The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  I must know him! thought Servaz. He’s afraid I’ll recognise him, even with a balaclava on!

  He fiddled desperately with his mobile. No network. In a panic, he looked around the cabin for an alarm button, an interphone, something, but there was nothing. Fuck it! You could die in one of these gondolas at the speed of five metres a second! Servaz turned round to look at the retreating car. One last time his eyes met Perrault’s terrified gaze. If he’d had a gun, he could at least have … Have what? What would he have done? He was a lousy shot, anyway. During the yearly tests they took, he never failed to arouse the inspector’s disbelief with his dismal results. The gondola and the two men melted into the fog.

  He choked back a nervous laugh. Then felt like screaming.

  In a rage, he slammed his fist into one of the windows. The minutes that followed were among the longest in his life. It took five minutes more for the upper station to appear, five interminable minutes punctuated only by the ghostly parade of fir trees, erect as foot soldiers in the mist. The station was a squat little building, set on thick concrete pillars like the one below. Beyond it Servaz could see the deserted ski slopes, the stationary tow lifts and buildings buried in fog. There was a man on the platform watching him approach. The moment the door opened, Servaz leapt out. He nearly went flying onto the concrete. His card in his hand, he rushed over to the uniformed man.

  ‘Stop everything! Right away! Halt the cable cars!’

  The cable operator shot him a stunned look from under his cap.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can stop the gondolas, can’t you?’

  The wind was howling. Servaz had to shout even louder. His rage and impatience finally seemed to get through to the man.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then stop everything! And call down below! Do you have a phone line?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘Stop everything! Right away! And give me the telephone! Hurry!’

  The operator rushed inside. He spoke feverishly into a microphone, gave Servaz a worried look, then pulled down the lever. The gondolas shuddered to a halt. Only afterwards did Servaz realise how terribly noisy it had been on the platform. He grabbed hold of the telephone and dialled the number for the gendarmerie. An orderly replied.

  ‘Get me Maillard! Commandant Servaz calling! Hurry!’

  A minute later, Maillard was on the line.

  ‘I just passed the killer. He’s on his way down, in one of the gondolas with his next victim. I’ve had them stop the cables. Take some men and get over to the gondola station! As soon as you’ve taken up position, we’ll start them again.’

  There was a moment of shock at the other end of the line.

  ‘Are you sure?’ stammered Maillard.

  ‘Absolutely. The victim is Perrault. He called for help twenty-five minutes ago. He told me to meet him up there. I just passed him in a gondola that was on its way down – he had a rope round his neck, and next to him was a man wearing a balaclava!’

  ‘Good God! I’ll give the alarm. As soon as we’re ready we’ll call you!’

  ‘Try to reach Captain Ziegler, too. My mobile isn’t working.’

  Maillard came back on the line after twelve minutes had passed, which Servaz had spent pacing back and forth on the platform, looking at his watch and smoking one cigarette after another.

  ‘We’re ready,’ said the gendarme on the telephone.

  ‘Good. I’ll get the gondolas going again. Perrault and the assassin are in one of them! I’m coming!’

  He motioned to the driver, then jumped into one of the gondolas. Just as it was pulling away, he could tell something was wrong. The killer had planned to push Perrault out into the void and watch him dangling from the end of a rope – and he certainly had no intention of reaching the bottom along with his victim. Servaz wondered if there was a place where the killer could jump from the moving gondola, and no sooner had he asked himself the question than he knew there must be.

  Had Maillard and his men planned for such an eventuality? Were they checking all the paths leading up to the mountain?

  He tried once again to dial Ziegler’s number, but he got the same answer as before. As on the way up, he was moving through fog, unable to see anything but the shapes of the trees and the empty cars he met along the way. Suddenly he heard the flap flap of a helicopter’s blades, but he could not see the aircraft. It did seem to him, however, that the noise was coming not from above but from below.

