Again he looked closely at them. There was sadness in his blue eyes, but also toughness and authority.
‘Let me make this much clear, you can call me at any time of day or night, ask me any question you think might be useful, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. I asked you to come here so that I can insist that no stone be left unturned, that you’ll do everything in your power to solve this. What I want is to get to the bottom of this case, and I have been assured that you are excellent investigators.’ He smiled; then the smile faded. ‘If it should prove otherwise, if you are negligent in any way, if you treat this matter in an offhand manner on the pretext that it’s only a horse, I will be merciless.’
The threat was not even veiled. What I want … The man was direct. He had no time to lose and went straight to the point. Consequently Servaz found him almost likable. Along with his love for his horse.
But Irène Ziegler clearly didn’t see it that way. Servaz noticed she had turned very pale.
‘You won’t get anywhere by threatening us,’ she retorted, her anger cold.
Lombard stared at her. His features softened and his expression became one of sincere contrition.
‘Forgive me. I am sure you are both perfectly competent and conscientious. Your superiors cannot stop singing your praises. I am being foolish. These … events have been very upsetting. Please accept my apologies, Captain Ziegler. They are sincere.’
Ziegler nodded reluctantly but said nothing more.
‘If you have no objection,’ said Servaz, ‘I’d like to start right away by asking you a few questions, since we are here.’
‘Of course. Follow me. Let me offer you a coffee.’
Éric Lombard opened another door at the far end of the room. A drawing room. The sun spilled in through French windows onto two leather sofas and a coffee table, where a tray was waiting with three cups and a coffee pot. Servaz knew the coffee pot must be a priceless antique. Like the rest of the furnishings. Everything was already set out, including the sugar, some Danish pastries and a jug of milk.
‘My first question,’ said Servaz straight off, ‘do you have any idea who could have committed this crime, or who at least would have a reason to commit it?’
Éric Lombard was pouring the coffee.
He paused in what he was doing to stare intensely at Servaz. His blond hair was reflected in the large mirror behind him. He was wearing an off-white rollneck jumper and grey woollen trousers. And he was very tanned.
He did not blink when he replied, ‘Yes.’
Servaz shuddered. Next to him Ziegler too had reacted.
‘And no,’ he added at once. ‘Those are two questions in one: yes, I know plenty of people who would have good reason to do it. No, I don’t know anyone actually capable of doing it.’
‘Could you be more specific?’ said Zeigler, annoyed. ‘Why would anyone want to kill the horse?’
‘To hurt me, to get their revenge, to intimidate me. I suppose you know that in a profession like mine and with my fortune you are bound to make enemies: you arouse people’s envy; you invade your rival’s market; you reject people’s offers; you drive people to ruin; you give hundreds the sack … If I had to make a list of everyone who despises me, it would be as thick as a telephone directory.’
‘Could you be just a little more specific?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I can see what you’re getting at: someone has killed my favourite horse and stuck it up on top of a cable car that belongs to me. So they are trying to get at me. It all points to me, I couldn’t agree with you more. But I don’t have the slightest idea who could have done it.’
‘You haven’t received any written or verbal threats, any anonymous letters?’
‘No.’
‘Your group does business in over seventy-five countries,’ said Servaz.
‘Seventy-eight,’ corrected Lombard.
‘Does the group have any connections, even indirectly, with any local mafias or organised crime rings? I can imagine there are some countries where this type of … contact is more or less unavoidable.’
Once again, Lombard stared at Servaz, but without aggression this time. He even allowed himself a smile.
‘You get straight to the point, Commandant. Maybe you are thinking of the horse’s head in The Godfather? No, my group has no connections with organised crime. In any case, not that I know of. I’m not saying that there aren’t a few countries where we have to turn a blind eye to certain behaviour, say in Africa or in Asia, but in those cases, let’s be frank, we’re dealing with dictatorships, not the mafia.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ asked Ziegler.
Lombard raised an eyebrow.
‘Dealing with dictators,’ she explained.
Lombard smiled again, indulgently, but the smile was that of a monarch hesitating between laughing at the impertinence of one of his subjects and having her beheaded on the spot.
‘I don’t think it will be much use to your investigation for me to answer that question,’ he replied. ‘You should also know that, contrary to appearances, I am not the only one in charge: there are many sectors where we have partners, including the French government. From time to time there are “political” aspects that I have no control over.’
Direct, but capable of coming out with the cant when he has to, thought Servaz.
‘There is one thing I don’t understand. How is it possible that nobody heard or saw anything, either at the riding academy or the power plant? You don’t drag a dead horse around like that in the middle of the night.’
Lombard’s face clouded over.
‘You’re right. That’s something I’ve wondered myself. Someone, somewhere has got to be lying. And I would like very much to find out who,’ he added, threateningly.
He put his cup back down so brusquely that they were startled.
