The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Don’t move, mate! I’ll be right back! thought Espérandieu, almost speaking out loud.

  He put his hand inside his anorak. His mobile wasn’t there! Espérandieu looked desperately down the road. The motorcycle was long gone. Shit, shit, shit! He rushed to the car, leaned in and ran his hand under the seats. Nothing! Not a trace of the damned phone. Not on the seat, or on the floor. Where was the fucking thing?

  * * *

  No matter how Servaz turned the map, he could find no hint of a place where Chaperon might be hiding. But maybe Ziegler hadn’t needed to mark it. Maybe all she’d had to do was glance at it to check something she already knew. Servaz stared at Saint-Martin, with its ski resort, the surrounding valleys and summits, the road he’d taken to get here and the one that led to the power station, the holiday camp, the Institute and all the surrounding villages.

  He looked around him. A sheet of paper on the desk caught his attention. One paper among many.

  He reached for it. The deed to some property. His pulse began to race. A deed in the name of Roland Chaperon, resident of Saint-Martin-de-Comminges. There was an address: Chemin 12, sector 4, valley of Aure, municipality of Hourcade. Servaz swore. He didn’t have time to go and consult the property register. Then he noticed that Ziegler had written a letter and number in red felt tip at the bottom of the sheet. D4. That was it. With moist palms he held the sheet of paper closer while his finger ran feverishly over the map.

  * * *

  Espérandieu retraced his steps and saw the mobile phone in the road. He rushed to pick it up. It was in two pieces, the plastic shell split open. He tried to dial Servaz all the same, in vain. He was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Martin! The dog let out a heartbreaking whimper. Espérandieu looked at him. What the fuck! What is this nightmare!

  He yanked open the rear door, went back to the dog and lifted him up. He was heavy. The dog growled, threateningly, but let himself be carried. Espérandieu settled him on the back seat, slammed the door and got back behind the wheel. He glanced at the clock. Twenty past two! Ziegler would be back any minute. Martin, get out of there, now! For the love of Christ! He took off like a shot into a sideways skid, righted the car at the last minute and tore down the white road, clinging to the wheel like a rally driver. His heart was going 160 a minute.

  * * *

  A cross, a tiny cross in red ink that he had originally failed to see. Right in the middle of square D4. Servaz was jubilant. On the map there was a tiny black square in the middle of a deserted zone of forests and mountains. A chalet, a cabin? It hardly mattered. Now Servaz knew where Ziegler would be headed.

  Suddenly he remembered the time: twenty past two. There was something wrong. Espérandieu should have called him ages ago. Ziegler had left the club sixteen minutes earlier! That was more than enough time to … He felt a cold sweat down his spine. He had to get out of there, right away. He cast a panicked look at the door, put the map back where he had found it, turned off all the lights and went into the living room. He heard a rumbling outside. Servaz hurried to the window, just in time to see Ziegler’s motorbike. He went cold all over. She’s here already!

  He quickly switched off the living-room light.

  Then he hurried to the front door, left the flat and closed the door gently behind him. His hand was trembling so much he almost dropped the skeleton key. He locked the door and started down the stairs, then stopped short after a few steps. Where was he going? This would lead nowhere. If he went out this way, he’d find himself face to face with her. He had a shock when he heard the front door creak open, two floors further down. He was trapped. He went back up the stairs two at a time, as silently as possible, and found himself back where he had started: the second-floor landing. He looked all around. There was no way out, no hiding place – Ziegler lived on the top floor.

  His heart was thudding in his chest, fit to tunnel right through it. He tried to think. She would show up any second and find him there. How would she react? He was supposed to be sick in bed, and it was almost two thirty in the morning. Think! But he couldn’t. He had no choice. He got out the skeleton key once again, opened the door, then locked it behind him. Then he rushed into the living room. The damned flat was too bare. There was nowhere to hide! For a split second he thought about turning the light on, sitting down and greeting her like that, as casual as could be. He would tell her that he had let himself in. That he had something important to tell her. No! That was stupid! He was sweating, out of breath; she would see the fear in his eyes straight away. He should have waited for her out on the landing. What an idiot! Now it was too late! Would she go so far as to kill him?