  What was going on down there? With his nose on the windowpane he tried to see through the fog. But he could see no further than twenty metres. Suddenly the gondolas came to a halt, so abruptly that he almost lost his balance. For Christ’s sake! He banged his nose against the window and the pain brought tears to his eyes. What were they doing down there? He looked around. The gondolas were swinging gently on their cables, like lanterns at a village fair; the wind had dropped and the snow was falling almost vertically now. He tried once again to use his mobile, with no more luck than before.

  In the three-quarters of an hour that followed he was prisoner of his plastic bubble, observing the circle of fir trees and fog. After half an hour had gone by the gondola suddenly swerved, moved three metres further along, then stopped again. Servaz swore. What were they up to? He stood up, sat back down, stood up again. There was not even room enough to stretch his legs. When at last the gondolas jerked forward, he’d been sitting down for a long time, resigned to wait.

  Just as he was approaching the lower station the fog lifted all of a sudden and the roofs of the town became visible. Servaz saw the flashing of revolving lights and many vehicles in the car park. Uniformed gendarmes were coming and going. He could also make out the white-clad figures of the CSIs, and the body laid out on a gurney beneath a silver tarp, next to an ambulance with an open tailgate.

  He froze.

  Perrault was dead.

  They had stopped the gondolas in order to make the initial findings. Then they had taken him down and restarted the cars. Servaz knew at once that the killer had managed to get away. As soon as the pivoting arm opened the door, he burst out of the gondola and hurried across the concrete. He found Ziegler, Maillard, Confiant and d’Humières at the bottom of the steps. Ziegler was wearing a leather jumpsuit, but in several places the leather was torn: her knee and elbow were swollen, covered in bruises and scabs of dried blood. Clearly she hadn’t even had time to dress her wounds. She was still holding her helmet in her hands, and the visor was cracked.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘We should ask you that,’ retorted Confiant.

  Servaz glared at him. For a brief moment he wished that the young judge were a fragile figurine and that he were a hammer. Then he turned to Cathy d’Humières.

  ‘Is it Perrault?’ he asked, pointing to the body under the tarp.

  She nodded.

  ‘He called me,’ he explained. ‘He wanted to speak to me in person. He sounded afraid; he must have felt threatened. He told me to meet him up there. I alerted Captain Ziegler and got up there as quickly as I could.’

  ‘And you didn’t see fit to ask for reinforcements?’ asked Confiant.

  ‘There wasn’t time. He wanted me to come alone. He wanted to speak to me alone.’

  Confiant stared at him, his eyes bright with fury. Cathy d’Humières was thoughtful. Servaz glanced again at the covered shape on the gurney: the investigators were folding the wheels and loading it onto the ambulance. He couldn’t see the pathologist; he must have already left. Curious onlookers stood behind the police tape at the far end of the car park. There was a sudden flash. Then another one. The helicopter must have landed; he couldn’t hear it anymore.

  ‘And the killer?’ he said.

  ‘He got away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When we finally saw the gondola, there was a windowpane missing and Perrault was hanging underneath,’ said Maillard. ‘That’s when we blocked everything. There’s one spot where the go
ndolas go past a path that leads up to the resort. It’s a fairly wide path, and in winter it doubles as a ski trail if you want to ski back down to Saint-Martin. There’s a drop of about four metres between the gondolas and the path. But your guy probably got down using the other end of the rope he hanged Perrault with. After that, a good skier can be down here in three minutes.’

  ‘Where does the path come out?’

  ‘Behind the thermal baths.’ Maillard pointed to the mountain. ‘They’re in the east part of town. The path winds round the mountain and comes out just behind the building – it’s hidden from view.’

  Servaz pictured the big building he’d gone by twice already. There was a vast rectangular esplanade, with the baths at one end, abutting the mountain. Around the other three sides of the esplanade there were hotels and cafés. In the middle was a car park. And, consequently, dozens of cars.

  ‘That’s where we lost his trail,’ said Maillard.

