The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  ‘I made something light,’ said Saint-Cyr. ‘Per your request. Trout in an almond sauce. It’s a Spanish recipe. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

  He went to the kitchen and came back with two steaming plates. Servaz took another sip of wine, then started on the trout. An enticing aroma rose from his plate. The sauce was light but deliciously spiced, with a hint of almonds, garlic, lemon and parsley.

  ‘Do you think someone might be taking revenge for the teenagers?’

  Servaz nodded with a grimace. His throat hurt with every swallow. He soon lost his appetite and pushed back his plate.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. I’ll get you a coffee.’

  Servaz thought of the heart carved in the tree bark. With the five names. Five of the seven suicide victims.

  ‘So the rumours were justified,’ said Saint-Cyr as he came back with Servaz’s coffee. ‘It’s incredible that we missed that diary. And that we didn’t manage to find the least little clue to confirm the theory.’

  Servaz understood that while the judge was relieved the truth was finally out, he was feeling what any person would when they’ve been chasing after something for years and suddenly, just when they have become resigned to the fact they will never reach it, someone else seizes it: the feeling that he had missed the very crux of the matter, that he had been wasting his time.

  ‘In the end your hunch was correct,’ Servaz pointed out. ‘And apparently the men never took off their capes when they committed the appalling acts, never showed their faces to their victims.’

  ‘But not one of their victims ever spoke out!’

  ‘That is often the case, as you well know. The truth comes to light many years later, when the victims have grown up, when they’ve gained some confidence and are no longer afraid of their torturers.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve already had a look at the list of the children who stayed at the holiday camp?’ asked Saint-Cyr.

  ‘What list?’

  The judge looked surprised.

  ‘The one I made of all the children who’d stayed at the holiday camp, the one in the box I gave you.’

  ‘There was no list in the box,’ Servaz said.

  Saint-Cyr seemed offended.

  ‘Of course there was! You think I’ve gone mad? All the documents are there, I’m sure of it. Including that one. At the time, I tried to find a link between the suicide victims and the children who had been at the holiday camp, as I told you. I figured that there might have been other, earlier suicides that had not been noticed because they were isolated incidents, other children who had taken their own lives. That would have confirmed my hunch that the suicides were connected with Les Isards. So I went to the town hall and I got a list of all the children who had been at the camp since it began. That list is in the box.’

  Saint-Cyr did not like it when anyone cast doubt on what he said, thought Servaz. Or on his intellectual capacities. The man seemed absolutely sure of himself.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t find any list like that.’

  The judge shook his head.

  ‘You have everything. I was meticulous back then. Not like nowadays. I made photocopies of every document in the file. I am certain that list was there.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Follow me.’

  They went along a corridor with fine floor tiles of aged grey stone. The judge went through a low door and switched on the light. Servaz found himself surrounded by utter chaos, a dusty little office in an indescribable mess. Bookshelves, chairs and coffee tables, covered with law books piled every which way, stacks of files and folders spilling reams of paper precariously held together. There were even some on the floor and in the corners. Saint-Cyr grumbled as he rummaged through a pile that was stacked thirty centimetres high on a chair. Then another. Finally, after five minutes had gone by, he stood up straight with some stapled sheets and handed them triumphantly to Servaz.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Servaz looked at the list. Dozens of names over two columns on three pages. He let his gaze wander down the columns, and at first none of the names gave him pause. Then there was the first familiar name: Alice Ferrand. He went on reading. Ludovic Asselin. Another suicide victim. He found the third one a bit further along: Florian Vanloot. He was looking for the names of the two other teens who had stayed at the camp before their suicide when his gaze came upon another name, a completely unexpected name.

  A name that should never have been on that list.

  It made him dizzy. Servaz shuddered as if he had just been given an electric shock. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. He blinked, opened them again. The name was still there, along with the other children. Irène Ziegler.

  Shit, it can’t be!

  24

  He sat at the wheel of the Cherokee for a long time, staring blankly through the windscreen. He did not see the snowflakes, or the layer of snow rising on the road. A streetlamp cast a circle of light over the snow; the lights in the mill went out one after the other, except for one, surely the bedroom. Servaz thought the old judge must read in bed. He didn’t close the shutters. There was no point: a burglar would have to swim against the current and climb along the wall to reach the windows. That was at least as effective as a dog or a burglar alarm.

  Irène Ziegler. Her name was on the list. What could it mean? He remembered how he had come back to the gendarmerie after his first visit with Saint-Cyr with that box in his arms. He saw her again, going off with it to sort the documents one by one. Saint-Cyr had been categorical: the list of children who had stayed at the camp had been there then. But what if the old man was senile? Perhaps he was losing his memory and didn’t want to admit it. Perhaps he had put the list somewhere else. But there was another possibility, a far more disturbing one. Which held that Servaz had never seen the list because Irène Ziegler had removed it. She had shown very little inclination to remember the events when he had first spoken to her about them. Suddenly another image came to him, when he was stuck on the cable car and trying to reach her. She should have got there long before him, she wasn’t as far away, but when he got to the cable cars she wasn’t there. She had said that she’d had a motorcycle accident, that she was on her way. Only afterwards did he see her: by then Perrault was already dead.

