The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  He was staring at her with his dark, shining eyes. He was waiting for her to respond.

  ‘You like to read?’ she said awkwardly.

  He shrugged, clearly disappointed.

  ‘Dr Berg would like to have regular consultations with you,’ interrupted Xavier.

  He turned to look at her again.

  ‘Really? What is in it for me? Other than the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied, honestly. ‘Absolutely nothing. I make no claim to relieve your suffering in any way. Besides, you’re not suffering. I have nothing to sell you other than, as you say, the pleasure of my company. But I will be grateful if you agree.’

  No fawning, no lies – she thought she was managing rather well. He gave her an intense stare.

  ‘Hmm, you are frank.’ His gaze went from Diane to Xavier. ‘A rare virtue in this place. And if I were to accept, what would our … meetings consist of? I hope you do not intend to try and analyse me. Let me tell you right away: it won’t work. Not with me.’

  ‘No, I mean real conversations. We can talk about all sorts of topics, anything you like.’

  ‘It remains to be seen if we have anything in common,’ he said ironically.

  She did not react.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘About your career so far.’

  She told him. She mentioned the Faculty of Psychology and Educational Sciences at Geneva, the Institute of Forensic Psychology, the private practice where she had worked and the Champ-Dollon prison where she had interned.

  He nodded gravely, one finger on his lower lip, as if he were an examiner. She refrained from smiling at his pose. She reminded herself of what he had done to young women her age and any desire to smile vanished.

  ‘I suppose that since you’ve been here,’ he said, ‘in this environment that is so new and unusual, you must feel a certain apprehension.’

  He was testing her. He wanted to find out if there would be any reciprocity. He did not want one-sided meetings where he would do all the talking and she would merely listen.

  ‘Yes, the apprehension of being in a new position, in a new place, with new responsibilities,’ she said. ‘Professional stress. I see it as something positive, which will allow me to progress.’

  He nodded.

  ‘If you say so. As you know, groups of people who are shut away together have a tendency to regress. Here it’s not only the residents, but the staff as well, and even the psychiatrists. You’ll see. There are three levels of confinement, nested one in the other: the confinement of this asylum, then of the valley and finally of the town down there – all those brutes corrupted by centuries of inbreeding, incest and violence. You’ll see. After a few days or weeks, you’ll begin to feel childish, like a little girl again; you’ll want to start sucking your thumb…’

  In his cold eyes she could read his desire to say something obscene, but he controlled himself. He had had a strict upbringing, after all. It came to her that Hirtmann made her think of her father, with his stern demeanour, the grey strands in his brown hair, his appearance of a carefully groomed, ageing beau.

  The same firm line of mouth and jaw, the same longish nose, the same intense gaze gauging her, judging her. She knew that if she did not banish these thoughts, she would lose control.

  She would wonder, later, how this same man could have organised those notoriously violent orgies. Hirtmann was a man of multiple personalities.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he said.

  He did not miss a thing. She would have to bear that in mind. She decided to be as frank as she could, while always maintaining a professional distance.

  ‘I was thinking that you remind me in a way of my father,’ she said.

  For the first time, he seemed unsettled. She saw him smile. She noticed that the smile completely changed his appearance.

  ‘Really?’ he said, clearly surprised.

  ‘I can sense you have had the same typically Swiss bourgeois upbringing, the same reserve, the same strictness. You have Protestant written all over you, even if you thought you got rid of it along the way. All those upper-class Swiss people who go about like a locked safe. I was just wondering if he had any shameful secrets, like you.’

  Xavier gave her an astonished look. Hirtmann’s smile grew wider.

  ‘I believe we will get along quite well after all,’ he said. ‘When do we begin? I’m eager to continue this conversation.’

  * * *

  ‘Nowhere to be found,’ said Ziegler, closing her mobile phone. ‘He’s not at the town hall; he’s not at home; he’s not at his factory. It looks like he’s done a bunk.’

  Servaz looked at her, then stared through the windscreen at the stream.

