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hold of the metal table and gave it a violent shove. Papers, reports, photographic slides went flying with a crash as it toppled over. Favre, still holding a beaker of coffee, sat stock still, without reacting. Adamsberg took the back of the chair and tipped it backwards, so that the coffee spilled over the brigadier ’s shirt.
    ‘Take back what you just said, Favre, apologise, and say you regret it. I’m waiting.’
    ‘Oh, shit,’ thought Danglard putting his hand over his eyes. He saw from his stance how tense Adamsberg was. In the last two days, he had seen more new emotions overtake his boss than in years of working together.
    ‘I’m waiting,’ Adamsberg repeated.
    Favre leaned forward to try and recover a little of his lost dignity in front of his colleagues, who were by now stealthily moving towards the epicentre of the confrontation. Only Retancourt, the butt of Favre’s insulting words, had not budged. But she had stopped filing papers.
    ‘Withdraw what?’ Favre said hoarsely. ‘It was the truth, wasn’t it? You are an ace mountain climber, aren’t you?’
    ‘Favre, I’m waiting,’ said Adamsberg once more.
    ‘Oh bollocks,’ muttered Favre, starting to get to his feet.
    Adamsberg grabbed Danglard’s black briefcase, took out a bottle of wine and smashed it against the metal table leg. Splinters of glass and wine flew all over the room. He took a step towards Favre, the broken bottle neck in his hand. Danglard tried to hold back the commissaire , but Favre had pulled out his service revolver and was pointing it at Adamsberg. Dumbstruck, the rest of the squad had frozen in their tracks, staring at the brigadier who had dared to level a gun at his boss. And staring too at their commissaire principal , whom they had seen angry only twice in the whole year, and then it had blown over very quickly. Everyone was searching for a quick way to defuse the confrontation, hoping that Adamsberg would recover his usual detached manner, drop the bottle and walk away with a shrug of his shoulders.
    ‘Drop the gun, you fucking idiot,’ said Adamsberg.
    Favre threw down the revolver with an insolent look, and Adamsberg lowered the bottle. He had the unpleasant feeling of having gone over the top, the secret certainty that he had looked ridiculous, without being sure whether he or Favre had come off worst in that respect. He loosened his fingers. At that moment, the brigadier , in a furious outburst, straightened up and threw the jagged base of the wine bottle at him, cutting Adamsberg’s left forearm as cleanly as a knife.
    Favre was quickly overpowered, put on a chair and held fast. Then faces turned to the commissaire , waiting for his instructions in this unprecedented situation. Adamsberg made a gesture to stop Estalère who was reaching for a telephone.
    ‘It’s not deep, Estalère,’ he said, his voice back to its usual calm, and holding his arm up against his body. ‘Just tell the police doctor to come over, he can handle it.’
    He nodded to Mordent and gave him the top half of the broken bottle.
    ‘Put this in a plastic bag, Mordent. It’s evidence that I started the fight. Attempt to intimidate a subordinate. Pick up his Magnum and the base of the bottle, as evidence for a charge of aggression without intention to …’
    Adamsberg ran his other hand through his hair trying to think of the right words.
    ‘Yes, there bloody was intention,’ shouted Favre.
    ‘Shut up, you dope!’ cried Noël. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself. You’ve done enough damage.’
    Adamsberg looked at Noël in surprise. Normally Noël would smile and back up the crude sallies his colleague came out with. But a gap had opened up between Noël’s tolerance and Favre’s aggression.
    ‘Without intention to cause grievous bodily harm,’ Adamsberg went on, making a sign to Justin to take down his words. ‘Motive for the confrontation, Brigadier Joseph Favre’s insulting remarks regarding Lieutenant Violette