  He rubbed his eyelids. He was exhausted, at the end of his tether; his body was nothing but a tangle of pain, and suspicious thoughts were spreading through his mind like a lethal poison. Others came to him: she knew about horses; she handled her car and her helicopter expertly; she knew the region like the back of her hand. He remembered how that very morning she had spoken up to say that she would take care of the visit to the town hall – she already knew what she would find. That list was the only trace that could lead to her. Had she also gone through Chaperon’s papers so she would know where to find him? Was she the one who had tried to kill him at the holiday camp? Who’d been holding the rope and the plastic bag? He couldn’t believe it.

  Fatigue was muddling his thoughts. He couldn’t think straight anymore. What should he do? He had no proof she was guilty in any way.

  He looked at the clock on the dashboard and picked up his phone to call Espérandieu.

  ‘Martin? What’s going on?’

  Servaz told him about the retired judge and his files, then explained what he had just discovered. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Do you think it’s her?’ said Espérandieu finally, sceptical.

  ‘She wasn’t with me when I saw Perrault in the cabin with the murderer. The person wearing a balaclava, who hid behind Perrault when we passed each other so that I wouldn’t see his eyes. She should have got there before me – but she didn’t. She only got there long afterwards. She went to the holiday camp and she never mentioned it. She’s familiar with horses, she knows the mountains, she’s physically fit, and I’m sure she can use a climbing rope.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ exclaimed Espér
andieu, shaken.

  He was speaking in a low voice and Servaz guessed he must be in bed, Charlène asleep beside him.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Servaz.

  Silence. Despite the distance he could tell that Espérandieu must be stunned. He wasn’t used to his boss handing the reins over to him.

  ‘You sound funny.’

  ‘I’m exhausted. I think I may have a fever too.’

  He didn’t tell him about the attack at the holiday camp; he didn’t feel like talking about it.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Servaz looked down the deserted street.

  ‘Outside Saint-Cyr’s house.’

  He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Behind him, too, the road was lifeless and deserted. The last houses, a hundred metres away, were tightly shuttered. The only movement was the snow, falling thick and silent.

  ‘Go back to the hotel,’ said Espérandieu. ‘Don’t do anything just now. I’m coming.’

  ‘When? This evening?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll get dressed and be on my way. Do you know where Ziegler is?’

  ‘I suppose she’s at home.’

  ‘Or out looking for Chaperon. Maybe you could call her, just to find out.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘I don’t know – that you don’t feel well, that you’re sick. You’re exhausted, you said as much yourself. It’s clear from your voice. Tell her you’ll stay in bed tomorrow, that you can’t take it anymore. And then you’ll see how she reacts.’

  Servaz smiled. After what had happened, she would have no trouble believing it.

  * * *

  ‘Martin? What’s going on?’

  He listened carefully. The muted sounds of a television in the background. Ziegler was at home. Or at someone else’s place. A flat? A house? He couldn’t picture the place where she lived. In any case, she wasn’t out of doors, roaming about like a famished wolf in pursuit of the mayor. Or of him. He saw her again in her black jumpsuit, her high boots, with her powerful motorbike; he saw her sitting at the helicopter controls. All of a sudden he was certain she was the one.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m just calling to say I’m taking a break. I have to sleep.’

  ‘You’re not feeling any better?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think straight anymore. I can’t think, full stop. I’m exhausted and my throat is killing me.’ No lie was better than the one that contained a portion of truth. ‘Do you think you can cope alone tomorrow? We’ve got to find Chaperon, no matter what.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘You’re not up to it just now, anyway. Get some rest. I’ll call you as soon as there’s anything new. In the meantime I’m going to get to bed, too. You said it: got to be able to think straight.’

  ‘Night, Irène.’

  He hung up and called his assistant.

  ‘Espérandieu,’ said Espérandieu.

  ‘She’s at home. Or in any case there was a TV on in the background.’

  ‘But she wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Like plenty of other people who stay up late. Where are you now?’

  ‘On the motorway. I’ll stop for petrol and carry on. I’ve never seen the countryside so dark. I’ll be there in fifty minutes. Do you suppose we should go and wait outside her place?’

  He hesitated. Would he have the strength?

  ‘I don’t even know where she lives.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I’ll call d’Humières.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  Servaz put his mobile on the bed, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He would have liked to drink a coffee, but he couldn’t count on it to help. Then he went back into the bedroom and rang Cathy d’Humières.

  ‘Martin! For Christ’s sake! Have you seen the time? You should be asleep, the state you’re in.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s urgent.’

  He guessed the prosecutor must be sitting up in bed now.

  ‘Another victim?’

  ‘No. A stroke of bad luck. We have a new suspect. But I can’t tell anyone about it at the moment. Except you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ said d’Humières, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘Captain Ziegler.’