  ‘We’re going to have to take better care of our mayor. Once he reappears. In the meantime, let’s try Perrault.’

  * * *

  The sales assistant, a young woman in her twenties, was chewing her gum so vigorously that it was as if she had a personal score to settle with it.

  She didn’t look particularly sporty. More the type to eat too many sweets and sit for hours in front of the telly or computer. Servaz mused that if he had been in Perrault’s place, he would have thought twice about entrusting her with the till. He looked around him at the rows of skis and snowboards, the shelves full of hiking boots, the fluorescent jumpsuits, fleece jumpers and fashion accessories. He wondered what criteria Perrault had for hiring her. Perhaps she was the only candidate who had agreed to work for the salary he was offering.

  ‘Did he seem worried?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup.’

  Servaz turned to look at Ziegler. They had just tried ringing the bell at the studio Perrault rented above the shop. No answer. The salesgirl told them that she hadn’t seen him since the previous day. Monday morning he had shown up and said that he had to go away for a few days – a family emergency, he explained. She had told him not to worry, that she would mind the shop in the meantime.

  ‘In what way did he seem worried?’ asked Ziegler.

  She chewed briskly for a moment or two before answering.

  ‘He looked a right mess, like someone who hasn’t had any sleep. And he couldn’t keep still.’

  ‘Did he seem frightened?’

  ‘Yep. I just told you.’

  She almost blew a bubble but then thought better of it.

  ‘Do you have a number where we can reach him?’

  The young woman opened a drawer and rummaged among the papers. She pulled out a business card and handed it to the gendarme. Ziegler glanced at the logo representing a skier zigzagging down a mountain through the snow; beneath it, in fancy print, was written ‘Sport & Nature.’

  ‘This Perrault, what’s he like to work for?’ she asked.

  The assistant gave her a wary look.

  ‘Dead stingy,’ she said finally.

  * * *

  Sufjan Stevens was singing ‘Come On! Feel the Illinoise’ on his headphones when Espérandieu glanced suddenly at his computer. On the screen, the image-processing software had just completed its task.

  ‘Come and have a look at this,’ he said to Samira.

  She got up. Her hoodie was unzipped, and when she leaned over him, he could see the start of her breasts just beneath his nose.

  ‘What is it?’

  It was a close-up of the ring. Not completely sharp, but the gold signet ring could be clearly seen, magnified two thousand times; at the top, against a red background, were two golden letters.

  ‘This is the ring that was on Grimm’s severed finger,’ he said, with a dry throat.

  ‘Huh? How do you know – since his finger was chopped off?’

  ‘It would take too long to explain. What do you see?’

  ‘It looks like two characters, two letters,’ said Samira.

  Espérandieu forced himself to keep his eyes on the computer screen.

  ‘Two Cs?’ he said.

  ‘Or a C and an E…’

  �
�Or a C and a D…’

  ‘Or an O and a C…’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  He opened several windows on the right-hand side of the screen, changed a few parameters, moved his cursor, then launched the process again. They waited in silence for the results. Samira was still leaning over his shoulder. Espérandieu conjured up a vision of two full breasts, soft and firm. There was a beauty spot on the left one.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing in there?’ came a mocking voice from the corridor.

  The computer told them that the task was completed. The image immediately reappeared. Sharp. The two letters stood out clearly against the red background: ‘C S.’

  * * *

  Servaz found the place, as indicated, at the end of an impasse that led to a stream and a copse. He saw the lights before he could make out the black shape of the mill; its three lit windows were reflected in the stream. Up above were the mountains, the black fir trees and a sky full of stars. He got out of the car. It was a cold night, but warmer than before.

  He felt frustrated. After trying in vain to find Chaperon and Perrault, they had also failed to find Chaperon’s ex-wife. She had moved somewhere near Bordeaux, and their daughter lived in the Paris region. Serge Perrault had never married. Add to that the strange armed peace which reigned between Grimm and his dragon lady and you were left with the conclusion that family life really wasn’t their thing, those three.

