of our men down to interview his sister, and Eva, and all the regulars in the square, to find out who his friends are. I especially want a list of all the phone calls he’s made for the last two months. From the shop and from the flat.”

“Aren’t you coming with?”

“My
persona
’s not very
grata
down there right now. I’m Judas. They’ll open up more if they’re talking to officers they’ve not met before.”

“Got that,” said Danglard. “We could have taken years to find the link. Guys who didn’t even know each other joining up in a dive one dark night. We’re dead lucky Roubaud took fright.”

“He had good reason, Danglard.”

Adamsberg got out his mobile phone and looked it straight in the eye. He pleaded with it silently for so long – to ring, to jump, to do anything at all – that he ended up mistaking the phone for a vision of Camille herself. So he talked to it and told it his life’s story, as if Camille could hear him, no trouble. But as Bertin had so rightly remarked, those gizmos don’t always do all they’re supposed to. Camille failed to arise from the keypad like a genie from a bottle. Who cares anyway. He put the phone on the floor, very gently so as not to bruise it, and lay down to sleep for an hour and a half.

Danglard woke him with the record of all Damascus’s telephone activity. The interviews at Place Edgar-Quinet hadn’t produced much by way of results. Eva clammed up totally, Marie-Belle sobbed as soon as anyone said anything, Decambrais was in a mood, Lizbeth let rip, and Bertin, as if reverting to the ancient tongue of the Northmen, would utter only monosyllables. The sum total was: Damascus virtually never left the square, he spent every evening at the Saint-Ambroise listening to Lizbeth and talking to nobody, he had no known friends and he spent Sundays with his sister.

Adamsberg went through the call list looking for repeat numbers. If there was an accomplice, Damascus had to be in touch with him or her: the synchronisation of the 4s, the fleas and the murders was too complex and too tight to brook any other explanation. But Damascus used the telephone remarkably rarely. There were calls from the flat to the shop, that was probably Marie-Belle calling Damascus. The shop phone was hardly used, and there were only a handful of repeat numbers. Adamsberg checked up on the four numbers that appeared more than once on the list – all of them
to
bona fide suppliers of skateboards, bearings and helmets. He pushed the sheets to one side of his desktop.

Damascus wasn’t stupid. Damascus was a genius who’d learned how to look blank. Something else he’d picked up in prison, and gone on practising after. He’d been planning this for seven years. So if he had an accomplice he wasn’t going to risk giving the game away by calling him up from his own phone. Adamsberg got on to the phone company’s fourteenth arrondisssement branch to request a listing of calls made from the public telephone in Rue de la Gaîté. Twenty minutes later the info arrived in the form of a fax. Mobile phones had made a huge dent in the use of public telephones, so the list he had to go through wasn’t enormously long. He found only eleven repeat numbers.

“I’ll unscramble them for you if you like,” Danglard offered.

“That one first,” said Adamsberg, pointing to a number. “That one, it’s an out-of-town number, somewhere in the north-east suburbs, department of Hauts-de-Seine.”

“Any reason?” Danglard asked as he went off to his computer to look it up in the reverse directory.

“Northern edge of the city, that’s our baby. Any luck and it’ll land us in Clichy.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to eliminate the others?”

“They’re not going to fly away.”

Danglard hit a few keys and waited in silence.