  ‘Did you include the path in the crime scene?’

  ‘Yes, we closed off the entire area and a team of investigators is going over every metre from the gondolas to the car park at the baths.’

  ‘He had it all worked out,’ Ziegler commented.

  ‘And yet he didn’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘How did he know that Perrault had called for help?’ asked the gendarme.

  They thought about it for a while, but no one came up with a satisfactory explanation.

  ‘He used dynamic rope,’ said Maillard. ‘Good mountaineering equipment. He may have had it in his car all along, together with the skis. Then he could have put it in a backpack.’

  ‘Someone sporty,’ said Ziegler. ‘A cool customer.’

  Servaz nodded.

  ‘He must have had a weapon. Perrault would never have gone up with him otherwise. But I didn’t see any weapon, or skis, or backpack. It all happened so quickly. And I didn’t really notice what else was there.’

  Perrault’s face, distorted by fear. He could not get it out of his mind.

  ‘Where was he in relation to Perrault?’ asked Ziegler.

  ‘Perrault was closer to me, and the killer was behind him.’

  ‘Perrault may have had a gun to his back. Or perhaps a blade.’

  ‘It’s possible. Brilliantly staged, once again. In spite of the lack of time. He’s quick, and arrogant. Maybe too arrogant. When the gondolas came close to me, he hid behind Perrault,’ Servaz added, frowning.

  ‘Why would he do that, since he was wearing a balaclava?’

  ‘So that I wouldn’t see his eyes.’

  Ziegler gave him a sharp look.

  ‘You mean he was afraid you would recognise him?’

  ‘Yes. Which means that I’ve already seen him. And that I’ve seen him close up.We have to question the man at the ticket window,’ he said. ‘Ask him if he saw anyone.’

  ‘We already have. He recognised Perrault. After that, he’s categorical: no one went up until you did.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘You can also reach Saint-Martin 2000 by road. It takes roughly ten minutes from the south end of town. The killer had plenty of time to get up that way.’

  Servaz considered the lie of the land. From the square where the baths were located you left town on a road that ended twelve kilometres away, a stone’s throw from the Spanish border. That was the way he had gone to Grimm’s cabin. Another road branched off from that one and went up to the ski resort.

  ‘In that case, he would have needed two cars,’ he said. ‘One to get up there, and one waiting below.’

  ‘Yes. And probably someone waiting below,’ Ziegler said. ‘Outside the thermal baths. Unless a second vehicle had been parked there for a long time.’

  ‘The first car may still be up there. Did you set up a roadblock on the way to the resort?’ he asked Maillard.

  ‘Yes, we’re checking all the cars coming back down. And we’ll check all the ones that stayed up there.’

  ‘There are two killers,’ said Ziegler.

  Servaz looked at her.

  ‘Yes. There were two of them at the power plant – and there were two of them this time, too.’

  Something suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘We have to call the Institute, right away.’

  ‘We already have: Hirtmann is in his cell. He hasn’t left it all morning. Two people from the Institute spoke to him, and Xavier himself went to check.’

  Confiant was staring at Servaz, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

  ‘This time, the press will go to town,’ said d’Humières. ‘We’ll be all over the headlines, and not just the local press. I don’t want anyone going off on their own, making statements that are out of line.’

  Servaz and Ziegler didn’t say anything.

  ‘I suggest that Monsieur Confiant and I should take care of the press. The rest of you, absolute silence. The investigation is progressing; we have several leads. Nothing more. If they want details, let them come to me or to Martial.’

  ‘On condition that His Honour doesn’t use his statements to destroy our work,’ said Servaz.

  Cathy d’Humières shot him an icy look.

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘Commandant Servaz gave Dr Propp and me a rough time on our way back from the Institute the day before yesterday,’ said Confiant. ‘He lost his cool; he seemed to have it in for everyone.’

