The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

‘Why don’t you say the word?’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘The word you are thinking.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Insane.’

  (Confiant was silent.)

  ‘Deranged.’

  (Confiant was silent.)

  ‘Demented, bonkers, loopy, barmy, crackers, bananas—’

  ‘All right, I think that’s enough,’ interrupted Dr Xavier. ‘If you don’t have any other questions, I’d like you to leave my patient alone now.’

  ‘One moment, if you don’t mind.’

  They turned round. Hirtmann had not raised his voice, but his tone had changed.

  ‘I have something to tell you, too.’

  They looked at one another and stared at him questioningly. He wasn’t smiling anymore. There was a solemn expression on his face.

  ‘You have come here to examine me from every angle. You wonder if I have something to do with what’s going on outside – obviously, that is absurd. You feel pure, honest, cleansed of all your sins because you are in the presence of a monster. That too is absurd.’

  Servaz and Ziegler exchanged a surprised look. He saw that Xavier was puzzled. Confiant and Propp were waiting for whatever came next, unflinching.

  ‘Do you think my crimes make your evil deeds less blameworthy? Your vices and your petty behaviour less hideous? You think there are murderers, rapists and criminals on one side, while you’re on the other? This is what you have to understand: there is no barrier preventing evil from circulating. There are not two types of humanity. When you lie to your wife and your children, when you send your aged mother to a retirement home so that you can have the freedom to do as you please, when you get rich on the back of other people, when you baulk at donating even a penny of your salary to those who have nothing, when because of your selfishness or indifference you make others suffer, then you are not so different from me. Basically, you are much more like me and the other residents than you think. It’s a question of degree, not of nature. We have the same nature: it’s shared by all of humanity.’

  He leaned over and pulled a big book out from under his pillow. A Bible.

  ‘The chaplain gave this to me. He thinks it will save me.’ He gave a short, shrill laugh. ‘It’s absurd! There’s nothing wrong with me as an individual. The only thing that can save us is a nuclear holocaust.’

  His voice was strong and persuasive now, and Servaz could easily imagine the effect it used to have in court. His severe expression commanded contrition, submission. Suddenly they were the sinners, and he was the apostle. They were completely disoriented. Even Xavier seemed surprised.

  ‘I’d like to have a few words with the commandant in private,’ said Hirtmann suddenly, his tone more subdued.

  Xavier turned to Servaz, who shrugged. Looking ill at ease, the psychiatrist frowned.

  ‘Commandant?’ he said.

  Servaz nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ said Xavier, heading for the door.

  Propp shrugged in turn, no doubt annoyed that Hirtmann had not asked to talk to him; Confiant’s expression clearly conveyed his disapproval. Yet they all trooped out behind the psychiatrist. Ziegler was the last to go out, casting an icy glance in Hirtmann’s direction.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ said Hirtmann, once she had closed the door behind her.

  Servaz remained silent. He looked around nervously.

  ‘I can’t offer you anything to drink, tea or coffee. I don’t have anything like that here. But it’s the thought that counts.’

  Servaz felt like telling him to stop acting and get to the point, but refrained.

  ‘Which is your favourite symphony?’

  ‘I don’t have any preference,’ replied Servaz curtly.

  ‘Everyone has a preference.’

  ‘Then let’s say the Fourth, the Fifth and the Sixth.’

  ‘Which versions?’

  ‘Bernstein, of course. After that, Inbal is excellent. And Haitink for the Fourth, Wien for the Sixth … Listen—’

  ‘Mmm … Good choices. At the same time, it doesn’t much matter, here,’ added Hirtmann, pointing to his cheap CD player.

  Servaz could not deny that the sound coming from the stereo was mediocre. It occurred to him that Hirtmann was the one who’d been leading the conversation from the start, even when the others were bombarding him with questions.

  ‘I’m sorry to say this,’ he said, straight out, ‘but your moralising little lecture just now did not convince me, Hirtmann. I have nothing in common with you, let’s make that clear.’

  ‘You’re free to think that if you like. But what you just said is wrong: we have Mahler in common, at least.’

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Chaperon?’ asked Hirtmann, changing his tone once again, staring at Servaz, focused on his every reaction.

  Servaz felt a tremor run down his spine. He knows the name of the mayor in Saint-Martin …

  ‘Yes,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘Chaperon was friends with that … Grimm fellow, did you know that?’

  Servaz stared at Hirtmann, flabbergasted. How did he know? Where did he get his information?

  ‘Yes,’ answered the cop. ‘Yes. He told me. And you, how—’

  ‘So ask the mayor to tell you about the suicides.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The suicides, Commandant. Ask him about the suicides!’

  16

  ‘Suicides? What’s that about?’

  ‘I have no idea. But apparently Chaperon knows.’

  Ziegler gave him a puzzled look.

  ‘It was Hirtmann who told you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘I’ll have to see.’

  ‘That man is quite mad.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘And he didn’t say anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did he want to speak to you?’

  Servaz smiled.

  ‘Because of Mahler, I suppose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Music … Gustav Mahler: that’s what we have in common.’