  With an icy shiver he thought that she had already tried. At the holiday camp, that very morning. The thought of it revived him. You have to hide! In a few strides he was in the bedroom. He slipped under the bed just as he heard a key in the front door.

  As he crawled deeper, he could see her boots in the hall. His chin against the floor, his face dripping with sweat – it was like a nightmare. Something not quite real, something that could not happen.

  He heard her drop her keys noisily onto the chest in the entrance. For a moment of absolute terror he thought she was coming straight into the bedroom.

  But then he saw the boots vanish into the living room, and heard the squeaking of her leather jumpsuit. He was about to wipe the sweat off his face with his sleeve when suddenly he froze: he’d forgotten to switch off his mobile.

  * * *

  The dog was whimpering on the back seat. But at least he wasn’t moving. Espérandieu started into the last bend the way he had in all of them: virtually out of control. The rear of the car seemed to want to pull away, but he declutched, swung the wheel the opposite way, stepped briefly on the accelerator and managed to straighten up.

  Ziegler’s building.

  He parked outside, reached for his gun and leapt out. He looked up and saw that there was light in the living room. Ziegler’s motorcycle was there, too. But no sign of Martin. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the moaning of the wind.

  Shit, Martin, show yourself!

  Espérandieu was desperately scanning the surroundings when an idea came to him. He got back behind the wheel and started the car. The dog protested faintly.

  ‘I know, old boy. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’

  He drove back up the short, steep hill that led to the car park, reached for his binoculars and crept into the space in the hedge just in time to see Ziegler walking out of her kitchen with a bottle of milk. She had tossed her jacket onto the sofa. He saw her take a drink, then remove the belt from her leather trousers and pull off her boots. Then she left the living room. A light came on in the small frosted-glass window on the left. The bathroom. She was taking a shower. Where had Martin got to? Had he had time to make his escape? If so, then where was he hiding, for Christ’s sake? Espérandieu swallowed. There was another window between the bathroom and the big one in the living room. Since the blinds were up and the door was open, he could just make out what must be a bedroom. Suddenly a figure emerged from under the bed. The shadow stood up, hesitated for a moment, then left the bedroom and headed stealthily towards the front door. Martin! Espérandieu felt like shouting for joy, but merely trained his binoculars on the entrance to the building until Servaz appeared at last. A smile lit up Espérandieu’s face. Servaz looked from left to right, hunting for him, until Espérandieu put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  Servaz looked up and saw him. He pointed upwards and Espérandieu understood. He trained his binoculars on the windows; Irène Ziegler was still in the shower. He motioned to Servaz to go to the side of the building and he climbed back into the car. One minute later his boss was opening the passenger door.

  ‘Shit, where were you?’ asked Servaz, a puff of white coming from his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you—’

  He broke off when he saw the dog lying on the back seat.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A dog.’


  ‘I can see that. What’s it doing there?’

  Espérandieu described the accident briefly. Servaz got into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

  ‘You let me down for a … dog?’

  Espérandieu made an apologetic face.

  ‘It’s my Brigitte Bardot side. And besides, my mobile is in pieces. You scared the shit out of me! We really fucked up on this one.’

  In the dark car Servaz was shaking his head.

  ‘It’s entirely my fault. You were right, it wasn’t a very good idea.’

  It was one of the things Espérandieu liked about Martin. Unlike so many bosses, he knew how to admit when he was wrong, and how to take responsibility for his mistakes.

  ‘But I found something all the same,’ he added.

  He told him about the map. And the property deed. He took out a piece of paper where he’d written down the coordinates. They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘We have to call Samira and the others. We’ll need reinforcements.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t leave any trace?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Other than a litre of sweat under the bed.’

  ‘OK, that’s good,’ said Espérandieu. ‘We’ve got something more urgent to deal with.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The dog. We have to find a vet. Right away.’