  Servaz walked across the little humpbacked bridge that connected the mill to the road. Nearby, a paddlewheel turned in the darkness; he could hear the sound of water splashing along the blades.

  He banged the door knocker. A low, very old, heavy door. It opened almost immediately. Gabriel Saint-Cyr stood there, wearing a white shirt, a cardigan and an impeccable bow tie. Strains of familiar music came from within. A string quartet: Schubert, Death and the Maiden.

  ‘Come in.’

  Servaz noticed that the retired judge had said tu to him, but he didn’t respond. A pleasant smell from the kitchen teased his nostrils the moment he entered and his stomach reacted at once. He was famished; all he had eaten since morning was an omelette. Walking down the steps into the sitting room on the right, Servaz could not help but raise an eyebrow: the judge had gone all out. The tablecloth was so white it almost shone, and two candles flickered in silver candlesticks.

  ‘I’m a widower,’ explained Saint-Cyr on seeing Servaz’s look. ‘My work was my entire life. I wasn’t prepared to stop. Whether I live ten more years or thirty, it won’t change a thing. Old age is nothing but a long, useless wait. So, while I’m waiting, I keep busy. I wonder whether, all things considered, I shouldn’t open a restaurant.’

  Servaz smiled. The judge was clearly not the sort who could sit around doing nothing.

  ‘But you can be sure of one thing – you don’t mind if I say tu to you, at my age? – I don’t think about death. And I make the most of the short time remaining to cook and cultivate my garden. I make things. Read. Travel…’

  ‘And stop in at the courts from time to time to keep up with what’s going on.’

  There was a brief twinkle in Saint-Cyr’s eyes.

  ‘Exactly!’

  He motioned to him to sit down, then went behind the kitchen counter which faced onto the room. Martin saw him tie a chef’s apron round his waist. The fire was crackling in the hearth, casting a glow onto the ceiling beams. The sitting room was full of old furniture, probably unearthed at antique markets; there were paintings, large and small.

  ‘“To cook one must have a light head, a generous spirit and a warm heart”: Paul Gauguin. I hope you don’t mind if we skip the aperitif?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Servaz. ‘I’m starving.’

  Saint-Cyr came back with two plates and a bottle of wine, displaying the ease of a professional waiter.

  ‘Feuilleté de ris de veau aux truffes,’ he announced, placing a large steaming plate before Servaz.

  It smelled wonderful. Servaz stabbed his fork into the food and lifted a mouthful to his lips. It burned his tongue, but rarely had he eaten anything quite so delicious.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If you were as good a judge as you are a chef, the courts in Saint-Martin have suffered a great loss.’

  Saint-Cyr took the flattery for what it was. He was sufficiently aware of his talent as a chef to know that behind the exaggerated compliment there was sincere praise. He tilted a bottle of white wine towards Servaz’s glass.

  ‘Have a taste of that.’

  Servaz raised the glass to his eyes before drinking. In the light from the candles the wine was the colour of pale gold. Servaz was no great connoisseur, but from the very first sip he knew beyond a doubt that the wine he had just been served was truly exceptional.

  ‘It’s wonderful. Really. Even if I’m no expert.’

  Saint-Cyr nodded.

  ‘Bâtard-Montrachet 2001.’

  He winked at Servaz and clicked his tongue.

  By the second sip, Servaz felt his head begin to spin. He shouldn’t have started on an empty stomach.

  ‘Are you hoping this will loosen my tongue?’ he asked.

  Saint-Cyr laughed.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you relishing your food like that. You look as if you haven’t eaten in ten days. What do you think of Confiant?’ asked the judge, suddenly changing tack.

  His question caught Servaz off guard. He hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a bit too soon to say.’

  Once again, the wily twinkle in the judge’s eye.

  ‘Of course it’s not. You already have an opinion. And it’s negative. That’s why you don’t want to talk about him.’

  Servaz was thrown by his comment. The judge was never at a loss for words.

