The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. The parents withdrew their complaint before the gendarmes were even able to question the four young men. They must have settled it on the quiet: drop the charges and in exchange no more blackmail. The parents wouldn’t have wanted those photos to get out…’

  Servaz frowned.

  ‘That’s strange. Maillard didn’t mention it to me.’

  ‘He probably didn’t know anything about it. He wasn’t in the job yet.’

  ‘But you were.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you believe it?’

  Saint-Cyr looked doubtful. ‘You’re a cop, you know as well as I do that everyone has secrets. And that they’re usually not very nice secrets. Why should the girl’s parents lie?’

  ‘To extort money from the boys’ families.’

  ‘And let their daughter’s reputation be ruined for ever? No. I knew her father: he had done a few odd jobs at my place when he was unemployed. An upstanding fellow, old school. I’d venture that wasn’t their style.’

  Servaz thought of the cabin and what he had found there.

  ‘You just said that everyone has secrets.’

  Saint-Cyr looked at him attentively.

  ‘Yes. What’s your secret, Commandant?’

  Servaz gave him his enigmatic rabbit-like smile.

  ‘The suicides,’ he said. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  This time he saw real surprise in the judge’s eyes.

  ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Julian Hirtmann.’

  Gabriel Saint-Cyr stared at him for a long time. He seemed puzzled.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  For a split second the old judge was speechless. Then he said, ‘What are you doing at around eight o’clock tonight?’

  ‘I have nothing planned.’

  ‘Well, in that case, come to dinner. If I’m to believe what my guests tell me, I’m a veritable cordon bleu chef. Number six, impasse du Torrent. You can’t miss it, it’s an old mill, all the way at the end of the street, just before the forest. See you this evening.’

  * * *

  ‘I hope everything is all right,’ said Servaz.

  Chaperon turned round with an awkward gesture. He already had his hand on the car door. He looked tense and preoccupied. When he saw it was Servaz, he blushed.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I tried to reach you all day yesterday,’ said Servaz, with a friendly smile. ‘With no luck.’

  For a fraction of a second the mayor of Saint-Martin looked flustered. He was trying to keep his composure, but could not manage altogether.

  ‘I’ve been terribly shaken by Gilles’s death. Such a horrible murder … To go to such extremes … it’s dreadful … I needed to get away, to be alone. I went for a hike on the mountain.’

  ‘Alone on the mountain? And you weren’t afraid?’

  The mayor baulked at his question.

  ‘Why should I be afraid?’

  As he looked more closely at the suntanned little man, Servaz became absolutely certain that he was not merely afraid, he was terrified. Servaz wondered if he should ask him about the suicides now, but decided that it would be better to hold back some of his cards. He’d know more about it tonight after his dinner with Saint-Cyr. Nevertheless, he took the picture from his pocket.

  ‘Does this remind you of anything?’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘At Grimm’s place.’

  ‘It’s an old photo,’ said Chaperon, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Yes, October 1993,’ said Servaz.

  Chaperon waved his right hand, as if to say it was all so long ago. For a brief moment his bronzed hand, covered with little brown spots, fluttered before Servaz’s eyes, time enough for him to freeze with surprise. The mayor was no longer wearing the signet ring, but he must have removed it recently: a narrow band of lighter skin ran all round his ring finger.

  In no time Servaz was filled with questions.

  Grimm’s finger had been cut; Chaperon had taken off his ring – the signet ring the four men on the photograph were wearing. What did it mean? The killer, obviously, knew the answer. Did the two other men in the photograph have anything to do with the chemist’s death? And if they did, how did Hirtmann find out about it?

  ‘Did you know them well?’ asked Servaz.

  ‘Yes, fairly well. Although Perrault and I saw each other more frequently back then than we do now.’

  ‘They were also your poker partners.’

  ‘Yes. And we went hiking together. But I don’t see what—’

  ‘Thank you,’ interrupted Servaz. ‘I don’t have any more questions just now.’

  * * *

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Ziegler in the car, pointing to a man who was walking carefully towards a Peugeot 405 that was almost as worn out as he was.

  ‘Gabriel Saint-Cyr, honorary examining magistrate, retired. I met him yesterday at the courts.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Grimm, Chaperon, Perrault and a certain Mourrenx.’

  ‘The three poker players … and who is Mourrenx?’

  ‘The fourth member of the group. He died two years ago of cancer. According to Saint-Cyr, thirty years ago they were accused of blackmail. They got a girl drunk, then made her pose naked for a photograph. Then they threatened to go public with the photograph if—’

  ‘—if she didn’t do certain things…’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Servaz caught a fleeting light in Ziegler’s eyes.

  ‘That could be a lead,’ she said.

  ‘What connection would there be with Lombard’s horse? And Hirtmann?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It was thirty years ago. Four drunk young men and a girl who was drunk as well. So what? They were young; they did something stupid. Where does that leave us?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s merely the tip of the iceberg.’

  Servaz looked at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there may be more “stupid” things, of the same type. Maybe they didn’t stop there. Maybe one of those stupid things ended badly.’

