From [email protected] to [email protected], 17:25:06:
Is that all! Can you log on to msn?
The valley was buried in shadows and Servaz had switched on his headlights. The road was deserted. No one would be wandering around here at this time of year. There were twenty or so chalets and houses along the twelve kilometres of river, summer houses whose shutters were open from May to September, and, more rarely, at Christmas. At this time of day, they were nothing more than low shapes hunched down at the side of the road, almost merging with the huge black mass of the mountain.
Suddenly after a wide bend, Servaz saw the beginning of the track the widow had told him about. He slowed down, turned into it and found himself bouncing along the road, clinging to the steering wheel, going fifteen kilometres an hour. Night had fallen and the black trees stood out against a sky that was only slightly lighter. Servaz went a few hundred metres further; then the chalet appeared.
He turned off the engine, left the lights on and got out. The sound of the nearby river immediately filled the darkness. There wasn’t a single light for miles.
He walked up to the cabin in the blaze of his headlights, which projected his shadow ahead of him as if a giant made of darkness were leading the way. Then he climbed the steps to the veranda and took out the key ring. There were indeed three locks: the central lock corresponded to the biggest key, and the two smaller ones were for the locks above and below. It took him a moment to figure out which key went where, particularly as the small ones were the same size, and the top lock had been put on backwards. Then he shoved open the door, which resisted before yielding with a groan. Servaz groped around for the light switch near the doorway. He found it on the left. He switched it on and the light poured from the ceiling.
For a few seconds he stood motionless on the threshold, transfixed by what he saw.
The inside of the cabin was nothing more than a countertop running along one wall, with what might be a kitchenette behind, a sofa bed at the back and a wooden table and two chairs. But hanging on the wall on the left was a cape made of black waterproof cloth. He was getting closer.
* * *
Espérandieu opened his instant messaging service. He waited three minutes before a message accompanied by an icon of a cartoon dog sniffing something popped up in the lower right-hand corner of the screen:
kleim162 has just logged on
A dialogue box with the same icon opened three seconds later.
kleim162 said:
why are you interested in Éric Lombard?
vince.esp said:
sorry can’t tell you just now
kleim162 said:
I just dug around a bit before logging on. Someone killed his horse. The info was reported in several papers. Any connection?
vince.esp said:
no comment
kleim162 said:
vince you’re in the crime unit. Don’t tell me you’re investigating the death of a horse!!!!
vince.esp said:
will you help me or not???
kleim162 said:
what’s in it for me?
vince.esp said:
a friend’s affection
kleim162 said:
we’ll talk about cuddles some other time. And besides that?
vince.esp said:
you’ll be the first to hear what the investigation turns up
kleim162 said:
so there is an investigation. That all?
vince.esp said:
the first to hear if this business is hiding something more important
kleim162 said:
ok I’ll have a look
Espérandieu logged out with a smile.
‘Kleim162’ was the user name of an investigative journalist who worked freelance for several major weekly magazines. A veritable ferret who loved to stick his nose where it was not welcome. Espérandieu had met him in rather unusual circumstances, and he had never spoken of this ‘contact’ with anyone, not even Martin. Officially, he was like the other members of the squad: wary of the press. But his secret opinion was that cops, like politicians, could only gain – significantly – by having one or two journalists up their sleeve.
* * *
Sitting at the wheel of his Jeep, Servaz dialled Ziegler’s mobile. He got her voicemail and hung up. Then he called Espérandieu.
‘I found a photograph at Grimm’s place,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to rework it.’
The squad had image-processing software, but Espérandieu and Samira were the only ones who knew how to use it.
‘What kind of photograph? Digital or analogue?’
‘Paper. An old print showing a group of men. One of them is Grimm, and another is Chaperon, the mayor of Saint-Martin. It looks as if all the men are wearing the same signet ring. It’s slightly blurry, but there’s something engraved on it. I’d like you to try and see what it is.’
‘You think it might be some sort of club, like the Rotary or the Freemasons?’
‘I don’t know, but—’
‘The severed ring finger,’ his assistant suddenly remembered.
‘Exactly.’
‘Right, can you scan it and send it to me from the gendarmerie? I’ll take a look. But the software is primarily for dealing with digital photos. It’s not as efficient with old ones.’
Servaz thanked him. He was about to drive off when his mobile rang. It was Ziegler.
‘Did you call?’
‘I found something,’ he said straight out. ‘In a cabin belonging to Grimm.’
‘A cabin?’
‘The widow told me about it. I found the keys in Grimm’s desk. Evidently, she never went there. You have to see it…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is a cape, just like the one that was found on Grimm’s corpse. And boots. It’s late; I’m going to lock the door and give the keys to Maillard. I want a CSI team to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb, first thing tomorrow morning.’
Silence at the end of the line. Outside the Cherokee, the wind was howling.
‘And you, how far have you got?’ he said.
‘The straps are a common make,’ she replied. ‘Mass-produced, sold all over western and southern France. There’s a serial number on each strap. They’re going to get back to the manufacturer to try and find out who stocks them.’
