got between us. I’m sorry. There are some motorbike cops trying to pick up the scent.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, lieutenant , he had a good start.’
‘That wasn’t all he had,’ said Retancourt. ‘He knows the area like the back of his hand, he went streaking through gardens, alleyways, as if he’d built them himself. He’s probably hiding behind some hedge. It’ll be hard to dislodge him unless he gets hungry, which he might soon. I’m stopping here, because I think he cracked one of my ribs when he took off.’
‘Where are you, Violette? Still at the hospital?’
‘Yes, the cops have gone round it searching for places he might be hiding.’
‘Get inside and see a doctor about the rib.’
‘Will do,’ said Retancourt and rang off.
Adamsberg snapped his mobile shut. Retancourt had no intention of getting herself examined.
‘Émile may have broken her rib,’ he said. ‘Painful.’
‘Could have been worse, he could have kicked her in the balls.’
‘That’ll do, Noël.’
‘Not the same horse farm?’ Justin chipped in.
Adamsberg took up the piece of horse manure again, biting back a more angry retort to Noël, who never stopped needling Retancourt, saying she wasn’t a woman at all, but an ox or something. Whereas for Adamsberg, if Retancourt wasn’t exactly a woman in the ordinary sense, it was because she was a goddess. The polyvalent goddess of the squad with as many talents as the God-knows-how-many-armed goddess Shiva.
‘How many arms does that Indian goddess have?’ he asked his juniors, still holding the scrap of dung.
The four lieutenants shook their heads.
‘Always the same,’ said Adamsberg. ‘When Danglard’s not here nobody knows the answer to anything.’
He closed up the sachet again, shut the zip and gave it to Voisenet.
‘We’ll have to call him to get an answer. Now, what it is, I think this horse, the one that produced this shit, familiarly known as Émile’s horse shit, was out in a field and has eaten nothing but grass. And I think the other one, the origin of the pellets in the villa, which we’ll call “the killer’s horse shit”, was fed in a stable on granules.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I spent my childhood collecting horse manure for fertiliser, and cowpats for burning in the fireplace. I still do that, and I can assure you, Voisenet, that depending on what they’ve been fed, you get a different kind of horse manure.’
‘OK,’ agreed Voisenet.
‘When will we get the lab results?’ asked Adamsberg, as he punched in Danglard’s number. ‘Give them a kick up the pants: we need this stuff urgently – the shit, the Kleenex, fingerprints, body parts, all that.’
He walked away as Danglard came on the line.
‘Nearly five o’clock, Danglard. We need you for this Garches mess. It’s all cleared up, we’re on our way back, we’re going to do the first summary. Oh, one second, how many arms has that Indian goddess got? The one that sits inside a ball? Shiva?’
‘Shiva’s not a goddess at all, commissaire . He’s a god.’
‘A god! It’s a man,’ added the commissaire for his lieutenants ’ benefit. ‘So Shiva’s a man, and how many arms does he have?’ he asked Danglard.
‘Depends on the different images, because Shiva’s powers are immense and contradictory, covering practically the whole spectrum, from destruction to blessing. Sometimes two, sometimes four, but it can go up to ten. Depends what he’s embodying at the time.’
‘And roughly speaking, Danglard, what does he embody?’
‘Well, to cut a long story short, “at the vacuum in the centre of Nirvana-Shakti is the supreme Shiva whose nature is emptiness”.’
Adamsberg had turned up the speaker, and looked at his colleagues who seemed as lost as he was and were making signs to forget it. Finding out that Shiva was a male deity was quite enough for one day.
‘Has this got anything to do with Garches?’ asked Danglard. ‘Not enough
‘Don’t blame yourself, lieutenant , he had a good start.’
‘That wasn’t all he had,’ said Retancourt. ‘He knows the area like the back of his hand, he went streaking through gardens, alleyways, as if he’d built them himself. He’s probably hiding behind some hedge. It’ll be hard to dislodge him unless he gets hungry, which he might soon. I’m stopping here, because I think he cracked one of my ribs when he took off.’
‘Where are you, Violette? Still at the hospital?’
‘Yes, the cops have gone round it searching for places he might be hiding.’
‘Get inside and see a doctor about the rib.’
‘Will do,’ said Retancourt and rang off.
Adamsberg snapped his mobile shut. Retancourt had no intention of getting herself examined.
‘Émile may have broken her rib,’ he said. ‘Painful.’
‘Could have been worse, he could have kicked her in the balls.’
‘That’ll do, Noël.’
‘Not the same horse farm?’ Justin chipped in.
Adamsberg took up the piece of horse manure again, biting back a more angry retort to Noël, who never stopped needling Retancourt, saying she wasn’t a woman at all, but an ox or something. Whereas for Adamsberg, if Retancourt wasn’t exactly a woman in the ordinary sense, it was because she was a goddess. The polyvalent goddess of the squad with as many talents as the God-knows-how-many-armed goddess Shiva.
‘How many arms does that Indian goddess have?’ he asked his juniors, still holding the scrap of dung.
The four lieutenants shook their heads.
‘Always the same,’ said Adamsberg. ‘When Danglard’s not here nobody knows the answer to anything.’
He closed up the sachet again, shut the zip and gave it to Voisenet.
‘We’ll have to call him to get an answer. Now, what it is, I think this horse, the one that produced this shit, familiarly known as Émile’s horse shit, was out in a field and has eaten nothing but grass. And I think the other one, the origin of the pellets in the villa, which we’ll call “the killer’s horse shit”, was fed in a stable on granules.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I spent my childhood collecting horse manure for fertiliser, and cowpats for burning in the fireplace. I still do that, and I can assure you, Voisenet, that depending on what they’ve been fed, you get a different kind of horse manure.’
‘OK,’ agreed Voisenet.
‘When will we get the lab results?’ asked Adamsberg, as he punched in Danglard’s number. ‘Give them a kick up the pants: we need this stuff urgently – the shit, the Kleenex, fingerprints, body parts, all that.’
He walked away as Danglard came on the line.
‘Nearly five o’clock, Danglard. We need you for this Garches mess. It’s all cleared up, we’re on our way back, we’re going to do the first summary. Oh, one second, how many arms has that Indian goddess got? The one that sits inside a ball? Shiva?’
‘Shiva’s not a goddess at all, commissaire . He’s a god.’
‘A god! It’s a man,’ added the commissaire for his lieutenants ’ benefit. ‘So Shiva’s a man, and how many arms does he have?’ he asked Danglard.
‘Depends on the different images, because Shiva’s powers are immense and contradictory, covering practically the whole spectrum, from destruction to blessing. Sometimes two, sometimes four, but it can go up to ten. Depends what he’s embodying at the time.’
‘And roughly speaking, Danglard, what does he embody?’
‘Well, to cut a long story short, “at the vacuum in the centre of Nirvana-Shakti is the supreme Shiva whose nature is emptiness”.’
Adamsberg had turned up the speaker, and looked at his colleagues who seemed as lost as he was and were making signs to forget it. Finding out that Shiva was a male deity was quite enough for one day.
‘Has this got anything to do with Garches?’ asked Danglard. ‘Not enough
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