‘These days you can’t be too thrifty, right?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been on an investigation like this,’ said Ziegler, getting to her feet. ‘First a dead horse, then a chemist hanging under a bridge. And only one thing to connect the two: the DNA of a serial killer … And now, teenagers killing themselves one after the other. It’s like a bad dream. There’s no logic, no vital lead. Perhaps I’ll wake up and find out none of it ever existed.’
‘There will be an awakening,’ said Servaz firmly. ‘But not for us: for the culprit, or culprits. And before much more time goes by.’
He went out with a brisk stride.
* * *
That night he dreamt about his father. In his dream Servaz was a little boy, ten years old. Everything was bathed in the warm, pleasant glow of a summer evening, and his father was just a silhouette, like the two people he was talking to outside the house. On drawing nearer, the young Servaz saw two very old men wearing long white togas. Both of them were bearded. Servaz slipped in among them and looked up, but the three men paid no attention to him. On listening more closely, he realised they were speaking Latin. A very animated but friendly discussion. At one point his father laughed, then became serious again. There was music coming from the house, familiar music that Servaz couldn’t recognise.
Then in the night there came the sound, from the road, of a motor in the distance, and the three men suddenly fell silent.
‘They’re coming,’ said one of the old men finally.
His tone was funereal and, in his dream, Servaz began to tremble.
* * *
Servaz got to the gendarmerie ten minutes late. He’d had his big mug of black coffee, two cigarettes and a scorching shower to banish the fatigue that was threatening to do him in. His throat was still burning. Ziegler was already there. Once again she was wearing the leather and titanium jumpsuit that made him think of a modern suit of armour, and he recalled seeing her motorcycle outside the gendarmerie. They arranged to visit the parents of the suicide victims and divided the addresses up. Three for Servaz, four for Ziegler. Servaz decided to start with the first one on the list: Alice Ferrand. The house wasn’t in Saint-Martin but in a neighbouring village. He expected to find a modest home, elderly parents broken by sorrow. So he was amazed to find himself face to face with a smiling, vigorous man still in the prime of life, who greeted him barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of off-white linen trousers that were held up by a drawstring.
Servaz was so disconcerted that when it came time to introduce himself and explain the reason for his visit, he mumbled incoherently.
Alice’s father immediately grew suspicious.
‘Do you have a card?’
‘Here.’
The man examined it carefully. Then he relaxed and handed it back.
‘I just wanted to make sure you weren’t one of those newspaper hacks who occasionally drag up the story when they’ve run out of copy,’ he apologised. ‘Come in.’
Gaspard Ferrand stood to one side to let Servaz go by. He was tall and thin. The cop couldn’t help but notice his suntanned torso: not an ounce of fat, just a few strands of grey hair on his sternum; the skin was burnished and taut over his ribcage like the canvas of an awning. Ferrand intercepted his gaze.
‘Please forgive my appearance, I was doing a bit of yoga. Yoga has helped me a lot since Alice died – as has Buddhism.’
Initially surprised, Servaz then recalled that Alice’s father was not an office worker or a labourer like the other parents, but a literature professor. He immediately pictured a man who must enjoy extensive holidays and was fond of exotic destinations: Bali, Phuket, the Caribbean, Rio de Janeiro or the Maldives.
‘I’m surprised the police are still interested in the case.’
‘I’m actually investigating the murder of the chemist, Grimm.’
Ferrand turned round. Servaz saw he looked puzzled.
‘And you think there is some sort of connection between Grimm’s death and the suicide of my daughter and the other young people?’
‘That is what I’m trying to find out.’
Gaspard Ferrand studied him closely.
‘At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be any obvious connection. Why do you think there might be one?’
An astute remark. Servaz hesitated to reply. Gaspard Ferrand must have seen how awkward his visitor felt – and also that they stood facing each other in a narrow corridor, that he was bare-chested and his visitor was bundled up for winter weather. He pointed to the door open to the sitting room.
‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Coffee, if it’s no bother.’
