Fred Vargas - This Nights Foul Work 5

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Fred Vargas

Have Mercy on Us All
Seeking Whom He May Devour
The Three Evangelists
Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

Finalist for the Duncan Lawrie International Dagger

If you havent cottoned on to Vargass brilliant Adamsberg detective series, then youre missing a treat.

Scotland on Sunday

Irresistibly gripping, powerfully written and quite often frightening.

Marcel Berlins, The Times

Beautifully paced and elegantly written, Vargass fifth novel is a joy. As elegantly stylized as a tango, and just as sexy. The characters are memorable and beautifully made I wanted this novel to go on and on and on.

Margaret Cannon, The Globe and Mail

Vargass detective stories are so complex, yet simple, so cleverly nuanced, yet basic, so peopled with misfits, eccentrics and neer-do-wells that they grab the attention of any reader. Just as the various threads start coming together, the guilty becoming apparent, the whole case unravels wonderfully, again and again.

Ottawa Citizen

This Nights Foul Work goes beyond the suspense and plot twists expected of detective fiction as Vargas has created enthralling characters with very real emotions.

French Magazine

The narrative pace and the conglomeration of oddities and details make for a high level of entertainment and mystery.

Bookbag.co.uk

Vargas sees the novel, and the detective story in particular, as fulfilling some of the same functions as Greek tragedy. In This NightsFoul Work, Adamsberg travels out to a Normandy village where the locals caustic observations on his investigation resemble nothing so much as a Greek chorus.

The Guardian

B Y FIXING HIS CURTAIN TO ONE SIDE WITH A CLOTHES-PEG , L UCIO COULD better observe the new neighbour at his leisure. The newcomer, who was small and dark, had stripped to the waist despite the chilly March breeze and was building a wall of breeze-blocks without using a plumb line. After an hours watching, Lucio shook his head abruptly, like a lizard emerging from its motionless siesta. He removed his unlit cigarette from his mouth.

That one, he said, pronouncing his final diagnosis, has no more ballast in his head than in his hands. Hes going his own sweet way without the rule book. Pleasing himself.

Let him get on with it, then, said his daughter, without conviction.

I know what I have to do, Maria.

You just enjoy upsetting other people, dont you, with your old wives tales?

Her father clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

You wouldnt talk like that if you had trouble sleeping. The other night I saw her, clear as I see you.

Yes, you told me.

She went past the windows on the first floor, slowly like the ghost.

Yes, Maria said again, with indifference.

The old man had risen to his feet and was leaning on his stick.

Its as if she was waiting for the new owner to arrive, as if she was getting ready to stalk her prey. That man over there, I mean, he added, jerking his chin at the window.

The neighbour? said Maria. Itll just go in one ear and out the other, you know.

What he does after thats up to him. Pass me a cigarette Im going over there.

Maria placed the cigarette in her fathers mouth and lit it.

Maria, for the love of God, take off the filter.

Doing as she was asked, Maria helped her father on with his coat. Then she slipped into his pocket a little radio, from which a hiss of background noise and muffled voices emerged. The old man wouldnt be parted from it.

Dont go scaring the neighbour now, will you, she said, knotting his scarf.

Oh, the neighbours had worse than this to cope with, believe me.

Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg had been working on his wall, unperturbed by the watchful gaze of the old man across the way but wondering when he would be coming over to test him out in person. He watched as a tall figure with striking, deeply scored features and a shock of white hair walked across the little garden at a dignified pace. He was about to hold out his hand to shake when he saw that the mans right arm stopped short at the elbow. Adamsberg raised his trowel as a sign of welcome, and looked at him with a calm and neutral expression.

I could lend you my plumb line, the old man said civilly.

Ill manage, said Adamsberg, fitting another breeze-block into place. Where I come from, we always put up walls by guesswork, and they havent fallen down yet. They might lean sometimes, but they dont fall down.

Are you a bricklayer?

No. Im a cop. Commissaire de police.

The old man leaned his stick against the new wall and buttoned his inner jacket up to his chin, giving himself time to absorb the information.

You go after drug dealers? Stuff like that?

No, corpses. I work in the Serious Crime Squad.

I see, said the old man, after registering a slight shock. My speciality was the bench.

He winked.

Not the Judges Bench, wooden benches. I used to sell them.

A joker in days gone by, thought Adamsberg, smiling at his new neighbour with understanding. The old man seemed well able to amuse himself without any help from anyone else. A joker, yes, a man with a sense of humour, but those dark eyes saw right through you.

Parquet floors too. Oak, beech, pine. If you need anything, let me know. Your house has nothing but tiles on the floor.

Thats right.

Not as warm as wood. Velascos the name. Lucio Velasco Paz. The shops called Velasco Paz and Daughter.

Lucio Velasco smiled broadly, but his gaze did not leave Adamsbergs face, inspecting it thoroughly. The old man was working up to an announcement. He had something to tell him.

Maria runs the business now. Shes got a good head on her shoulders, so dont go running to her with stories, she doesnt like it.

What sort of stories would those be?

Ghost stories, for instance, said the old man, screwing up his dark eyes.

No chance. I dont know any ghost stories.

People say that, and then one day they do know one.

Maybe. For all I know. Your radio isnt tuned properly, monsieur. Would you like me to fix it?

What for?

To listen to the programmes.

No, hombre. I dont want to listen to their rubbish. At my age, youve earned the right not to put up with it.

Yes, of course, said Adamsberg.

If the neighbour wanted to carry around in his pocket a radio that wasnt tuned to any programme, and call him hombre, that was up to him.

The old man staged another pause as he watched Adamsberg line up his breeze-blocks.

Like the house, do you?

Yes, very much.

Lucio made a joke under his breath and burst out laughing. Adamsberg smiled politely. There was something youthful about Lucios laughter, whereas the rest of his demeanour suggested that he was more or less responsible for the destiny of mankind.

A hundred and fifty square metres. The old man was speaking again. With a garden, an open fireplace, a cellar, and a woodshed. You cant find anything like this in Paris nowadays. Did you ever ask yourself why it was going so cheap?

Because its old and run-down, I suppose.

And did you never wonder why it hadnt been demolished either?

Well, its at the end of a cul-de-sac its not in anyones way.

All the same,