  ‘That’s a lot of maybes,’ said Servaz. ‘And there’s something else: Chaperon had taken off his signet ring.’

  ‘What?’

  Servaz described what he had just seen. Ziegler frowned.

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘No idea. In the meantime, I have something to show you.’

  ‘The cabin?’

  ‘Yes. Shall we go?’

  * * *

  At five o’clock that morning, the alarm on the night table rang and Diane dragged herself to the bathroom. As on every other morning, the shower began with a scorching jet before ending up a trickle of cold water, and she hurried to dry herself off and get dressed. She spent the following hour reviewing her notes before going down to the cafeteria on the ground floor.

  The place was deserted. But she now knew where to find the coffeemaker, and she slipped behind the counter to make herself an espresso. She went back to reading her notes until she heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Dr Xavier came into the room, gave her a little nod, then went in turn behind the counter to make a coffee. After that, with his cup in his hand, he came over to her.

  ‘Good morning, Diane. You’re up early.’

  ‘Good morning, sir. An old habit…’

  She noticed he seemed to be in a good mood. He sipped his coffee, still looking at her with a smile.

  ‘Are you ready, Diane? I have good news. This morning we will go and visit the residents in Unit A.’

  She made an effort to hide her excitement and keep her tone professional.

  ‘That’s excellent, sir.’

  ‘Please, do call me Francis.’

  ‘Very well,
Francis.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t frighten you too much last time. I simply wanted to warn you. You’ll see, everything will be fine.’

  ‘I feel completely ready.’

  He cast her a look that clearly indicated he was not so sure.

  ‘Who are we going to see?’

  ‘Julian Hirtmann.’

  * * *

  The White Stripes were singing ‘Seven Nation Army’ in his headphones when the office door opened. Espérandieu looked up from the screen.

  ‘Hey,’ said Samira. ‘How was the autopsy?’

  ‘Yucky,’ said Espérandieu, pulling off his headphones.

  She walked round Vincent’s desk to her workspace. As she passed, Espérandieu caught a whiff of a fresh, pleasant perfume, with a background of shower gel. The moment she had set foot in his department, Vincent had felt an affinity with Samira Cheung. Like him, she was the butt of sarcasm and barely concealed gibes from certain members of the squad. But the young woman knew how to hold her own. She had put the old bastards in their place more than once. Which made them hate her even more.

  Samira Cheung grabbed some mineral water and drank it straight from the bottle. That morning she was wearing a short leather coat over a denim jacket and a hoodie, camo trousers, boots with three-inch heels and a peaked ski cap.

  She peered at her computer screen with her extraordinarily ugly face. Her make-up didn’t help matters. Even Espérandieu had felt like laughing the first time he saw her, but he had eventually got used to her. Now he even thought she had a strange charm.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked.

  ‘At the courts.’

  He knew this meant she had been talking to the magistrate in charge of the case of the three boys. He wondered, with a smile, what sort of effect she had had on him.

  ‘Any headway?’

  ‘It would seem that the arguments of the opposing party have found a sympathetic ear in the person of His Honour…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, that the drowning hypothesis is gaining ground.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Did you notice anything when you got here?’ she asked.

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Pujol and Simeoni.’

  Espérandieu winced. It was something he did not like to talk about.

  ‘Sure, they seem in fine form,’ he said lugubriously.

  ‘They’ve been like that since yesterday,’ said Samira. ‘I get the feeling that Martin’s absence has given them wings. You should be on your guard.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You know very well.’

  ‘No, I don’t, explain.’

  ‘They hate you. They think you’re gay. Which, for them, is about the same as being a paedophile or buggering goats.’

  ‘They hate you too,’ Espérandieu pointed out, choosing not to dwell on Samira’s choice of words.

  ‘Less than you. They don’t like me because I’m half Chink, half Arab. All that’s missing is a little black blood. Basically, I’m the enemy. With you it’s different. They have a thousand reasons to hate you: your mannerisms, your clothes, Martin’s support, your wife—’

  ‘My wife?’

  Samira could not help but smile.

  ‘Yes. They cannot understand how a guy like you could be married to a woman like her.’

  It was Espérandieu’s turn to smile. He appreciated Samira’s outspokenness, but there were times when a bit of diplomacy would have done her no harm.

  ‘They’re Neanderthals,’ he said.

  ‘Primates,’ Samira agreed. ‘But I’d watch it if I were you. I’m sure they have something nasty up their sleeves.’

  * * *

  When he climbed out of the car outside Grimm’s cabin, Servaz wondered if he hadn’t had a hallucination the night before. The valley no longer seemed the least bit dark and haunted. As he was closing the car door, he realised his throat was irritated again. He had forgotten to take his medicine that morning.

  ‘You wouldn’t have any water on you?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a bottle of mineral water in the glove compartment,’ said Ziegler.

  They began walking towards the cabin. They could see the stream sparkling through the trees, weaving a web of crystal-clear voices. A few beech trees stood out on the grey slopes of the mountain among the spruces and firs. There was an illegal dump somewhat further along, by the water. Servaz could see rusty cans, black bin bags, a filthy mattress, a refrigerator and even an old computer dragging its cables behind it, like a dead octopus’s tentacles. Even here in this wild valley man could not help but deface everything he touched.