‘Not at all. I’ll have tea myself. Please have a seat while I get it ready,’ he said, disappearing into the kitchen on the other side of the corridor. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Servaz had not expected such a warm welcome. Clearly, Alice’s father liked having visits, even from a cop who had come to question him about his long-dead daughter. He looked around. The sitting room was a mess. Just like at his place, there were books and magazines piled everywhere: on the coffee table, the armchairs, the furniture. And the dust … Did he live alone? Was Gaspard Ferrand a widower, or divorced? That might explain his eagerness to entertain a visitor. There was an envelope from Action Against Hunger lying on a dresser; Servaz recognised the blue logo and the grey recycled paper: he too donated to the charity. In a frame were several pictures of Alice’s father in the company of people who looked like Latin American or Asian peasants, against a background of jungle or rice paddies. Servaz suspected that Gaspard Ferrand’s travels did not consist solely of deep-sea diving, daiquiris or soaking up the sun on Caribbean beaches.
He relaxed into the sofa. Nearby there was a pile of books on a fine elephant stool made of dark wood. Servaz tried to remember the African name for the stool: esono dwa …
The smell of coffee wafted down the corridor. Ferrand reappeared carrying a tray with two steaming mugs, sugar, sugar tongs and a photograph album, which he handed to Servaz after he had set the tray down on the coffee table.
‘Here.’
Servaz opened the album. As he expected, it was full of photos of Alice: Alice at the age of four in a pedal car; Alice watering the flowers with a watering can nearly as big as she was; Alice and her mother, a slender, dreamy woman with a large nose like Virginia Woolf; Alice at the age of ten, in shorts, playing football with boys her age, rushing with the ball at her feet towards the opposite goal with a determined look … A regular tomboy. And a charming, luminous little girl. Gaspard Ferrand sank into the sofa next to him. He had put on a shirt with a Mao collar, the same off-white colour as his trousers.
‘Alice was a wonderful child. So easy to get along with, always cheerful and helpful. She was our ray of sunshine.’
Ferrand continued to smile, as if recalling Alice’s memory were pleasant, not painful.
‘She was also a very intelligent child. Talented at so many things: drawing, music, languages, sports, writing … She devoured books. At the age of twelve she already knew what she wanted to do with her life: become a millionaire, then redistribute her money to the people who needed it the most.’
Gaspard Ferrand let out a strange, shrill laugh.
‘We have never understood why she did it.’
This time the crack was there. But Ferrand pulled himself together.
‘Why does life take away the best thing we have, then make us live with the loss? I’ve been asking myself that question for fifteen years; now I’ve found the answer.’
Ferrand gave him a look that was so strange that for a moment Servaz wondered whether Alice’s father had lost his reason.
‘But it’s an answer that each of us has to find inside. What I mean is, no one can teach it to you or answer for you.’
Gaspard Ferrand probed him with a sharp gaze to see if he had understood. Servaz felt extremely ill at ease.
‘But I’m putting you on the spot,’ said hi
s host. ‘Forgive me. This is what happens when you live alone. My wife died of cancer, very abruptly, two years after Alice left us. So, you’re interested in this spate of suicides from fifteen years ago, even though you’re investigating the chemist’s murder. Why is that?’
Without answering, Servaz said, ‘Did none of the children leave a note?’
‘No. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. An explanation, I mean. There was a reason for all those suicides; those kids killed themselves for a very precise reason. It wasn’t simply that they thought life wasn’t worth living.’
Servaz wondered whether he had heard the rumours about Grimm, Perrault, Chaperon and Mourrenx.
‘Had Alice changed in any way in the time leading up to her suicide?’
Ferrand nodded.
‘Yes. We didn’t realise right away. We noticed the changes gradually: she didn’t laugh as much as she used to; she got angry more often; she spent more time in her bedroom … things like that. One day she wanted to stop playing the piano. She didn’t talk to us about her plans the way she used to.’
Servaz felt as if ice were flowing through his veins. He remembered the call he had got from Alexandra. And saw again the bruise on Margot’s cheek.
‘And you don’t know exactly when it began?’
Ferrand hesitated. Servaz got the strange feeling that Alice’s father had a very precise idea of when it had started, but was reluctant to talk about it.