  A long silence on the line.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  He did. He told her about Saint-Cyr’s list, and about how Irène was absent at the time of Perrault’s death, her reluctance to speak about her childhood or her stay at the holiday camp, her white lies regarding her personal life.

  ‘That doesn’t prove she’s guilty,’ said d’Humières.

  Typical jurist’s point of view, he thought. From his own point of view, Irène Ziegler was now his number one suspect.

  ‘But you’re right, this is disturbing. I don’t like this business with the list one bit. What do you want from me? I don’t think you’d be calling me at this time of night just to tell me something that could have waited until tomorrow.’

  ‘We need her address. I don’t have it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I asked Espérandieu to meet me.’

  ‘You’re going to trail her? Tonight?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Good God! Martin! You should be asleep! Have you looked at yourself lately?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘I don’t like this. Be careful. If it is her, it could become dangerous. She’s killed two men already. And no doubt she can handle a gun just as well as you.’

  A flattering understatement, he thought. He was a lousy shot. And his assistant wasn’t exactly Dirty Harry.

  ‘Call me back in five minutes. I have to make one or two calls,’ she said.

  Espérandieu knocked on the door forty minutes later. Servaz opened it. His assistant had snowflakes on his anorak and in his hair.

  ‘Have you got a glass of water and some coffee?’ he said, a bottle of aspirin in his hand. Then he looked up and saw his boss. ‘Fucking hell!’

  * * *

  At roughly the time Servaz was leaving Saint-Cyr’s house, Diane was still at her desk.

  She wondered what she ought to do now. She felt she was ready to take action – but did that mean she really wanted to? She was still tempted to behave as if everything were normal, and to forget what she had found out. Should she talk it over with Spitzner? At first she was keen, but on second thoughts she changed her mind. To be honest, she didn’t know who to turn to.

  She was alone, left to her own devices. She checked the time in the corner of her screen.

  Eleven fifteen.

  The Institute was silent except for the wind gusting against the window. She had just finished entering the data from the day’s interviews into an Excel spreadsheet. Xavier had left his office long ago. It was now or never. She had butterflies in her stomach. What would happen if she got caught? Better not to even think about it.

  * * *

  ‘There she is.’

  Espérandieu handed him the binoculars. Servaz trained them on the little three-storey building at the bottom of the hill. Irène Ziegler was standing in the middle of the living room, a mobile phone to her ear. She seemed to be speaking loudly, and was dressed like she was about to go out, not like someone planning to spend their evening in front of the telly before going to bed.

  ‘She doesn’t look like she’s about to go to sleep,’ said Espérandieu, taking the binoculars again.

  They were on a little rise at the edge of a car park, twenty kilometres from Saint-Martin. The car park was surrounded by a hedge. They had slipped into the space between two bushes. An icy wind rattled the hedge. Servaz turned up the collar of his jacket, and Espérandieu was sheltering beneath the hood of his anorak, which was turning white. Servaz was shaking with cold, and his teeth were chattering. It was forty-two minutes after midnight.

  ‘She’s coming out!’ said Espérandieu;
he saw her grab a biker’s jacket near her front door.

  A moment later she had slammed the door to the flat. He lowered the binoculars to the entrance of the building, where Ziegler appeared twenty seconds later. She went down the steps and headed towards her motorcycle, despite the snow.

  ‘Shit! I don’t believe it!’

  They ran towards the car. The rear wheels skidded slightly in the bend at the foot of the hill, just in time for them to see the motorcycle turn right at the top of the street. When they reached the crossroads, the traffic light had turned red. They went through it. It was unlikely they’d run into anyone at this time of night, in this weather. They were on a long avenue white with snow. In the distance Ziegler was driving very slowly. Which made things easier for them, but also made it more likely they’d be noticed, because they were completely alone, just Ziegler and them, on the long white road.

  ‘She’ll spot us if this goes on,’ said Espérandieu, slowing down.

  They left the little town behind and drove for ten minutes or more at a slow pace, going through deserted villages, past fields of white, with the mountains on either side. Espérandieu had let her get quite far ahead, until they could only just make out the tail light of her bike shining through the darkness as faintly as the lit end of a cigarette.

  ‘Where on earth is she going?’

  Servaz could hear in Espérandieu’s voice the same bewilderment he felt. He didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you think she’s found Chaperon?’

  Servaz stiffened at the thought. He felt his tension rising; he was filled with apprehension at the prospect of what might happen. Everything seemed to indicate that he was on the right track: she had lied to him; she hadn’t gone to bed but was going out in the middle of the night, unbeknown to everyone. He couldn’t stop mulling over all the evidence that pointed to her.

  ‘She’s turned right.’

  Servaz strained to see ahead. She had just left the road for a car park outside a low rectangular building that looked like one of the countless commercial warehouses found along main roads. Through the snow they saw a neon light shining in the dark. It formed a woman’s luminous profile; she was smoking a cigarette and wearing a bowler hat. The smoke from the cigarette spelled out the words ‘Pink Banana’. Espérandieu slowed down again. They saw Ziegler stop the motorcycle and dismount.