The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Why don’t they come up this way to get to the plant, rather than closing down the underground river?’

  ‘The power plant doesn’t have a helicopter. This pad, like the landing area down below, is only used by mountain rescue in extreme emergencies. And even then only when the weather allows it.’

  The helicopter began a gentle descent towards a flat surface carved out amid a chaos of scattered patches of fresh snow and moraines. They were surrounded by a cloud of powdery snow. Servaz could just make out a huge H beneath the drifts.

  ‘We’re lucky,’ she said into the headset. ‘Five hours ago, when the workers discovered the body, we couldn’t have got this far, because of the awful weather!’

  The helicopter’s landing skids touched down. Servaz felt alive again. Solid ground – even at more than two thousand metres. But they’d have to go back down again the same way, and the very thought of it made his stomach churn.

  ‘If I’ve understood correctly, when the weather’s bad, once the tunnel is filled with water, the workers are prisoners of the mountain. What do they do if there’s an accident?’

  Captain Ziegler made an eloquent grimace.

  ‘They have to empty out the tunnel again and go back to the cable car through the access shaft. It takes at least two hours, maybe three, to get to the main station.’

  Servaz would have liked to know what sort of bonuses these guys got for taking such risks.

  ‘Who does the plant belong to?’

  ‘The Lombard Group.’

  The Lombard Group. The investigation was only just getting started and this was the second time the name had come up. Servaz imagined a loose conglomeration of enterprises, subsidiaries, holding companies, not just in France but in all likelihood abroad as well, an octopus whose tentacles reached everywhere, with money in its limbs instead of blood, flowing by the billions from the extremities to the heart. Servaz was no expert on business, but like most people nowadays he knew more or less what the word ‘multinational’ meant. Could an old factory like this one still be profitable to a group like Lombard’s?

  The rotation of the blades slowed and the whistling of the turbine faded and died.

  Silence.

  Ziegler put down her headset, opened the door and stepped out. Servaz followed. They walked slowly towards the frozen lake.

  ‘We’re at two thousand metres up here,’ said the young woman. ‘You can tell, can’t you?’

  Servaz took a deep breath of pure ether, intoxicating, icy. His head was spinning slightly – perhaps because of the helicopter ride, or the altitude. But it was a sensation more exalting than it was disturbing, not unlike, he supposed, the thrill that deep-sea diving could bring. He wondered if there was a similar thrill at high altitude. He was awed by the beauty and wildness of the place. The mineral solitude, a white, luminous desert. The shutters to the house were closed. Servaz imagined what the workers must feel every morning as they opened the windows onto the lake before they went down into the darkness. But perhaps that was all they could think about, in fact: the day ahead down there in the depths of the mountain, the deafening noise and artificial light, the long, trying hours in store.

  ‘Are you coming? The tunnels were dug in 1929, and the plant was built the following year,’ she explained, as they walked towards the house.

  The eaves of the roof were supported by thick, rough stone pillars, forming a porch which all the windows looked out onto except one, on the side. Servaz noticed a retaining sleeve for a satellite dish on one of the pillars.

  ‘Have you had a look in the tunnels?’

  ‘Of course. Our men are still in there. But I don’t think we’re going to find anything up here. The man – or men – didn’t come this far. It was enough to get the horse into the cable car, hang it up there and then go back down.’

  She opened the wooden door. Inside, all the lamps were on. All the rooms were furnished: the bedrooms had two beds; the living room had a television, two sofas and a dresser; there was a large kitchen with a refectory table. Ziegler led Servaz to the back of the house, where it became part of the rock face; there was a small room that seemed to serve both as a security door and a hall, with metal lockers and coat pegs on the wall. Servaz could see the yellow wire-mesh gate to the funicular at the back of the room and behind it the black hole of a tunnel dug into the dark bowels of the mountain.

  She motioned to him to climb on board, closed the gate behind them, then pressed a button. The motor immediately got underway and the cabin shuddered. It began to move slowly along the shining rails down a forty-five-degree slope, vibrating slightly. Along the wall of black rock, visible through the fence, neon lights punctuated their descent at regular intervals. Eventually they came out into a large room built in the rock, brilliantly lit by more rows of neon lights. A workshop full of machine tools, pipes and cables. Technicians wearing white boiler suits, like the men down at the main facility, were bustling about here and there.

  ‘I’d like to question these workers right away. Don’t let them go home.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing special at the moment. At this stage an investigation is like a crossroads in the forest: all the paths look alike, but there’s only one right one. To stay up here like this in the mountain, cut off, far from everything, it must create bonds but tension as well. They have to have strong nerves.’

  ‘Could it be former workers with a grudge against Lombard? But then why go to so much trouble? When someone wants to take revenge on their employer, they show up at the workplace all of a sudden with a weapon; then they take it out on their boss or colleagues before they do themselves in. They don’t go to the bother of stringing a horse up on top of a cable car.’

  Servaz knew she was right.

  ‘Let’s find out if anyone now working or who has worked at the power plant over the last few years has a history of mental disorders,’ he said. ‘Especially anyone who’s in the crews that come up here.’

