This Night's Foul Work by Fred Vargas Page B

up. Anglebert didn’t move.
    â€˜We’re not big fans of the cops round here,’ said Anglebert, still not moving his arm.
    â€˜Who is?’ Adamsberg rejoined.
    â€˜Ah, but here we’re even less their fans than anywhere else.’
    â€˜I didn’t say I was their fan, I said I was a cop.’
    â€˜You’re not a fan, then?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t be much point, would there?’
    The old man screwed up his eyes, concentrating all his attention on this unexpected duel.
    â€˜So why are you a cop, then?’
    â€˜Because of a lack of consideration.’
    The rapid reply was above the heads of everyone there, including Adamsberg, who would have been hard put to it to explain what he meant. But nobody dared to reveal his puzzlement.
    â€˜Stands to reason,’ said the punctuator.
    And as if a film had been paused for a moment, the movement of Anglebert’s arm resumed, his elbow went up and the wine poured into Adamsberg’s glass.
    â€˜Or, you might say, because of this kind of thing,’ Adamsberg added, pointing to the slaughtered stag. ‘When did it happen?’
    â€˜A month back now. Keep the paper if you’re interested. Because the Evreux cops don’t give a damn.’
    â€˜Stupid pricks,’ said Robert.
    â€˜What’s that?’ said Adamsberg, pointing to a stain on the animal’s side.
    â€˜The heart,’ said Hilaire with disgust. ‘He’s put two bullets into the ribs, than he’s took out the heart with a knife and cut it to bits.’
    â€˜Is that a tradition? To take the heart out?’
    There was a fresh moment of indecision.
    â€˜You tell him, Robert,’ Anglebert ordered.
    â€˜Surprises me, all the same,’ said Robert, ‘that you’re from the mountains and you don’t know anything about hunting.’
    â€˜I used to go out with the men on trips,’ Adamsberg admitted. ‘And I went up in the pigeon-shooting hides we have down there, like all the kids.’
    â€˜All the same.’
    â€˜But nothing else.’
    â€˜Well, now. When you make a kill,’ Robert explained, ‘first you take the skin off to make a cover. Then you cut off the honours and the haunches. You don’t touch its innards. You turn it over and you carve the fillets to keep. Then you chop off the head, for the antlers. When you’ve finished, you cover the animal with its skin again.’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜But bloody hell, you don’t go cutting its heart out. Yeah, in the old days, some people used to. But we’ve moved on from then. Nowadays you leave the heart inside.’
    â€˜Who used to do it?’ asked a voice.
    â€˜Never you mind – it was way back.’
    â€˜Whoever it was,’ said Alphonse, ‘what he was after was killing it, then ripping its heart out. He didn’t even take the horns, and that’s the only thing people take when they don’t know nothing about it.’
    Adamsberg looked up at the large antlers displayed on the wall of the café, over the door.
    â€˜No,’ said Robert. ‘That’s crap, that lot.’
    â€˜Don’t talk so loud,’ said Anglebert, pointing to the counter, where the café owner was playing dominoes with a couple of youngsters too inexperienced to join in the gathering of the elders.
    Robert cast a glance at the owner, then turned back to the
commissaire
.
    â€˜He’s from away,’ he said.
    â€˜Meaning?’
    â€˜He’s from Caen, not from round here.’
    â€˜Caen’s in Normandy, isn’t it?’
    There were a few exchanges of glances and pulled faces. Could theyreally trust this mountain dweller with such intimate and painful information?
    â€˜Caen’s in
Lower
Normandy,’ Anglebert explained. ‘Here you’re in Upper Normandy.’
    â€˜And that’s important?’
    â€˜Let’s just say you don’t compare them.