  For a moment Ziegler took her eyes from the road to give him a look that suggested that not all madmen were locked up at the Institute. But Servaz’s thoughts were already elsewhere. The impression that he was confronting something new and terrifying was stronger than ever.

  * * *

  ‘It’s very clever, what he’s trying to do,’ said Propp a little later, as they were heading back down to Saint-Martin.

  All around, the fir trees were rushing by. Servaz looked through the window, lost in thought.

  ‘I don’t know how he does it, but he immediately sensed there was a dividing line in the group, and he’s trying to split us up by arousing the sympathy of one of our members.’

  Servaz turned abruptly to look deep into the psychiatrist’s eyes.

  ‘“The sympathy of one of our members,”’ he echoed. ‘Nicely put. What do you mean by that, Propp? Do you think I’ve forgotten who he is?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, Commandant,’ said the shrink, uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re right, Doctor,’ added Confiant. ‘We have to remain united and come up with a coherent and credible strategy.’

  His words cut Ziegler and Servaz like a knife. Servaz felt the anger boiling up in him again.

  ‘United, you say? Yet you’ve criticised our work in front of another person twice! Is that what you call united? I thought you said you were in the habit of letting the police get on with their job.’

  Unflinching, Confiant held the cop’s gaze.

  ‘Not when I see that my investigators are clearly headed down the wrong path,’ he answered, in a stern voice.

  ‘In that case you should talk to Cathy d’Humières. “A coherent and credible strategy.” And what, in your opinion, would that be, your honour?’

  ‘In any event, not one leading to the Institute.’ />
  ‘We could not be certain until we came here,’ protested Irène Ziegler, so calmly that Servaz was surprised.

  ‘One way or the other,’ he insisted, ‘Hirtmann’s DNA got out of that place. And that is no hypothesis, it’s fact: once we find out how, we’ll be close to catching the guilty party.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that,’ said Confiant. ‘Someone at the Institute has something to do with the horse’s death. But it could not possibly be Hirtmann, you said so yourself. And we could have acted more discreetly. If any of this gets out, the very existence of the Institute could be in jeopardy.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Servaz coldly. ‘But it’s not my problem. And until we’ve examined the plans of the entire security system, we cannot rule out any hypothesis. Ask any prison director: there is no infallible system. Some individuals are very gifted at finding the weak links. And there is always the theory of complicity among the staff.’

  Confiant looked stunned.

  ‘Are you still thinking that Hirtmann could have got out of there?’

  ‘No,’ said Servaz reluctantly, ‘it seems increasingly unlikely. But it’s too soon to rule it out for good. And, in any case, we have to find the answer to another question that’s just as important: who could have got hold of Hirtmann’s saliva and left it in the cable car? Above all, for what purpose? Because there can be no doubt that the two crimes are connected.’

  * * *

  ‘The possibility of the two watchmen murdering the chemist is very slim,’ declared Espérandieu in the incident room, his laptop open in front of him. ‘According to Delmas, whoever did it is intelligent, underhanded, sadistic and has some sound notions of anatomy.’

  Reading from his notes on the screen, he relayed the pathologist’s conclusions about the position of the slipknot.

  ‘That confirms our initial impression,’ said Ziegler, looking around the room. ‘Grimm took a long time to die. And he suffered.’

  ‘According to Delmas, his finger was severed before he died.’

  A heavy silence fell over the room.

  ‘By the looks of it, the hanging, nudity, cape and severed finger are connected,’ said Propp. ‘You can’t have one without the others. There’s some sort of significance to the way it was done. And it’s up to us to find it. Everything seems to point to a carefully laid out plan. They had to prepare the equipment, and choose the time and place. Nothing was left to chance. Any more than in the horse’s murder.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of finding out about the straps?’ asked Servaz.

  ‘I am,’ answered Ziegler, raising her pen. ‘The lab identified the make and model. I have to call the manufacturer.’

  ‘Good. And the cape?’

  ‘Our men are working on it. We’ve got to have a closer look at the victim’s house, too,’ said Ziegler.

  Servaz thought again about the Grimm widow, the look she’d given him, the scars on her wrist. He felt a spasm run through him.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said. ‘Who’s in charge of the watchmen?’

  ‘Our men are,’ said Ziegler once again.

  ‘Right.’

  He turned to Espérandieu.

  ‘I want you to go back to Toulouse and gather as much information as you can on Lombard. It’s fairly urgent. We have to find the link between him and the chemist at all costs. Ask Samira to give a hand if need be. And get an official search going on the watchmen, on the police side.’

  Servaz was referring to the fact that the police and the gendarmerie still had separate databases – something that made everyone’s job harder. But the French administration was not known to be partial to simplicity. Espérandieu got up and checked his watch. He closed his laptop.

  ‘As usual, everything is urgent. If you don’t need me, I’ll be on my way.’

  Servaz glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Fine. We all have something to do. As for me, I’ve got a little visit to make. I think it’s time to ask Chaperon a few questions.’

  * * *

  Diane left the Institute bundled up in a rollneck jumper, ski trousers, her winter down jacket and fur-lined boots. She was wearing a second pair of socks over the first, and had put on some protective lip balm. The path started to the east of the buildings and led deep into the trees in the general direction of the valley.

