The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Problem: she was no hacker. For ten minutes or more, she racked her brains in search of a password, tried keying in various versions of Julian Hirtmann and Lisa Ferney, but none of her pathetic attempts worked. She went back to the drawer where she had seen a folder containing personal documents and started with telephone and Social Security numbers, trying forwards and backwards, then date of birth, a combination of the head nurse’s first and middle names, a mix of her initials and her date of birth, all to no avail. Shit!

  Her gaze fell on the salamander.

  She typed ‘salamander’ and ‘rednamalas’.

  Nothing.

  She looked one more time at the animal. With a sudden wild thought she picked it up and turned it over. On its belly was inscribed, ‘Van Cleef & Arpels, New York.’ She keyed the names into the computer. Nothing. Shit! This is ridiculous! Like one of those stupid spy films! She tried reversing the names. Nothing there either. What did you expect, girl? We’re not at the cinema! At a total loss, she tried the initials on their own: VC&ANY. Nothing. So, backwards now: YNA&CV.

  Suddenly the screen began blinking, then loaded the operating system. Bingo! Diane could not believe her eyes. She waited for the desktop to appear.

  The game can begin. But time was passing. Nine thirty-two.

  She prayed that Lisa Ferney really would be out all night long.

  * * *

  The emails.

  There were over a hundred, from a mysterious Demetrius.

  For each of them, in the subject column was written: ‘Encrypted email.’

  She opened one and found nothing but incomprehensible symbols. Diane knew what this meant, for it had happened to her at university: the certificate used to encrypt the message had expired and as a result it was no longer possible for the recipient to decrypt it.

  Her mind was racing.

  As a rule, to avoid this problem, the recipient was advised to save the messages right away. That is what she would have done in Lisa Ferney’s shoes. She opened ‘My Documents’ and then ‘My Inbox’ and saw it at once: a folder entitled ‘Demetrius’.

  Lisa Ferney had not taken any further precautions: her computer was already locked and she knew that no one would have dared to go into it anyway.

  Lisa

  I’m in New York until Sunday. Central Park is all white and there’s an arctic cold. It’s magnificent. I think about you. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat and I know that I’ve been dreaming about your body, your lips. I hope to be in Saint-Martin in ten days’ time.

  Éric

  Lisa

  I’m leaving Friday for Kuala Lumpur. Can we meet before that? I’ll be at the chateau. Come.

  Éric

  Where are you, Lisa?

  Why haven’t I heard from you? Are you still angry with me? I have a present for you. I bought it at Boucheron. Very pricey. You’ll love it.

  Love letters. Well, emails. There were dozens of them. Perhaps even hundreds. Spread over several years.

  Lisa Ferney had carefully saved them. All of them. And they were all signed by ‘Éric’. Éric travelled a great deal, Éric was rich, and Éric’s wishes were more like commands. Éric favoured striking images and was a pathologically jealous lover.

  Waves of jealousy wash over me and every one leaves me gasping for breath. I wonder who you’re fucking. I know you, Lisa: how long can you go without a piece of meat to stuff between your thighs? Swear to me that there is no one else.

  And sometimes, when neither threats nor grievances seemed to work, Éric would indulge in self-mortification.

  You must think I’m a filthy bastard, a complete idiot. I don’t deserve you, Lisa. I was wrong to think I could buy you. Can you forgive me?

  Diane scrolled down to the end, moving forward in time to the present day. She saw that his tone had changed in the more recent emails. It was no longer just a love story. Something else was going on.

  You’re right. The time has come to take action. I’ve waited too long: if we don’t do it now, we’ll never do it. I haven’t forgotten our pact, Lisa. And you know that my word is my bond.

  Seeing you so strong and determined gives me courage. I think you’re right: no legal system on earth will give us peace of mind. We have to do it ourselves.

  We have waited so long. But I think the time is ripe.

  Suddenly her finger froze on the mouse. Footsteps in the corridor. She held her breath. Whoever was coming knew that Lisa had gone out; they would be surprised to see a light under the door.

  But the footsteps went by without stopping.

  She exhaled and went on scrolling through the messages, swearing softly to herself. She felt more and more frustrated. So far she had absolutely nothing concrete, only allusions and innuendos.

  Five more minutes and she’d get out of there. She went through the last thirty messages systematically.

  We have to talk. I have a plan. A terrible plan. You know what a gambit is, Lisa? In chess, a gambit is the sacrifice of a pawn at the beginning of the game in order to gain a strategic advantage. That is what I’m getting ready to do. The gambit of a horse. But the sacrifice breaks my heart.

  The horse, she thought, holding her breath.

  Her heart felt as if it were going to burst out of her chest, but when she opened the next message, she went deeper into the darkness.

  Did you get the order? Are you sure he won’t notice that you made it using his name?