Servaz paused to think for a moment. Just outside the halo from the headlights, an owl had landed on a branch and was watching him. Servaz thought about Hirtmann’s gaze.
‘If we can find the shop, we might be able to get our hands on the video surveillance tapes,’ he said.
He could hear the scepticism in Ziegler’s voice when she replied.
‘Even if they keep the tapes, they have to destroy them within a month. Which means the straps would need to have been bought very recently.’
Servaz was almost certain that Grimm’s killer must have been preparing his crime for months. Did he buy the straps at the last minute, or did he already have them?
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
* * *
He drove back down the forest track towards the main road. Black clouds slipped in front of the moon. The valley was now little more than a lake of dark shadows. Servaz stopped, looked right and left, then pulled out onto the main road.
Out of habit, he checked the rear-view mirror.
For a split second his heart stopped beating: a pair of headlights had just come on behind him … A car parked on the verge, in the dark, not far from where he had left the track. In the mirror he saw the headlights move away from the hard shoulder and begin to follow him. Judging by the size and height of the vehicle, it was a 4x4. The hairs on his neck began to prickle. It was obvious that the 4x4 was there for him. Why else would it be there, at the end of this deserted valley? He wondered who was behind the wheel. One of Lombard’s henchmen? But why, if they were keeping an eye on him, would Lombard’s men choose to show themselv
es like this?
He was beginning to feel nervous.
He was squeezing the steering wheel too tightly. He took a deep breath. Stay calm. Don’t panic. There’s a car following you, so what? A feeling very close to fear overwhelmed him, however, when it occurred to him that it might be the killer. By opening the door to that chalet, he had strayed too close to the truth … Someone had decided he was in the way. Servaz looked into the mirror again. He had just come out of a wide bend; his pursuer’s headlights had disappeared behind the tall trees along the road.
Then he saw them once again – and Servaz’s heart leapt in his chest at the same time as a blinding light flooded the Jeep. On full beam! He was soaked in sweat. He blinked, blinded like an animal trapped in headlights, like the owl just before. His heart was in his mouth.
The 4x4 was closer now. Very close. Right behind him.
Servaz stepped on the accelerator, his fear of speed vanquished by his fear of whoever was behind him, and his pursuer let him get some distance. He tried to breathe deeply and evenly, but his heart was leaping like a wild goat in his chest and the sweat was streaming from his face like water. Every time he looked back, the white light exploded in his face, and dark spots danced before his eyes.
Suddenly the 4x4 accelerated. Fuck, this guy’s crazy! He’s going to crash into me!
Before he could even try anything, the black vehicle had overtaken him. In a moment of sheer panic, Servaz thought the other car was going to drive him off the road, but the four-wheel drive continued to accelerate along the straight stretch of road, then pulled away, its lights melting quickly into the night. Servaz saw the brake lights flash briefly just before the next bend; then the car disappeared. He slowed down and pulled over to the verge with a jolt, leaned over to take his weapon from the glove box and got out, his legs shaking. The cold night air felt good. He wanted to check the gun chamber, but his hand was trembling so violently that it took him several seconds.
But the warning was as clear as the night was dark: someone, in this valley, did not want his investigation to go any further. Someone did not want him to find out the truth.
But what truth was that?
17
The next day, Servaz and Ziegler attended Grimm’s funeral among the fir trees and gravestones at the little cemetery on top of the hill.
Behind the mourners congregated around the grave, the trees seemed to be wearing mourning, too. The wind made the branches rustle in a murmured prayer. The wreaths and the grave stood out against the snow. The town lay spread across the valley below them. Servaz reflected that here, indeed, they were closer to the sky.
He had slept badly. He had awoken several times with a start, his forehead bathed in sweat. He could not help but mull over what had happened that night. He had not mentioned it to Irène yet; oddly, he was afraid that if he spoke about it, he might be sidelined, that someone else would be entrusted with the investigation. Were they in danger here? One thing was certain: they didn’t like strangers nosing about in this valley.
He tried to regain his calm. It must be pleasant here in the summer, on this luxuriant green hillside, which seemed to be advancing through space like the prow of the ship above the valley. A round, gentle hill, like a woman’s body. The mountains were no longer as threatening from this perspective; even the weather seemed more pleasant.
As they were on their way out of the cemetery, Ziegler gave him a nudge with her elbow. He looked to where she was pointing: Chaperon had reappeared. He was talking with Cathy d’Humières and other notables. Suddenly Servaz’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He answered. Someone from the general director’s office in Paris. Servaz immediately recognised the patrician accent, the worldly tone, as if the fellow gargled every morning with treacle.
‘How are you doing with the horse?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘The office of the General Director of the Police Nationale is following this matter closely, Commandant.’
‘Do they know that a man has been killed?’
‘Yes, a chemist called Grimm, we are aware of that,’ replied the bureaucrat, as if he knew the case inside out, which was unlikely.
‘Therefore you must realise that Monsieur Lombard’s horse is not my priority.’