‘I summoned everyone – day and night staff of the power plant, employees at the stud farm. I questioned them all one by one as soon as I got here. It took me four hours. I’m sure you’ll believe me when I tell you I put as much pressure on them as I possibly could. No one heard a thing that night. Of course it’s impossible. I do not doubt the sincerity of Marchand or Hector: they have never hurt a single one of my horses, and they’ve been working for the family for a very long time. They are honest, competent men, and my dealings with them have always been excellent. They are part of the family, so to speak. So you can cross them off your list. And Hermine as well. She’s a nice girl, and she adored Freedom. This has been devastating for her.’
‘Did you know that the watchmen disappeared?’ asked Servaz.
Lombard frowned.
‘Yes. They are the only ones I didn’t question.’
‘There are two of them, and it would take at least two people to hang the horse up there. And they both have police records.’
‘Two ideal suspects,’ said Lombard dubiously.
‘You don’t seem convinced?’
‘I don’t know … Why would they go and hang Freedom up right where they work? What better way to attract suspicion?’
Servaz nodded in agreement.
‘But they did run off, all the same,’ he objected.
‘Put yourself in their position. With their police records. Don’t be offended, but they know perfectly well that when the police find a culprit, they rarely go looking any further.’
‘Who hired them?’ asked Ziegler. ‘What do you know about them? I’ll bet you’ve found out all about them since yesterday.’
‘Exactly. Marc Morane, the manager of the power plant, hired them. Through a rehabilitation programme for ex-cons, from the prison in Lannemezan.’
‘Have they ever caused any trouble at the power plant?’
‘Morane assured me they hadn’t.’
‘Have any of the workers at the power plant or on your estate been let go over the last few years?’
Lombard looked at them in turn. With his hair, beard and blue eyes he really did have somethin
g of the irresistible Viking warrior about him. He looked just like his photographs.
‘These are details. I have nothing to do with human resources management. Any more than I do with managing minor concerns like the power plant. But you will have full access to all the files regarding personnel, and my associates are at your disposal. They’ve all been given their orders in this regard. My secretary will send you a list of names and telephone numbers. Do not hesitate to contact anyone. If any of them gives you trouble, call me. I told you, as far as I’m concerned, this matter is of the highest priority, and I will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day.’ He took out a business card and handed it to Ziegler. ‘Also, you’ve seen the hydroelectric plant: it’s run-down, and not really profitable. We only keep it for historical and family reasons. Marc Morane,’ he added, ‘is someone I have known since childhood: we were at primary school together. But I hadn’t seen him in years.’
Servaz understood that this last remark was meant to establish a hierarchy of all those involved. For the heir to the empire, the manager of the power plant was only one employee among others, all the way at the bottom of the ladder, at the same level, more or less, as his workers.
‘How much time do you spend here in an average year, Monsieur Lombard?’ asked Ziegler.
‘That’s a hard one: let me think … I suppose somewhere between six and eight weeks. Not more. Of course I’m more often based in Paris than in this old chateau. I also spend long periods in New York. And to be honest, half the time I’m travelling on business. But I love to come here, particularly during the skiing season and in the summer, to enjoy the horses. I have other stud farms, as you probably know. But this is where I spent most of my childhood, before my father sent me away to school. It may seem like a gloomy place to you, but to me it’s home. I’ve had so many experiences here, both good and bad. But in time, even bad experiences end up seeming good: memory does its work…’
His voice grew slightly husky towards the end. Servaz stiffened, all his senses on alert. He waited for Lombard to speak, but he was silent.
‘What do you mean by “good and bad” experiences?’ asked Ziegler quietly.
Lombard brushed the question away with a wave of his hand.
‘It’s not important. It was all so long ago … It has nothing to do with the death of my horse.’
‘That is up to us to determine,’ replied Ziegler.
Lombard hesitated.
‘Let’s just say that people might think it was an idyllic place for a little boy like me to grow up in, but in fact it was anything but.’
‘Really?’ said the gendarme.
Servaz saw the businessman throw her a cautious glance.
‘Listen, I don’t think that—’
‘That what?’
‘Let’s drop it. It’s of no interest.’
Servaz heard Ziegler sigh.
‘Monsieur Lombard,’ said the gendarme, ‘you have put a certain pressure on us, saying that if we take this affair too lightly we’ll be sorry. And you have urged us not to neglect any lead, even the most far-fetched. We are detectives, not soothsayers or fortune tellers. We need to know everything we can about the context of this investigation. Who knows, perhaps the motive for this bloody deed has something to do with the past?’
‘It is our job to find connections and motives,’ insisted Servaz.
Lombard stared at them one after the other, and they knew he must be weighing the pros and cons in his mind. Neither Ziegler nor Servaz moved. The businessman hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged.
‘Let me tell you about Henri and Édouard Lombard, my father and grandfather,’ he said suddenly. ‘It is a rather edifying story. I’ll tell you who Henri Lombard really was. A man as cold as ice, hard as stone, absolutely rigid. Violent and selfish as well. And fanatic about order, like his father before him.’
Ziegler’s face was a portrait of stupefaction; as for Servaz, he was holding his breath. Lombard paused again and sat looking at them for a moment. The two investigators waited for him to continue, in what seemed like an endless silence.