  Servaz looked at his assistant and wondered if he were joking. Vincent looked as serious as could be. Servaz turned round and stared at the animal. The dog looked very weak; he was in a bad way. He lifted his nose from the seat and looked at Servaz with gentle eyes, sad and resigned.

  ‘Ziegler is taking a shower,’ said his assistant. ‘She won’t be going out again tonight. She knows she’s got all day tomorrow to get Chaperon, because you’re supposed to be staying at home. She’ll do it in broad daylight.’

  Servaz hesitated.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll call the gendarmerie and find out where there’s a vet. In the meantime, you get Samira out of bed and tell her to get down here with two more officers.’

  Espérandieu looked at his watch – a quarter to three – and took Servaz’s phone. He was on the line with Samira for a good ten minutes. Then he hung up and turned to his boss. Next to him, his head against the door, Servaz was sound asleep.

  25

  The camp bed creaked when he sat up, swung his legs out from under the blankets and put his bare feet on the cold tiles. A tiny, unfurnished room. As he gave a yawn and switched on the bedside lamp, Servaz remembered that he had been dreaming about Charlène Espérandieu: they had been making love in a hospital corridor while the doctors and nurses walked past them, oblivious. On the hospital floor? He looked down at his morning erection, and burst out laughing from the strangeness of the situation. He found his watch, which had slid under the bed; it was six o’clock in the morning. He reached for the clean clothes that had been laid out on a chair. The shirt was too big, but the trousers were the right length. Servaz headed for the showers at the end of the corridor. Ziegler had been placed under constant surveillance, and he preferred to sleep at the gendarmerie rather than the hotel, to keep an eye on the operation.

  The showers were deserted. There was a nasty draught, spoiling the feeble efforts of a radiator. Servaz knew that the gendarmes slept in the other wing, where they had their own accommodation; these premises did not get used very often. Which didn’t stop him from swearing when he turned on the hot water tap and a trickle, scarcely lukewarm, condescended to emerge from the shower head.

  Every movement he made caused him to wince in pain. He started thinking. He felt certain that Irène Ziegler was guilty, but there were still some grey areas, some doors to open in the long corridor that led to the truth. Ziegler had surely been raped by the four men, along with other women in the region. The books he had seen in her flat were proof that the trauma was still raw. Grimm and Perrault had been killed for what they had done – but why had they been hanged? Because of the suicide victims? Or was there another reason? There was one detail that obsessed him: Chaperon had fled as if he had the devil on his heels. Did he know who the assassin was?

  Servaz tried to reassure himself: Ziegler was being watched, and they knew where Chaperon was hiding – they held all the cards.

  It might have been the icy air, or the water that was getting colder by the second, or the memory of his head imprisoned in a plastic bag – for whatever reason, he could not stop trembling. In the deserted shower room, he felt pure fear.

  * * *

  He was waiting in the incident room with his coffee when the others started to arrive. Maillard, Confiant, Cathy d’Humières, Espérandieu and two other members of the squad – Pujol and Simeoni, the narrow-minded heavies who had it in for Vincent. Everyone sat down and checked their notes before they began and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling paper. Servaz observed their pale, tired faces; they were all on edge. The tension was palpable. He wrote a few words on his pad while waiting for everyone to get ready; then he began.

  He summed up the situation. When he told them what had happened to him at the holiday camp, a heavy silence fell. Pujol and Simeoni were watching him closely. Both of them seemed to be thinking that it would never have happened to them. Perhaps it was true. They might well represent the worst side of the profession, but they were good in tough situations.

  Then he began to detail Ziegler’s guilt, and this time it was Maillard who went pale. The atmosphere was heavy. For the cops to suspect a gendarme of murder – this was a recipe for all sorts of conflict.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all,’ said d’Humières soberly.

  He had rarely seen her looking so wan. Her careworn features gave her a sickly complexion. He glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. Ziegler would be getting up soon. As if to confirm his thoughts, his mobile rang.