‘It was several months before the suicide, I’d say. My wife put the changes down to puberty.’
‘And you? Was that also your opinion? That the changes were natural?’
Ferrand shot him another strange look.
‘No,’ he replied firmly after a moment.
‘What happened to her, do you think?’
Alice’s father was silent for so long that Servaz nearly reached out to grab his arm and shake him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said without taking his eyes from Servaz, ‘but I am sure something happened. Someone in this valley knows why our children committed suicide.’
Something about his reply, and the tone he had adopted, was so enigmatic that it immediately got Servaz thinking. He was just about to ask his host to be more precise when his mobile vibrated in his pocket.
‘Please excuse me,’ said Servaz, getting to his feet.
It was Maillard. He sounded tense.
‘We’ve just had a very strange phone call. Someone disguising his voice. He wanted to speak to you. He said it was very urgent, that he had information about Grimm’s murder. But he would only speak to you. We get calls like this now and again, of course, but … I don’t know … This one seemed serious. He sounded afraid.’
Servaz gave a violent start.
‘Afraid? What you mean by “afraid”? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’d bet my right arm.’
‘Did you give him my number?’
‘Yes. Should I not have?’
‘No, no, you did right. Do you have his number?’
‘It was a mobile. He hung up as soon as we gave him your number. We tried to call back, but we only got his voicemail.’
‘Were you able to identify him?’
‘No, not yet. We’ll have to go through the operator.’
‘Call Confiant and Captain Ziegler! Explain the situation; we have to get the man’s identity. Do it right away!’
‘Right. He’s bound to ring you,’ said the gendarme.
‘How long ago did you get the call?’
‘Less than five minutes ago.’
‘Good. I’ll probably hear from him in the next few minutes. In the meantime, get hold of Confiant. And Ziegler! He may not want to tell me who he is, and it might be a nuisance call. But we’ve got to find out who he is!’
Servaz hung up, coiled tight as a spring. What was going on? Who was trying to reach him? Was it Chaperon, or someone else? Someone who was afraid …
Someone who was frightened, too, that the gendarmes in Saint-Martin would recognise him. So he disguised his voice.
‘Trouble?’ asked Ferrand.
‘Questions, more like,’ replied Servaz absently. ‘And perhaps answers.’
‘You have a difficult job.’
Servaz could not help but smile.
‘First time I’ve ever heard a professor tell me that.’
‘I didn’t say an honourable job.’
Servaz was staggered by the insinuation.
‘And why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You serve the people in power.’
Servaz felt his anger returning.
‘There are thousands of men and women who have no interest in power, as you call it, and who sacrifice their family life, their weekends and their sleep to be the last barrier, the last bulwark against—’
‘Barbarity?’ suggested Ferrand.
‘Yes. You may despise them, criticise them or look down on them, but you cannot do without them.’
‘No more than we can do without those teachers we criticise, despise or look down on,’ said Ferrand with a smile. ‘Point taken.’
‘I’d like to visit her room.’
Ferrand unfolded his long, tanned body.
‘Follow me.’
Servaz noticed the bits of fluff in the stairway, and the railing that had not been waxed in a long time. A man alone. Like himself. Or Gabriel Saint-Cyr. Like Chaperon. Or Perrault …
Alice’s room was not off the first-floor landing but all the way at the top of the house, under the eaves.
‘It’s there,’ said Ferrand, pointing to a white door with a brass handle.
‘Have you … Did you throw out her things and redo the room since?’
This time Gaspard Ferrand’s smile was replaced by a despairing grimace.
‘We haven’t touched a thing.’
He turned his back and went downstairs. Servaz stood for a long time on the tiny second-floor landing. He heard a clatter of dishes from downstairs in the kitchen. The narrow landing was lit from above through a skylight. When he looked up, Servaz saw that a fine film of snow was clinging to the glass. He took a deep breath and went in.
The first thing that struck him was the silence.
No doubt it was accentuated by the falling snow as it muffled all sound. But there was a special quality to this silence. The second thing he noticed was how cold it was. The heat had been turned off. He could not help but tremble in this room that was as silent and icy as a tomb. Because it was obvious someone had lived here once. A young girl, typical for her age.