  ‘Confiant’s name doesn’t suit him,’ continued Saint-Cyr, without waiting for an answer. ‘He shows no confidence in anyone, and one shouldn’t show him any, either. As you may already have noticed.’

  Touché. Once again, Servaz thought that this man would prove useful. When they had finished, Saint-Cyr cleared the plates.

  ‘Rabbit in a mustard sauce,’ he said when he came back. ‘Will that do you?’

  He had brought another bottle. Red, this time. Half an hour later, after an apple dessert accompanied by a glass of Sauternes, they were sitting in the armchairs by the fireplace. Servaz felt well fed and slightly tipsy, suffused with a feeling of well-being he had not known for a long time. Saint-Cyr served him some cognac in a balloon glass and poured himself an Armagnac.

  Then he shot him a keen look and Servaz understood that the time had come to get down to business.

  ‘You’re also in charge of that incident with the dead horse,’ declared the judge, after the first sip. ‘Do you think there is any connection with the chemist?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Two dreadful crimes in the space of a few days and only a few miles apart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you think of Éric Lombard?’

  ‘Arrogant.’

  ‘Don’t get on the wrong side of him. He has a long arm and he could be useful to you. But don’t let him run the investigation for you either.’

  Servaz smiled once again. The judge might be retired, but he hadn’t lost his touch.

  ‘You were going to tell me about the suicides.’

  Saint-Cyr raised his glass to his lips.

  ‘Why would anyone become a cop these days?’ he asked, without answering Servaz’s question. ‘Corruption is rife, and all anyone thinks about is filling their own pockets. How do you know what matters? Hasn’t it become terribly complicated?’

  ‘Oh, no, the opposite: it’s very simple,’ said Servaz. ‘There are two sorts of people: bastards and everyone else. And everyone has to choose sides. If you haven’t chosen, it means you’re already on the side of the bastards.’

  ‘Do you really think so? Things are that simple: good guys and bad guys? You’re very fortunate. What if, for ex
ample, you have the choice at an election between three candidates: the first one is half paralysed by polio, suffers from high blood pressure and anaemia and numerous other serious illnesses, has been known to lie, consults an astrologist, cheats on his wife, is a chain-smoker and drinks too many martinis; the second one is obese, has already lost three elections, is going through a depression and has had two heart attacks, smokes cigars and in the evening glugs champagne, port, brandy and whisky before taking two sleeping tablets; and the third one is a decorated war hero who respects women, loves animals, might drink a beer from time to time and doesn’t smoke. Which one would you choose?’

  Servaz grinned.

  ‘I suppose you expect me to say the third one?’

  ‘Well done, you’ve just rejected Roosevelt and Churchill and elected Adolf Hitler. You see, things are never what they seem.’

  Servaz burst out laughing. He really did like this man. Very hard to catch him napping, and his mind was as clear as the stream that flowed past his mill.

  ‘And that’s what’s wrong with the media nowadays,’ the judge continued. ‘They latch on to details that are totally unimportant and blow them out of all proportion. With the end result that if today’s media had existed back then, Roosevelt and Churchill would probably not have been elected. Trust your intuition, Martin. Don’t trust appearances.’

  ‘The suicides,’ said Servaz again.

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  The judge poured himself another Armagnac, then gave Servaz a hard look.

  ‘I was the examining magistrate on the case. The most difficult one of my entire career. It lasted for over a year. From May 1993 to July 1994, to be exact. Seven suicides. Teenagers between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. I remember it as if it were yesterday.’

  Servaz held his breath. The judge’s voice had changed, was filled now with infinite solemnity and sadness.

  ‘The first one to die was a child from a neighbouring village, Alice Ferrand, sixteen and a half. A brilliant kid, top marks at school. She came from an educated background: her father was a literature professor, her mother a schoolteacher. Alice was considered an easy child. She had friends her own age; she liked drawing and music; everyone thought highly of her. They found her hanging in a barn on the morning of 2 May 1993.’