  ‘We’re on – she’s getting up,’ said Samira Cheung on the line.

  ‘Pujol,’ he said at once, ‘get over there with Samira. Ziegler has just woken up. And I want a third car for backup. She’s one of us, so I don’t want her to spot you. Simeoni, you take the third car. Don’t follow too closely. Besides, we know where she’s headed. It would be better to lose her than have her find out you’re following her.’

  Pujol and Simeoni left the room without a word. Servaz got up and went over to the large map of the region on the wall. For a moment his gaze went back and forth between his pad and the map; then he stabbed his finger on the exact spot. He turned and looked at his colleagues.

  ‘There.’

  * * *

  A twist of smoke rose from a chimney on the moss-covered roof of the hut. Servaz looked around him. Grey clouds were draped over the wooded slopes. The air smelled of damp, fog, mulch and wood smoke. Below the spot where they stood, they could see the cabin down in the hollow of a small snow-filled valley, accessible by a single path. Out of sight, three gendarmes and a park ranger were keeping watch on the approach. Servaz turned to Espérandieu and Maillard, who replied with a nod; accompanied by a dozen men or more, they began to head slowly downhill.

  Suddenly they stopped. A man had just come out of the hut. He stretched in the morning light, sniffed the air, spat on the ground, and they could hear him let out a fart as loud as a shepherd’s horn. Oddly, a bird with a mocking cackle called out in reply. The man looked round one last time, then went back inside.

  Servaz recognised him instantly, in spite of the beard.

  Chaperon.

  They reached the clearing behind the cabin. The humidity was like a Turkish bath, although not nearly as warm. Servaz looked at the others; they split into two groups. They moved slowly forward, sinking into the snow up to their knees, then crouched down below eye level to go round to the front door. Servaz was leading the first group. Just as he went round the corner to the front of the hut, the door opened. Servaz stepped backwards, his gun in his hand. He saw Chaperon take three steps, undo his flies and piss copiously into the sno
w, humming a little tune.

  ‘Finish pissing and get your hands in the air, Pavarotti,’ said Servaz behind him.

  The mayor swore: he had just splattered his shoes.

  * * *

  Diane had spent a hell of a night. She had woken up bathed in sweat four times, with such a feeling of oppression that it was as if she was wearing a corset. The sheets, too, were soaked. She wondered if she had caught something.

  She remembered having a nightmare: she was bound up in a straitjacket, tied to the bed in one of the cells in the Institute and surrounded by a horde of patients touching her face with damp hands. She was shaking her head and screaming, until her cell door opened and Julian Hirtmann came in, a nasty smile on his lips. A moment later Diane was no longer in her cell but in a much vaster space, out of doors; it was night time, there was a lake and fires, and thousands of huge insects with birds’ heads were crawling on the dark ground, and she could see the naked bodies of men and women fucking, hundreds of them in the reddish glow of the flames. Hirtmann was one of them and Diane understood that he had organised this gigantic orgy. She panicked when she discovered that she was naked, too, on her bed, still tied up but without the straitjacket – and she struggled until she woke up.

  She stood under the shower for a long while, trying to get rid of the sticky sensation left by her dream.

  Now she was wondering how she should behave. Every time she thought of speaking to Xavier she remembered the shipment of veterinary anaesthetics and felt ill at ease. Was she throwing herself into the lion’s jaws? It was like one of those 3-D photographs, where the picture changes depending on how you hold it: she could not keep the image stable. What was the psychiatrist’s role in all of this?

  Judging by the clues she had at her disposal, Xavier seemed to be in the same situation: he knew from the cops that someone at the Institute was involved in the murders, and he was trying to find out who. Except that he was ahead of her, and had a host of information she did not. But then only a few days before the animal’s death he had received a shipment of drugs used to put a horse to sleep. Which always led her back to the same point: two completely contradictory facts, and yet both were true. Could it be that Xavier had merely passed the anaesthetics on to someone else, without knowing what was going to happen? In that case, the person’s name should have shown up in her search. Diane just didn’t get it.