Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand by Fred Vargas

ago.’
    ‘Well, you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg, I’ll say that for you. Mind if I call you Adamsberg?’
    ‘Feel free.’
    ‘We’re going straight to Schiltigheim, bypassing Strasbourg. Pity about the cathedral, but I guess you won’t be bothered about that.’
    ‘Not today, no.’
    ‘I’m not bothered about it, full stop. All that old stuff’s not for me. I’ve seen it a million times, mind you, but it’s not my kind of thing.’
    ‘What is your kind of thing, Trabelmann?’
    ‘My wife, my kids, my work.’
    Simple.
    ‘And fairy stories. I do like stories.’
    Not quite so simple, Adamsberg corrected himself.
    ‘But stories are old stuff too, aren’t they?’ he said.
    ‘Yeah, even older than your madman. But keep going.’
    ‘Can we stop at the mortuary?’
    ‘You want to get out your tape measure, I suppose. No problem.’
    Adamsberg had reached the end of his story by the time they reached the Medico-Legal Institute. When he forgot to stand up straight, as at this moment, he and the commandant were about the same size.
    ‘What?’ shouted Trabelmann, stopping dead in the middle of the hall. ‘Judge Fulgence? He’s your man? Commissaire , you must be out of your mind.’
    ‘You’ve got a problem with that?’ asked Adamsberg calmly.
    ‘For crying out loud, you know who he is, don’t you? Fulgence? This isn’t a fairy story. It’s as if you told me Prince Charming had started spitting fire instead of the dragon!’
    ‘He’s as handsome as Prince Charming, yes. But it doesn’t stop him spitting fire.’
    ‘You realise what you’re saying, Adamsberg? There’s been a book written about Fulgence’s cases. It isn’t every judge in France gets a book written about him, is it? Respected, famous, a pillar of the justice system.’
    ‘Not fond of women or children, though. Not like you, Trabelmann.’
    ‘I’m not going to compare myself with him. An eminent man like that. Everyone in the profession looked up to him when he was on the bench.’
    ‘Feared, rather, Trabelmann. He handed down heavy sentences.’
    ‘Well, justice has to be done.’
    ‘He had a long arm too. When he was in Nantes, he could strike the fear of God into the assizes at Carcassonne.’
    ‘Because he had authority, because his views commanded respect. Well. As I said, at least you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg.’
    A man in a white coat hurried up to them.
    ‘Please, gentlemen, show some respect.’
    ‘Morning, Ménard,’ said Trabelmann.
    ‘My apologies, commandant , I didn’t see it was you.’
    ‘Let me introduce a colleague from Paris, Commissaire Adamsberg.’
    ‘I’ve heard the name,’ said Ménard, shaking hands.
    ‘He’s got a remarkable sense of humour,’ said Trabelmann. ‘Ménard, we need to see the caisson containing Elisabeth Wind.’
    Ménard carefully pulled up the mortuary sheet to display the body of the young victim. Adamsberg looked at it without moving for several seconds, then gently lifted the head to examine bruises on the neck. After that, he concentrated on the puncture wounds in the abdomen.
    ‘As I recall,’ Trabelmann said, ‘the line of wounds runs to about 21 or 22 centimetres.’
    Adamsberg shook his head doubtfully, and took a tape measure out of his bag.
    ‘Can you help me, Trabelmann? I’ve only got one good hand.’
    The commandant ran out the tape measure. Adamsberg put one end at the outside edge of the first wound and measured the exact length from there to the outside edge of the third.
    ‘16.7 centimetres, Trabelmann. I told you, it’s never much more than that.’
    ‘Matter of pure chance.’
    Without replying, Adamsberg used a wooden ruler as a marker and measured the maxium width of the wounds.
    ‘0.8 centimetres,’ he announced, snapping the tape measure back in its case.
    Trabelmann, looking slightly bothered, contented himself with a slight twitch of his head.
    ‘I suppose you can provide me with a note of the penetrative depth of the