  Very quickly her boots sank into the layer of fresh snow, but she went calmly on her way at a good pace. Her breath made small clouds of condensation. She needed some fresh air. Ever since she had overheard the conversation through the air vent, the atmosphere in the Institute had become stifling. Dear Lord! How would she ever last a year in this place?

  Walking had always helped her clear her mind. And the icy air stimulated her neurons. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that nothing at the Institute was going the way she had planned.

  And then there were all these outside events that apparently had something to do with the place …

  Diane was puzzled. Had anyone else noticed the nocturnal wanderings? It probably had no connection to the rest, but she wondered whether she should speak to Xavier just in case. A raven suddenly cawed above her head before flying off in a flutter of wings, and her heart leapt in her chest. Then silence fell once again. It was a pity she had no one to speak to. But she was alone here, and only she could make the right decisions.

  The solitude of the mountains oppressed her. The light and the silence falling from the treetops had something funereal about them. The high rock faces surrounding the valley never disappeared from sight completely, any more than the walls of a prison disappear from a prisoner’s view. It was nothing like the vibrant, airy landscape of her native Switzerland around Lake Geneva.

  The path had begun to turn into a steep slope and she had to be careful where she put her feet. She eventually made her way through the undergrowth and found herself at the edge of the forest facing a large clearing with several buildings in the middle. She recognised them at once: the holiday camp, further down the valley, which she had passed on her way to the Institute. The three buildings looked just as sinister and dilapidated as they had the first time she’d seen them. One of them, right on the edge of the forest, was practically overgrown. The other two were nothing but cracks, broken windows and empty porches, the concrete green with moss and black from bad weather. The wind whistled through the openings, the sound now deep, now shrill, a lugubrious lamento. Dead leaves, curling and sodden, lay in piles at the foot of the concrete walls, partly buried beneath the snow and giving off a smell of decomposition.

  She went in slowly through an opening. The halls and corridors on the ground floor were covered with the same scourge that blooms on the walls of the poorer neighbourhoods: graffiti promising to ‘fuck the police’ or ‘screw the cops’, laying claim to their territory, although no one would have dreamt of fighting with them over it; primitive, obscene drawings … everywhere. She concluded that Saint-Martin must also have its share of budding artists.

  Her steps echoed in the void of the hallways. Icy currents caressed her, making her shiver. She could easily imagine the hordes of kids running and shoving here and there, and the good-natured monitors like sheepdogs gathering them into the fold. Still, without knowing why, she could not shake off the impression that this place was more redolent of sadness and duress than the joys of summer holidays. She recalled a credibility evaluation she had carried out on an eleven-year-old boy when she was working in private practice in forensic psychology in Geneva: the child had been raped by an activity-camp monitor. She was well positioned to know that the world did not resemble Heidi. Perhaps it was because she found herself in an unfamiliar place, perhaps it was because of recent events, but she could not help but think of the seemingly countless incidents of rape, murder, torture and physical and psychological brutality, all the time, no matter where, at all God’s hours – a thought almost as unbearable as staring into the sun – and some lines by Baudelaire came back to her:

>   Among the jackals, the panthers, the hounds,

  The apes, the scorpions, the vultures and snakes,

  The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters,

  In the vile menagerie of our vice.

  Suddenly she froze. There was the sound of an engine outside. A car slowed and came to a halt. Tyres crunched. Motionless in the hallway, she listened carefully. She heard a door slam. Someone was coming. Was it the budding artists, returning to finish their Sistine Chapel? If so, she wasn’t sure whether it would be a good idea to find herself alone with them in this place. She turned round and was already heading soundlessly towards the back of the building when she realised that she had taken a wrong turn, that this corridor was a cul-de-sac. Shit! Her pulse began to beat faster. She was already retracing her steps when she heard the visitor’s footfall, as furtive as leaves blowing in the wind, crossing the concrete at the entrance. She started. He was already there! She had no reason to hide, but that didn’t mean she should show herself. Particularly as the person was walking so cautiously, and had now stopped. She did not make another sound. She leaned against the cold concrete and felt her fear cause tiny drops of sweat to pearl at the roots of her hair. Who could possibly want to hang about such a place? The fact the visitor was proceeding so cautiously made her think instinctively that he or she must have a reason too shameful to mention. But what would happen if she suddenly burst out and called, ‘Hello’?

  The visitor began to walk decisively in her direction. Diane went into a panic. Not for long, however: the visitor stopped again and she heard him turn round and head back the other way. She took a chance to peer round the corner that was hiding her from him. What she saw did nothing to reassure her: a long black cape with a hood flapping against his back like a bat’s wing. A cape for the rain, its stiff waterproof fabric rustling with every step.

  Viewed from behind, with such a loose garment, Diane could not say whether it was a man or a woman … Yet there was something so stealthy about the way the figure was moving, so shifty, that it was as if someone were running a cold finger over her neck.

  She seized her chance to come out of her hiding place when the visitor began to head the other way, but the toe of her boot struck something metallic, making a loud scraping noise against the concrete. Diane plunged back into the shadows, her heart pounding. She could hear the footsteps stop again.