  The prosecutor turned to Servaz.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘“Lost my cool” … that’s a bit much,’ said Servaz sarcastically. ‘What I do know is that His Honour warned Dr Xavier that we were coming, and he didn’t consider it necessary to inform you, or us, of the fact, even though we had all agreed that it was supposed to be a surprise visit.’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked d’Humières icily, turning to Confiant.

  The young judge’s face fell.

  ‘Xavier is a friend of mine. I couldn’t decently show up there with the police without warning him.’

  ‘In that case, why didn’t you tell us?’ Cathy flung at him, her voice trembling with rage.

  Confiant looked down, sheepish.

  ‘I don’t know … it didn’t seem that important.’

  ‘Listen! We’re going to be in the spotlight.’ She jerked her chin furiously towards the reporters clustered behind the police tape. ‘We certainly mustn’t treat them to the sight of a divided team. Since that is how things are, we will speak with one voice: mine! I hope we’ll get somewhere soon with this investigation,’ she said, walking off. ‘And I want a meeting in thirty minutes to go over what we’ve got.’

  The look Martial Confiant gave Servaz as he walked away was worthy of a Taliban fighter happening upon a porn star.

  ‘Well, you certainly know how to make friends,’ said Ziegler as she watched them leave. ‘Did you say they were one behind the other in the gondola?’

  ‘Perrault and the killer? Yes.’

  ‘Compared to Perrault, was the killer shorter or taller?’

  Servaz thought.

  ‘Shorter.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  Servaz took a moment to consider this. How many witnesses had he interviewed in the course of his career? He knew how difficult it had been for some of them to answer this type of question. Now it was his turn, and he realised how disloyal memory can be.

  ‘Man,’ he said, after hesitating.

  ‘Why?’

  Ziegler had noticed his hesitation.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘Because of the way he moved, his attitude…’

  ‘Couldn’t it be, rather, because you find it difficult to imagine a woman doing such a thing?’

  He looked at her with a faint smile.

  ‘Perhaps. Why do you suppose Perrault felt he had to go up there?’

  ‘By the looks of it, he was running away from someone.’

  ‘In any case, we’ve got another hanging.’

  ‘But no severed finger, this time.’r />
  ‘Perhaps it was simply because the killer didn’t have time.’

  * * *

  ‘A blonde singer with a beard and big, feverish eyes, first name Kurt, 1993. Any idea who that could be?’

  ‘Kurt Cobain,’ answered Ziegler instantly. ‘You saw him in one of the kids’ rooms?’

  ‘Alice’s.’

  ‘The official version is that Kurt Cobain committed suicide,’ said the gendarme, limping over to Servaz’s car.

  ‘When?’ he asked, stopping short.

  ‘In 1994, I think. He shot himself.’

  ‘You think or you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. About the date, anyway. I was a fan at the time, and there were rumours that he was murdered.’

  ‘In 1994 … if that’s the case, then they weren’t copycat suicides,’ he concluded, starting to walk forward again. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘I’ll deal with that later.’

  * * *

  His mobile rang just as he was about to turn the ignition.

  ‘Servaz.’

  ‘It’s Vincent. What the fuck’s the matter with your mobile? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, ignoring Espérandieu’s question.

  ‘The signet ring: we found out what’s inscribed on it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Two letters: a C and an S.’

  ‘C S?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Servaz thought for a moment. Then something else occurred to him.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten the favour I asked you?’ he said.

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘About Margot.’

  ‘Oh, blast, damn, hell. Yes, I did forget.’

  ‘And what’s the latest on the homeless bloke?’

  ‘Oh, right, we got the results back for the prints: all three kids were there. But that doesn’t change much – according to Samira, the judge is going with the drowning hypothesis.’

  A shadow passed over Servaz’s face.

  ‘Someone must be leaning on him. The autopsy will settle it. It looks as if Clément’s father has connections.’

  ‘While the others certainly don’t: the judge wants to interview the oldest one again, the son of the unemployed bloke. He thinks he’s the instigator.’