‘Commandant, Catherine d’Humières has assured me that you are an asset to the force.’
Servaz felt his temper flaring. Clearly more of an asset than you are, he thought. He didn’t spend his time shaking hands in corridors, or disparaging his little friends, or sitting in meetings acting as if he were up on all the cases.
‘Do you have a lead?’
‘Not a single one.’
‘And the two night watchmen?’
Well, well, he did take the trouble to read the reports. Probably in great haste, just before calling, like a student hurrying to finish his homework before class.
‘It’s not them.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Because I spend my time among victims and murderers while you sit there on your arse all day long.
‘They’re not the right profile. But if you would like to make sure for yourself, you are very welcome to come down and join us.’
‘Please, Commandant, do remain calm. No one is questioning your competence,’ said the man soothingly. ‘Conduct your investigation as you see fit, but don’t lose sight of the fact that we want to find out who killed the horse.’
The message was clear: it was perfectly all right to murder a man and hang him naked from a bridge – but you could not go beheading a horse belonging to one of the most powerful men in France.
‘Very well,’ said Servaz.
‘We’ll talk soon, Commandant,’ said the man, before hanging up.
Servaz could imagine him at his desk, in his bespoke suit and tie, his fancy eau de toilette, smiling at the power he wielded over his little provincial employees, writing up reports of no real importance but full of grand-sounding words, then trotting along to relieve his bladder and admire himself in the mirror before going down to remake the world in the cafeteria with his acolytes.
‘A lovely ceremony in a lovely place,’ said someone next to him.
He turned his head. Gabriel Saint-Cyr was smiling at him. Servaz shook the former magistrate’s hand. A solid, informal handshake, not the least bit intimidating, like the man himself.
‘I was just thinking that it is indeed a lovely place to spend eternity,’ said Servaz.
The retired judge approved with a nod of his head.
‘And that is precisely what I intend to do. I will probably get here before you, but if you feel so inclined, I am sure you would be good company in death: my spot is over there.’
Saint-Cyr pointed to a corner of the cemetery. Servaz burst out laughing and lit a cigarette.
‘How do you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That I would be good company in death.’
‘At my age, and with my experience, you can assess people quite quickly.’
‘And you’re never mistaken?’
‘Rarely. Besides, I trust Catherine’s judgement.’
‘Did she ask you your sign?’
Now it was Saint-Cyr’s turn to laugh.
‘Of the zodiac? It’s the first thing she did when we were introduced! My family has a tomb here,’ he added. ‘Three years ago I bought a plot at the opposite end of the cemetery, as far away as possible.’
‘Why?’
‘I was terrified at the thought of having certain relatives as neighbours for all eternity.’
‘Were you acquainted with Grimm?’
‘So you’ve decided to make use of my services?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He was a very secretive sort. You should ask Chaperon,’ said Saint-Cyr, pointing at the mayor, who was walking away from them. ‘They knew each other well.’
Servaz remembered what Hirtmann had said.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘Grimm, Chap
eron and Perrault, right? The Saturday-night poker game…’
‘Yes. And Mourrenx. The same foursome for forty years. Inseparable since their days at the lycée.’
Servaz remembered the photograph in his jacket pocket. He showed it to the judge.
‘Is this them?’
Gabriel Saint-Cyr pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on before leaning over the picture. Servaz noticed that his index finger was deformed by arthritis and that it shook when he pointed at the four men: Parkinson’s, perhaps.
‘Yes. This is Grimm … And that’s Chaperon…’
His finger moved.
‘This one here is Perrault.’ The tall, thin fellow with thick hair and heavy glasses. He runs a sports shop in Saint-Martin. He’s also a mountain guide.’
Then his finger moved to the bearded giant who was holding his flask up to the camera lens, laughing in the autumn light.
‘Gilbert Mourrenx. He used to work at the paper mill in Saint-Gaudens. He died of stomach cancer two years ago.’
‘You say the four of them were inseparable?’
‘They were,’ replied Saint-Cyr, putting his glasses away. ‘Inseparable, yes … you could say that…’
Servaz stared at the judge. Something in his voice … The old man didn’t take his eyes off him. He was sending him a message, as subtly as could be.
‘Did they ever get into any sort of trouble?’
Saint-Cyr returned Servaz’s intense gaze. Servaz held his breath.
‘More like rumours … Once, about thirty years ago, there was a complaint … filed by a family in Saint-Martin. A modest family: the father was a worker at the power plant; the mother was unemployed.’
The power plant: Servaz’s senses were immediately on the alert.
‘They filed a complaint?’
‘Yes. For blackmail. Something like that…’
The old man frowned, trying to summon his memories.
‘If I remember rightly, there were a few Polaroids. The poor couple’s daughter, a seventeen-year-old kid. In the pictures she was naked and visibly drunk. And in another one she was … with several men, I think. Apparently the men were threatening to go public with the photographs if the girl didn’t do certain things for them. But she ended up going to pieces and telling her parents everything.’
The Frozen Dead Page 26