  He went up the steps onto the veranda. A thick tape marked ‘Gendarmerie Nationale – Do Not Enter’ was blocking the door. Servaz lifted it up, unlocked the door and gave it a firm shove. He stood aside to let Ziegler go in.

  ‘The wall on the left,’ he said.

  She took a step inside – and stopped at once.

  ‘Shit!’

  Servaz followed her in. The kitchenette counter and cupboards on the right, the sofa bed covered in cushions at the back, the bookshelves, the fishing equipment – rods, net, boots – in a corner: everything had been painstakingly covered with an assortment of powder: aluminium, cerise, black magnetic powder, pink fluorescent powder … All used for dusting latent prints. In some places, large blue zones indicated that the investigators had used Bluestar: they’d been looking for traces of blood, apparently to no avail. Numbered cards were still pinned here and there. Scraps of fabric had even been cut out of the carpet.

  He stole a glance at Ziegler.

  She looked stunned. She was staring at the wall on the left: hanging from a peg by its hood, like a sleeping bat, was the large cape, its black moiré folds contrasting sharply with the pale wood of the wall. Below it on the rough pine floor was a pair of boots. Traces of powder also shone on the cloth and boots.

  ‘I don’t know why that thing gives me goosebumps,’ said Ziegler. ‘It’s only a rain cape and a pair of boots, after all.’

  Servaz glanced out of the open door. Outside, everything was silent. But the image of the headlights flashing onto his rear-view mirror was burned onto his retina. He tried to listen for an engine, but all he could hear was the babbling of the stream. Once again he felt the instinctive fear that had overwhelmed him last night. A brute fear, entirely raw.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ziegler, noticing his expression.

  ‘I was followed, yesterday, on this road … A car was waiting for me as I pulled out from the forest track…’

  Ziegler studied his expression. A worried look came over her face.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a moment of crushing silence.

  ‘You have to tell d’Humières.’

  ‘No. I’d rather we kept it to ourselves. For the time being, anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know … Confiant would be perfectly capable of using it as a pretext to take me off the case. On the grounds that it’s for my own protection, naturally,’ he added, with a weary smile.

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘Might have been Éric Lombard’s henchmen.’

  ‘Or the killers?’

  She was staring at him, wide-eyed. He understood that she was wondering how she would react if it happened to her. Fear is a contagious disease, he thought. There was an element of such absolute darkness in this investigation, a deeply sinister critical mass that formed the heart of the matter, and now they were drawing perilously close to it. For the second time he wondered if they were putting their own lives at risk.

  ‘It’s time to have a little chat with the mayor,’ he said suddenly.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine.’

  Diane looked at Mr Atlas’s tall form, imagining the powerful muscles beneath his boiler suit. He must spend hours working out. He gave her a friendly wink and
she nodded her head.

  Contrary to what all these men seemed to think, she wasn’t particularly apprehensive. She felt, instead, an intense professional curiosity.

  Then they were in a neon-lit corridor. Blue carpeting absorbing their footsteps. White walls …

  Piped music was playing quietly in the background – like in a supermarket. Some New Age thing, harp and piano, as impalpable as a whisper.

  The doors …

  She went past them without stopping at the little windows. Xavier was striding ahead. She followed obediently.

  Not a sound. They must all be asleep. It was like being in a five-star hotel, of the modern sort, minimalist, clean lines. She remembered the long, sinister scream she’d heard from the other side of the security door the first time she’d come near this place. Had they been drugged for the occasion? No, Alex had been clear on that score: most of them were resistant to medication.

  At the last door Xavier stopped in front of her; he typed a code into the box and then turned the handle.

  ‘Good morning, Julian.’

  ‘Good morning, Doctor.’

  A deep, composed, worldly voice. Diane heard him before she saw him.

  ‘I’ve brought you a visitor, our new psychologist: Diane Berg. She is Swiss, like you.’

  She stepped forward. Julian Hirtmann was standing by the window. He turned away from the landscape and let his gaze fall on her. He was over six foot tall and Dr Xavier looked like a child next to him. In his forties, short brown hair, firm, regular features. Sure of himself. Rather good-looking, she thought, if you’re into the uptight sort. A high forehead, pursed lips, square jaw.

  But it was his eyes that struck her. Piercing. Black. Intense. Irises shining with a wily, unflinching brilliance. He narrowed his lids and she felt his gaze enveloping her.

  ‘Good morning, Julian,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning to you. Psychologist, huh?’ he said.

  She saw Xavier smile. Hirtmann’s lips formed a dreamy smile as well.

  ‘Where in Geneva do you live?’

  ‘Cologny,’ she replied.

  He nodded and came away from the window.

  ‘I had a beautiful house on the lake. Now there are some nouveau riche people living there. The type who are all computers and mobile phones and not a single book in the house. Good Lord! Percy Bysshe Shelley lived in that house when he was in Switzerland, can you imagine?’