An Uncertain Place by Fred Vargas

platforms like so many pawns, as a key piece moved on the chessboard.
    ‘Normally, no, Mordent, but here, yes. This man’s rage, or panic or madness, goes beyond what we can see, taking us into unknown territory.’
    ‘No,’ the commandant insisted. ‘Rage and anger burn up quickly, then they’re over. This looks like hours of work. Four hours at least, and that’s not the way rage works.’
    ‘Well, what is it then?’
    ‘Hard labour, obstinacy, calculation. Maybe even setting up a scene for us.’
    ‘Impossible, Mordent, nobody could fake this.’ Adamsberg crouched down to look at the floor. ‘He was wearing boots? Big rubber boots?’
    ‘Yes, that’s what we thought,’ Lamarre confirmed. ‘Looks like a sensible precaution, given what he was going to do. The soles have left some good prints on the carpet. And there are some fragments of stuff from the ridges in the boots, mud or something.’
    Mordent murmured ‘hard labour’ again, and stepped diagonally like a bishop, while Adamsberg moved two paces forward and one to the side, accomplishing a knight’s move.
    ‘What did he use to do the crushing?’ he asked. ‘Even with a heavy club or something, he couldn’t do that on the carpet.’
    ‘We’ve got a patch on the carpet hardly stained,’ Justin pointed out, ‘a rectangular shape. He might have put something on a block of wood or some metal plate, to act as an anvil.’
    ‘That’s a lot of heavy equipment to carry around: a chainsaw, a club, a block of wood. Plus spare clothes and shoes.’
    ‘You could get it all into a big sack. I think he must have changed outside in the back garden. There are some specks of blood on the grass, where he must have put down bloodstained clothes.’
    ‘And now and again,’ Adamsberg remarked, ‘he sat down for a rest. He chose this armchair.’
    Adamsberg looked at the chair, its carved arms and its pink velvet seat now stained with blood.
    ‘That’s a very fancy chair,’ he said.
    ‘That,’ said Mordent, ‘is not just a very fancy chair, it’s Louis XIII, no less. Early seventeenth century.’
    ‘All right, commandant , it’s Louis XIII,’ said Adamsberg evenly. ‘And if you’re going to nitpick all day, please go home. Nobody wants to work on a Sunday, and nobody likes having to wade through this slaughterhouse. And you’ve had more sleep than some of us.’
    Mordent made another bishop’s move, away from Adamsberg. The commissaire clasped his hands behind his back and looked again at the chair. ‘This was the murderer’s refuge, so to speak. He takes a break. Looks around at the destruction he’s causing, but he wants a few moments of relief and satisfaction. Or perhaps he’s just out of breath.’
    ‘Why are we saying “he”?’ asked Justin conscientiously. ‘A woman could have brought in the material if she parked near enough.’
    ‘This is a man’s work, a man’s mind. I don’t see an ounce of woman in this. And look at the size of the boots.’
    ‘The victim’s clothes,’ said Retancourt, pointing to a pile on a chair. ‘He didn’t tear them off, or rip them up. They’ve just been taken off, as if he were putting the man to bed. That’s unusual too.’
    ‘Because he wasn’t in a rage,’ said Mordent from the corner to which he had retreated.
    ‘Did he take them all off?’
    ‘Except the underpants,’ said Lamarre.
    ‘That’s because he didn’t want to see,’ said Retancourt. ‘He took the victim’s clothes off so as not to foul up the saw, but he couldn’t bring himself to strip the man naked. The idea upset him.’
    ‘In that case,’ said Roman, ‘at least we can say he wasn’t a doctor or nurse or a paramedic. I’ve stripped hundreds of bodies in my time, doesn’t bother me.’
    Adamsberg had put on gloves and was rolling between his fingers one of the little balls of earth from the boots.
    ‘There’s a horse somewhere,’ he said. ‘This is horse manure, stuck to the boots.’
    ‘How can you