Photos on the walls. A desk, shelves, a wardrobe. A dresser with a big mirror. The bed and two night tables. The furniture looked as if it had been found at a flea market, then repainted in bright colours, with orange and yellow dominating, in contrast to the purple walls and white carpet.
The shades on the little lamps were orange; the bed and desk were orange; the dresser and the frame around the mirror were yellow. On one of the walls was a large poster of a blond singer with ‘Kurt’ written in large letters. A scarf, boots, magazines, books and CDs were scattered across the white carpet. For a long while, all he could do was soak in the chaos. Where was this impression of a rarefied atmosphere coming from? No doubt from the fact that everything was exactly as it had been, as if suspended in time. Everything except the dust. No one had bothered to put away even the tiniest object; it was as if her parents had wanted to stop time – they had turned the room into a museum, a mausoleum. Even after all these years, Alice’s room gave the impression that she was about to come in at any moment and ask Servaz what he was doing there. How often over the years had Alice’s father come in here and felt the same thing? Servaz thought that he would have gone mad in his shoes, knowing that this room remained untouched, confronting the daily temptation to go up the stairs and open the door once again – for the last time … He went over to the window and looked out. The street was turning white before his eyes. Then he took another breath, turned round and began his search.
Piled loose on the desk: schoolbooks, hairbands, a pair of scissors, several jars full of pencils, tissues, packets of sweets and a pink Post-it where Servaz read the following message: ‘Library, 12.30’; the ink had faded over time. A diary held closed with an elastic band, a calculator, a lamp. He opened the diary. On 25 April, one week before her death, Alice had written: ‘Give Emma back her book.’ On the 29th, ‘Charlotte.’ On the 30th, three days before hanging herself, ‘Maths test.’ Neat round handwriting. Her hand did not tremble. Servaz turned the pages. For 11 August, she had written, ‘Emma birthday.’ By then, Alice would have been dead for over three months. A date written long in advance … Where was Emma today? What had she become? He worked out that she would be in her thirties. Even after all these years, she must think back from time to time to that terrible year, 1993. All those deaths.
Above the desk, pinned to the wall, were a weekly timetable and a calendar. The school holidays had been highlighted with a yellow marker. Servaz’s gaze paused on the fateful day: 2 May. Nothing to set it apart it from the other days. Still higher up was a wooden shelf with books, a cassette deck and judo trophies that showed that she had excelled at the sport.
He turned to the night tables. In addition to the two lamps, he saw an alarm clock, some more tissues, a Game Boy, a hair clip, nail varnish and a paperback novel with a bookmark. He opened the drawers. Fancy stationery, a little box with costume jewellery, a pack of chewing gum, a bottle of perfume, a stick of deodorant and batteries.
He groped underneath the bottom of the drawers.
Nothing.
In the desk there were binders, notebooks and schoolbooks, masses of pens, markers and paper clips. In the middle drawer, a spiral notebook full of sketches. Servaz opened it: he could see that Alice was genuinely talented. Her drawings in pencil or felt tip showed she had a sure hand and a sharp eye, even if most of them still suffered from a certain caution. In the bottom drawer, more elastic bands, a nail clipper, several lipsticks and a hairbrush to which a few blonde hairs still clung, but also a tube of aspirin, menthol cigarettes and a transparent cigarette lighter. Servaz opened the binders and notebooks from the top drawer: homework, essays, rough drafts. He put them to one side and went over to the little stereo on the floor in a corner. It was both a CD player and a radio, and was also covered in a thick layer of dust. Servaz blew on it, stirring up a grey cloud; then he opened the compartments one by one. Nothing. He went over to the big mirror and the wall of photographs. Some of them had been taken so close up that their subjects seemed to be sticking their nose into the camera lens. In others he could see landscapes behind the people in the photograph: mountains, a beach, even the columns of the Parthenon. Girls Alice’s age, most of the time. Always the same faces. Occasionally one or two boys joined the group. But the photographer did not seem to have singled out any particular face. Were these school trips? Servaz took a long time studying the prints. They had all turned yellow and curled with age.
The Frozen Dead Page 31
