Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand by Fred Vargas Read Free Book Online Page B

Danglard,’ said Adamsberg raising his arms in the air.
    The instinctive movement brought a spasm of pain. He quickly lowered his left arm and put his hand on the dressing.
    ‘Time for another painkiller,’ said Danglard, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll fetch it.’
    Adamsberg nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. That bastard Favre.
    Danglard disappeared into the kitchen with his glass, made a lot of noise with cupboards and taps, and came back with some water and two tablets for Adamsberg. Adamsberg swallowed them, noting out of the corner of his eye that the level of gin in the glass had magically risen.
    ‘Where were we?’
    ‘You were talking about the old priest’s illuminated books.’
    ‘Yes. There were other books there too, poetry, picture books. I would copy and draw things from them and read a bit here and there. I was still doing it at eighteen. One evening I was sitting at his big kitchen table with its greasy surface, reading and scribbling, when it happened. That’s why I still remember, word for word, a bit out of a poem. It’s like a bullet embedded in my skull that I can’t get out. I’d put the book back and gone out for a walk on the mountainside at about ten o’clock. I climbed up to the Conche de Sauzec.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Sorry, a little hill overlooking our village. I was sitting there on a rock, repeating to myself these lines I’d just read and that I was sure I would have forgotten by the next day.’
    ‘And they were?’
    ‘What god, what harvester of eternal summertime,
    Had, as he strolled away, carelessly thrown down
    That golden sickle in the field of the stars?’
    ‘It’s by Victor Hugo.’
    ‘Ah. And who asks the question?’
    ‘Ruth, the woman who bares her breast.’
    ‘Ruth? I always thought I asked the same question myself.’
    ‘No, it was Ruth. Hugo wasn’t to know you would come along. It’s the end of a long poem, Boaz asleep , it’s famous. But tell me something. Did it work for frogs too? Puff, puff, bang? Or was it just toads?’
    Adamsberg threw him a look of despair.
    ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Danglard, gulping another mouthful of gin.
    ‘I was reciting this to myself anyway, because I liked the sound of it. I had just done my first year as a probationer at the police station at Tarbes. I was back in the village on leave. It was late August, the nights were beginning to get cool, and I started off home. I was washing my face at the sink as quietly as I could – there were nine of us in a couple of rooms – when Raphaël came rushing in like a madman, with blood on his hands.’
    ‘Raphaël?’
    ‘My younger brother. He was sixteen.’
    Danglard put the glass down, open-mouthed.
    ‘Your brother? I thought you only had sisters. Five of them.’
    ‘I did have a brother, Danglard, almost like a twin, we were so close. It must be almost thirty years ago now that I lost him.’
    Stunned, Danglard maintained a respectful silence.
    ‘He was seeing a girl from the village, in the evenings, up by the water-tower. It wasn’t just a teenage fling, they really loved each other. Lise, the girl, wanted to get married as soon as they were of age. But that was a nightmare for my mother, and as for Lise’s family, they were furious. They really didn’t want their little girl to get involved with the likes of our Raphaël. We were the lowest of the low. And her father was the mayor. So you see.’
    Adamsberg stopped for a moment before he could carry on.
    ‘Raphaël grabbed my arm and said: “She’s dead, Jean-Baptiste, she’s dead, she’s been killed.” I put my hand over his mouth, washed the blood off him and pulled him outside. He was crying. I asked him overand over, “What happened, Raphaël, tell me for God’s sake.” He just kept saying: “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Finally he said, “I found myself on my knees, up there by the water-tower, with blood all over me, and this big screwdriver in my hand, and she was dead, Jean-Baptiste,