An Uncertain Place by Fred Vargas

procedure.’
    ‘Well, you don’t exactly play by the book yourself.’
    ‘Right now I am. And procedure says this arrest is premature and without sufficient cause. One might as well pull the son in for questioning, or someone from the painter’s family. Retancourt, what’s that family like?’
    ‘They’re devastated, they all think the same way, still hellbent on revenge. The mother killed herself a few months after the son. The father’s an engine driver, two other sons are away somewhere, one’s a truck driver, the other’s in the Legion.’
    ‘What do you say to that, Mordent? Worth checking out surely? And Pierre, the disinherited son? Do you think he didn’t know about the will? What could be easier than to accuse Émile and get the whole of the estate? Did you tell the divisionnaire that?’
    ‘I didn’t have that information. But it was the magistrate who insisted. Because Émile Feuillant’s got a record as long as your arm.’
    ‘And since when do we pull someone in on a hunch? Without waiting for forensics? Without any serious evidence?’
    ‘We do have two serious pieces of evidence.’
    ‘Right, I agree to be informed about them. Retancourt, are you up to speed on this?’
    Retancourt scraped the gravel with her toe, like a restless animal. She had many remarkable qualities, but was not gifted for social relations. An ambiguous or tense situation, requiring subtle reactions or pretence left her looking awkward and disarmed.
    ‘What is all this bullshit anyway, Mordent?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘Since when is the judicial system in such a hurry? And who’s behind it?’
    ‘I don’t know, I’m just following orders.’
    ‘You’re following them a bit too closely,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So what are your two pieces of evidence?’
    Mordent looked up. Émile was making himself inconspicuous, fiddling about setting fire to a twig.
    ‘We contacted the retirement home where Feuillant’s mother lives.’
    ‘S’not a retirement home, it’s a death camp.’
    He was still blowing at the twig trying to kindle it. Too green, thought Adamsberg, it won’t catch.
    ‘The matron confirmed it. At least four months ago, Émile told his mother that they would soon be going somewhere else and they’d be able to live off the fat of the land. Everybody knew about it.’
    ‘Course they did,’ said Émile. ‘I told you, Vaudel told me I’d be rich, and I told my mother. Stands to reason, don’t it? Do I have to tell you twenty times? Man could go barmy here.’
    ‘All right,’ said Adamsberg calmly. ‘And the other element, Mordent?’
    This time Mordent smiled. This time, he’s sure of himself, thought Adamsberg, he’s got the fish belly-up now. Looking closely, he thought Mordent’s face was showing signs of strain. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his cheeks were drawn.
    ‘There was horse manure on the floor of his van.’ He pointed to Émile.
    ‘So what?’ said Émile, stopping blowing on the twig.
    ‘We found at least four little balls of manure at the crime scene. The killer must have had it on his rubber boots.’
    ‘I don’t have no rubber boots, that’s got nothing to do with me.’
    ‘The judge thinks it does.’
    Émile stood up, abandoning the twig, and pocketed his tobacco and matches. He bit his lip, looking suddenly panicked. Discouraged, piteous, as still as an old crocodile. Too still. Was it at that moment that Adamsberg realised? He never quite knew. What he did know for sure was that he took a step back from Émile, creating a gap that left his way clear. And Émile reacted with the unreal speed of a crocodile, attacking with a lightning strike. Before you can say knife, it’s seized the antelope by the leg. And before you could say knife, or see how Émile had struck them, both Mordent and Retancourt were on the ground. Adamsberg saw him sprint down the path, jump the wall and cross a garden, all so fast that only Retancourt might be able to catch him. The