  ‘Good idea!’ she shouted, to make herself heard above the noise. ‘And the watchmen?’

  ‘Workers first, then the watchmen. We’ll spend the night on it if need be.’

  ‘For a horse!’

  ‘For a horse,’ he echoed.

  ‘We’re lucky. As a rule the racket here is infernal! But they’ve closed the floodgates and the lake water isn’t flowing.’

  Servaz thought that, as far as noise went, it was already pretty bad.

  ‘How does it work?’ he asked, raising his voice.

  ‘I don’t really know! The dam at the upper lake fills when the snows melt. The water goes through the underground tunnels into the pressure pipelines, which then channel the water to the hydraulic generating sets in the plant, down in the valley. The power from the falling water drives the turbines. They say the water is put through the turbines “in a cascade”, something like that. The turbines convert the driving force of the water into mechanical energy; then the alternators transform that energy into electricity, which is sent out onto high-tension lines. The power plant produces fifty-four million kilowatt hours per year – in other words, enough for a town of thirty thousand inhabitants.’

  Servaz could not help but smile at her learned presentation.

  ‘For someone who says they don’t know, you seem to be very informed.’

  He swept his gaze over the cavern of black rock lined with wire-mesh and metal structures fitted with bundles of cables, rows of neon lights, ventilation pipes, then the enormous machines from another age, control panels, the concrete floor …

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back up: we won’t find anything here.’

  The sky had darkened by the time they went back out. Sombre, shifting clouds passed above the frozen crater, which suddenly took on a sinister air. A violent wind drove the snowflakes before it. The surroundings, quite abruptly, had come to reflect the crime: something dark, chill, chaotic – where the desperate neighing of a horse could easily go unheard i
n the howling wind.

  ‘We’d better hurry,’ Ziegler urged. ‘The weather’s turning.’

  Her blonde hair danced in the gusts, unruly strands coming loose from her chignon.

  4

  ‘Mademoiselle Berg, I will not hide the fact that I am puzzled as to why Dr Wargnier insisted on hiring you. What I mean is, clinical psychology, genetic psychology, Freudian theory – all this … hotchpotch. On balance, I would have preferred even the Anglo-Saxon clinical method.’

  Dr Francis Xavier was sitting behind a big desk. He was a small man, still young, very well groomed; his hair was dyed, and he wore extravagant red glasses; beneath his lab coat was a tie with an exuberant floral pattern. He spoke with a slight Quebecois accent.

  Diane let her gaze wander over to the DSM-IV, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published by the American Psychiatric Association, the only book on his desk. She frowned slightly. She did not like the way the discussion was going, but she waited for the little man to finish showing his hand.

  ‘Please understand, I am a psychiatrist. And – how to put it? – I cannot see what purpose you might serve for our establishment … No offence intended…’

  ‘I … I am here in order to perfect my knowledge and training, Dr Xavier. Dr Wargnier must have explained this to you. Moreover, before he left, your predecessor hired me as his assistant and gave his approval to my absence – sorry, my presence here. He made a commitment to the University of Geneva on behalf of this establishment. If you were against my coming, you might have let us know before—’

  ‘In order to perfect your knowledge and training?’ Xavier pinched his lips slightly. ‘Where do you think you are? Some university department? The murderers who are waiting for you at the end of these corridors,’ he said, pointing to the door of his office, ‘are even more horrific than the worst creatures ever to haunt your nightmares, Mademoiselle Berg. They are our nemesis. Our punishment for having killed God, for having created societies where evil has become the norm.’

  This last sentence seemed a touch grandiloquent to her. As did everything else about Dr Xavier. But the way in which he had said it – with a curious mixture of fear and delight – made her shudder. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. He’s afraid of them. They come to haunt him at night when he’s asleep, or perhaps he can hear them screaming from his room.

  She stared at the unnatural colour of his hair and was reminded of the character Gustav von Aschenbach in Death in Venice, who dyes his hair, eyebrows and moustache for the sake of a beautiful young man he has seen on a beach and to delude himself about the approach of death. And never realises how desperate and pathetic his efforts really are.

  ‘I am an experienced forensic psychologist. I have seen over a hundred sex offenders in three years.’

  ‘And how many murderers?’

  ‘One.’

  He flashed her a mean little smile, then looked again at her file.

  ‘Degree in psychology, master of advanced studies in clinical psychology from the University of Geneva,’ he recited, his red glasses sliding down his nose.

  ‘I worked for four years for a private psychotherapy and forensic psychology practice. I was entrusted with civil and criminal evaluations for the judicial authorities. It’s there on my CV.’

  ‘Any internships in penal institutions?’

  ‘An internship with the medical services at Champ-Dollon Prison, as a joint expert for forensic examinations, and the supervision of sex offenders.’

  ‘International Academy of Law and Mental Health, Geneva Association of Psychologists-Psychotherapists, Swiss Society of Forensic Psychology … Good, good, good…’

  He let his gaze settle upon her again. She had the unpleasant impression she was facing a jury.

