The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) by Fred Vargas Page B

involved in this, are you, commissaire? Do you know why Lina saw Herbier with this blasted so-called army?’
    ‘No, why?’
    ‘Because she hates him. He’s an old friend of her father’s, probably the only one Vendermot had. Take my advice, commissaire, and forget you ever heard of it. That girl’s been completely crazy since she was a child, as everyone round here knows. And everyone gives her a wide berth, and the whole family, they’ve all got something odd about them. Though it’s not their fault. In fact, they’re more to be pitied than anything.’
    ‘And everyone knows she saw these Riders?’
    ‘Of course. Lina told her family and her boss.’
    ‘Who’s her boss?’
    ‘She works as a junior in the local solicitors’, Deschamps and Poulain.’
    ‘And who spread the word around?’
    ‘Oh, everyone. They’ve been talking about nothing else here for the past three weeks. Sensible people laugh about it, but fainter souls are frightened. Believe me, we can do without Lina having fun terrorising the local population. I bet you anything you like that nobody’s gone near the Chemin de Bonneval since then. Not even those who don’t believe a word of it. Myself included.’
    ‘Why not, capitaine?’
    ‘Don’t imagine I’m afraid of anything,’ – and here Adamsberg seemed to hear something of the Napoleonic marshal – ‘but I have no wish for people to go thinking Capitaine Émeri believes this stuff about the Furious Army and goes looking. And the same would go for you, so take my advice. This whole affair needs a lid put on it. But if your business ever brings you to Ordebec, I would of course always be very happy to see you.’
    An ambiguous and slightly uneasy exchange, Adamsberg thought as he put down the phone. Émeri had been politely mocking him. He had let him get started, when he already knew all about the visit by a local resident. His unwillingness to be drawn was understandable. Having someone who saw visions on your patch was not a gift from heaven.
    Gradually the office was filling up. Adamsberg usually got there early. The large figure of Retancourt briefly blocked the light from the door, and Adamsberg watched as she moved heavily towards her desk.
    ‘The pigeon opened its eyes this morning,’ he said. ‘Zerk fed it through the night.’
    ‘That’s good,’ said Retancourt calmly. She wasn’t given to showing emotion.
    ‘If he lives, he’s going to be called Hellebaud.’
    ‘Elbow? Funny name.’
    ‘No, Hellebaud, with an h. It’s some old name. An uncle or a nephew, of someone or other.’
    ‘Fine,’ the lieutenant said, switching on her computer. ‘Justin and Noël want to see you. Apparently Momo, our local pyromaniac, is at it again, but this time it’s serious. The car was completely burnt out as usual, but someone was asleep inside. According to the scene-of-crime people, an elderly man. Involuntary manslaughter at least – he won’t get away with six months this time. They’ve launched the investigation, but they would appreciate – what shall I say? – some guidance from you.’
    Retancourt stressed the word ‘guidance’ with apparent irony. Because for one thing, she didn’t consider Adamsberg capable of giving any, and for another she generally disapproved of the way the commissaire allowed himself to float with the flow of inquiries. This contradiction in their approach had been latent since the beginning and neither she nor Adamsberg had tried to resolve it. Which didn’t prevent Adamsberg having the instinctive affection for Retancourt that a pagan would have for the tallest tree in the forest. The only one that offers real refuge.
    The commissaire went over to the desk where Justin and Noël were noting down the latest information about the burnt-out vehicle with the man inside. Momo the firebug had just torched his eleventh car.
    ‘We’ve left Mercadet and Lamarre stationed by the flats where Momo’s pad is, Cité des Buttes,’ Noël