‘As you may know, the Lombard enterprise really began to prosper during the Second World War. Actually, my father and grandfather didn’t mind the presence of the Germans. My father had only just turned twenty, and my grandfather was running the company, here and in Paris. One of the most prosperous periods in its history – they did some very good business with their Nazi clients.’
He leaned forward. His movement was reversed in the mirror behind his back, as if the copy wanted nothing to do with what the original was about to say.
‘When the Liberation came, my grandfather was tried as a collaborator, sentenced to death and then eventually pardoned. He was released in 1952 and died a year later of a heart attack. In the meantime, his son, Henri, had taken over. He set about expanding the family business, diversifying and modernising. Unlike his father, my father – in spite of, or perhaps because of, his young age – had felt the wind turning in 1943 and, unbeknown to my grandfather, forged closer ties with the Resistance and the Gaullists. Hardly through any sense of idealism, it was purely opportunistic. He was a brilliant man, with a great deal of foresight. After Stalingrad, he understood that the Third Reich’s days were numbered, and he made the most of both worlds: the Germans on one side, the Resistance on the other. It was my father who made the Lombard Group what it is. After the war he further developed his contacts among the former Resistance fighters, now in key positions of power. He was a great captain of industry, an empire builder, a visionary – but at home he was a tyrant. Physically, he was very imposing: tall, slender, always dressed in black. The people in Saint-Martin either respected or despised him, but everyone feared him. He was a man who had great love for himself and nothing left to give others. Not even his wife or children…’
Éric Lombard got to his feet. Servaz and Ziegler watched as he went over to a sideboard. He picked up a framed photograph and handed it to Servaz. A tall man with a severe face, the burning eyes of a bird of prey, a long, strong nose and white hair, wearing a dark suit and an immaculate white shirt. Henri Lombard did not look at all like his son, but rather like an evangelist, some fanatical preacher. Servaz could not help but think of his own father, a slim, distinguished man whose face refused to fix in his memory.
‘Both at home and work my father imposed a reign of terror. He was psychologically and even physically violent with his staff, his wife and his children.’ Servaz discerned a catch in Lombard’s voice. The adventurer of modern times, the magazine icon, had given way to someone else. ‘My mother died of cancer aged forty-nine. She was his third wife. During the nineteen years she was married to my father she was the constant victim of his tyranny, his fits of anger – and his blows. He also sacked a number of servants and employees. I belong to a new era where it is a virtue to be hard. But my father’s hardness went beyond what was acceptable. His mind was devoured by shadows.’
Servaz and Ziegler exchanged a glance. Both of them were aware that this was an incredible story the heir to the empire was dishing up to them: what wouldn’t the press give for such a story? Apparently Éric Lombard had decided to trust them. And why? Suddenly Servaz understood. In the course of the last twenty-four hours the tycoon must have made dozens of phone calls. Servaz recalled the dizzying figures he had seen on the web and he felt an unpleasant sense of unease. Éric Lombard had enough money and power to obtain all the information he wanted. The policeman wondered whether he had launched a parallel inquiry, an investigation within the investigation – to deal not only with the death of his horse, but also to keep close tabs on the official investigators. It was obvious. Lombard surely knew as much about them as they knew about him.
‘This is important information,’ Ziegler said at last. ‘You were right to share it with us.’
‘Do you think so? I wonder. All this business has been buried for so long. Naturally everything I have just told you is strictly confidential.’
Lombard shook his head, sceptical.
‘If that were the case, why would they wait so long? My father has been dead for eleven years.’
He was about to add something when Irène Ziegler’s mobile phone vibrated. She checked the number, then looked at them.
‘Excuse me.’
The gendarme got up and went over to a corner of the room.
‘Your father was born in 1920, if I’m not mistaken,’ continued Servaz. ‘And you were born in 1972. The least one can say is that he had you quite late. Did he have other children?’
‘My sister, Maud. She was born in 1976. Both of us were from his last marriage. He had no children from his previous ones. Why, I don’t know. The official version is that he met my mother in Paris, at the theatre where she was an actress…’
Once again, Lombard seemed to be wondering just how much he could trust them. He probed Servaz, looking him straight in the eye, then made up his mind.
‘My mother was actually a fairly good actress, but the truth is she never set foot on stage, nor was she ever on a movie set. Her talent consisted, instead, of putting on an act for one person at a time: wealthy older men who were prepared to pay a great deal for her company. It would seem she had a loyal clientele of rich businessmen. She was very much in demand. My father was one of the most persistent. He must have become jealous very quickly. He wanted her all to himself. As with everything else, he had to be first, and he had to get rid of his rivals one way or another. So he married her. Or rather, the way he saw it, he bought her. After a fashion. He never stopped thinking of her as a … whore, even after they were married. When my father married her, he was fifty-one; she was thirty. As for her, she must have been thinking that her “career” was winding down, and that it was time to think of getting into something else. But she had no clue that the man she was about to marry was violent. She had a rough time.’
The Frozen Dead Page 12