  ‘There is just one thing … You absolutely do not have the experience required for this type of patient: you are young; you still have a great deal to learn; you could – completely unintentionally, of course, through your inexperience – ruin everything we have been trying to accomplish. Which could turn out to be an additional source of distress for our clientele.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am sorry, but I must ask you to refrain from any contact with our seven most dangerous residents, the ones in Unit A. And I do not need an assistant; I already have the head nurse to assist me.’

  She was silent for so long that he eventually raised an eyebrow. When she spoke, her voice was calm but firm.

  ‘Dr Xavier, the reason I am here is those men in Unit A. Dr Wargnier must have told you that. You must have our correspondence in your files. The terms of our agreement are perfectly clear: not only did Dr Wargnier authorise me to see the seven inmates in Unit A, he also asked me to compile a report once my interviews were completed, particularly in the case of Julian Hirtmann.’

  She could see him bristle. His smile vanished.

  ‘Mademoiselle Berg, Dr Wargnier is no longer in charge of this establishment. I am.’

  ‘In that case, I have no business here. I will have to refer the matter to your regulatory authority, and to the University of Geneva. And Dr Spitzner. I have come a long way, Doctor. You might have spared me this useless journey.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Mademoiselle Berg, now, please!’ said Xavier, sitting up and spreading his hands. ‘Don’t get carried away! Sit down, sit down, please! You are welcome here. Do not misunderstand me: I have nothing against you. I am sure you will do your best. And who knows? Perhaps … perhaps another point of view, a – shall we say – “interdisciplinary” approach could contribute to our understanding of these monsters. Yes, yes – why not? All that I ask of you is not to have any more contact than is absolutely necessary, and to adhere strictly to the internal regulations. The tranquillity of our institute depends upon a fragile equilibrium. The security measures here may be ten times more stringent than in any other psychiatric institution, but any breach of protocol could have incalculable consequences.’

  Francis Xavier got up and walked round the desk.

  He was even shorter than she had thought. Diane was five foot five and Xavier was clearly the same height – allowing for his heel-pieces. The immaculate white lab coat floated on him.

  ‘Come with me. I will show you around.’

  He opened a cupboard. Lab coats hanging all in a row. He took one and handed it to Diane. She caught a whiff of washing powder, and something musty.

  He brushed against her. He laid his hand on Diane’s arm; his nails were, she saw, very well groomed, perhaps too well groomed.

  ‘They are truly terrifying individuals,’ he said smoothly, looking her in the eyes. ‘Forget what they are, forget what they have done. Concentrate on your work.’

  She remembered Wargnier’s words on the telephone: he had said virtually the same thing.

  ‘I’ve already dealt with sociopaths,’ she objected, but her voice lacked confidence, for once.

  A strange look flashed briefly through his red glasses.

  ‘None like these ones, mademoiselle. None like these ones.’

  * * *

  White walls, white floor, white neon lights … Like most people in the West, Diane associated the colour with innocence, candour and virginity. And yet there were vile murderers living in the midst of all this whiteness.

  ‘Originally, white was the colour of death and mourning,’ said Xavier, as if reading her thoughts. ‘This is still the case in the East. White is also a limit value – like black. Finally, it is the colour which is associated with rites of passage. This is a rite of passage for you at this moment, wouldn’t you say? But I am not the one who chose the décor – I’ve only been here for a few months.’

  Steel gates slid open and closed as they passed through; electronic locks clunked in the thickness of the walls. Xavier’s short figure strode ahead.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked, counting the closed-circuit cameras, the doors, the emergency exits.
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  ‘We are leaving the administration offices to enter the actual psychiatric unit. This is the first security barrier.’

  Diane watched as he inserted a magnetic card into a box fitted on the wall, which read the card and spat it back out. The metal gate opened. On the far side was a glass cubicle, where two guards in orange boiler suits sat under the electronic surveillance screens.

  ‘At present we have eighty-eight patients who are considered dangerous, capable of committing acts of violence. Our clientele have been sent here from penal institutions and other psychiatric establishments in France, but also from Germany, Switzerland, Spain … These individuals have mental health issues, compounded with delinquency, violence and criminality. Patients who turned out to be too violent to stay in the hospitals that had initially taken them in, detainees whose psychosis is too severe to be treated in prison, or murderers who have been ruled irresponsible by the courts. Our clientele requires a highly qualified staff, and an infrastructure that will guarantee both their security and that of the staff and visitors. We are in Ward C at the moment. There are three levels of security: low, medium and high. This is a low-level area.’

  Diane raised an eyebrow every time Xavier talked about the clientele.

  ‘The Wargnier Institute has shown itself to be uniquely competent in the treatment of aggressive, dangerous, violent patients. Our practice is founded on the highest, most modern standards. In the initial stages we carry out a psychiatric and criminological evaluation, which includes, in particular, fantasy analysis and plethysmography.’

  She started. Plethysmography consisted of measuring a patient’s reactions to audio and video stimuli showing a variety of scenarios and partners, such as the sight of a naked woman or child.

  ‘You are using aversion therapy with subjects who are shown to have deviant profiles when they are subjected to the plethysmographic test?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘It’s not as if aversive plethysmography has received unanimous approval,’ she said.

  ‘Here it works,’ answered Xavier firmly.