  Her eyes wide open, her mouth dry, Diane looked at the date: 6 December … There was no answer in the folder, for this or any other messages, but she didn’t need one: the last piece of the puzzle had slotted into place. Now her two theories were one. Xavier was investigating for the simple reason that he was innocent and knew nothing: he hadn’t placed the order for the anaesthetics. It was Lisa Ferney, in his name.

  Diane leaned back in the chair and thought hard. The answer was obvious. Lisa and this man Éric had killed the horse – and probably the chemist as well.

  In the name of a pact they had made together long ago – a pact they had finally decided to honour.

  Her thoughts were racing. Time was short.

  With what she knew now, she had enough to go to the police. What was the name of that cop who had come to the Institute? Servaz. She sent the last message to the printer under the desk and reached for her phone.

  * * *

  In the headlights the trees emerged from the night like a hostile army. This valley loved darkness and secrecy; it hated outsiders nosing around. Servaz blinked, his eyeballs aching, and stared through the windscreen at the narrow road winding through the woods. His temples felt like they were about to explode. Snowflakes were hurling towards the car, where they were lit like brief comets as they passed. He had Mahler on full volume, the Sixth Symphony. With its air of pessimism and foreboding it was the perfect accompaniment to the blizzard’s howls.

  How much sleep had he got in the last forty-eight hours? He was exhausted. For no apparent reason he thought about Charlène again. This, and the tenderness she’d shown him in the art gallery, warmed him slightly. His phone began to buzz.

  * * *

  ‘I’d like to speak to Commandant Servaz.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘My name is Diane Berg. I’m a psychologist at the Wargnier Institute and I—’

  ‘He can’t be reached at the moment,’ interrupted the gendarme at the other end of the line.

  ‘But I have to speak to him!’

  ‘Leave me your number; he’ll call you back.’

  ‘It’s urgent!’

  ‘Sorry, he’s gone out.’

  ‘Maybe you could give me his number.’

  ‘Listen, I—’

  ‘I work at the Institute,’ she said, her voice as reasonable and firm as possible, ‘and I know who it was who got Julian Hirtmann’s DNA out. Do you understand what that means?’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

  �
�Could you say that again?’

  She complied.

  ‘Just a minute. I’ll connect you with someone.’

  The line rang three times, then: ‘Captain Maillard, how can I help?’

  ‘Look,’ she declared, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I need to speak to Commandant Servaz. It’s extremely important.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  She explained for the second time.

  ‘What do you want from him, Dr Berg?’

  ‘It’s about the deaths in Saint-Martin. As I just told you, I work at the Institute – and I know who got Hirtmann’s DNA out of there.’

  This last piece of information left the captain speechless. Diane wondered if he had hung up.

  ‘Good,’ he said finally. ‘Do you have something to write on? I’ll give you his number.’

  * * *

  ‘Servaz.’

  ‘Good evening,’ said a woman’s voice on the other end. ‘My name is Diane Berg. I’m a psychologist at the Wargnier Institute. You don’t know me, but I know you: I was in the room next door when you were in Dr Xavier’s office and I overheard your entire conversation.’

  Servaz almost told her that he had no time, but something about her tone kept him from interrupting.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘I’m listening. What do you want, Madame Berg?’

  ‘Mademoiselle. I know who killed the horse. And it’s almost certainly the same person who got Julian Hirtmann’s DNA out of there. Would you like to know who it is?’

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said.

  He slowed down and pulled over onto the verge, in the middle of the woods. All around him the wind was twisting the trees; branches clawed against the light of the headlights, like in an old German Expressionist film.

  ‘Go ahead. Tell me everything.’

  * * *

  ‘You say that the author of the emails is called Éric?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know who it is?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  Parked at the edge of the road, in the middle of the forest, he thought about what this woman had just told him. The idea he had begun to entertain after the cemetery, and which had become even more plausible when Irène Ziegler revealed that Maud had surely been raped, had just been reconfirmed. And what a confirmation. Éric Lombard … He thought again about the watchmen at the power plant, their silence, their lies. Right from the start he had been certain they were hiding something. Now he knew that it wasn’t guilt that had made them lie; they had lied because they’d been forced to. Either they’d been blackmailed or their silence had been bought – probably both at the same time. They had seen something but had preferred to stay silent and to lie, even if it meant drawing suspicion upon themselves, because they knew they weren’t equal to the situation.

  ‘Have you been digging into this for long, Mademoiselle Berg?’

  She took a moment to reply.

  ‘I’ve only been at the Institute for a few days,’ she said.

  ‘It could be dangerous.’

  A new silence. Servaz wondered how much danger she was in. She was no cop; she had probably made mistakes. And she found herself in an inherently violent environment, where anything could happen.

  ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘This is what you’re going to do: do you have a car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. Leave the Institute at once, get into your car and drive down to Saint-Martin before the snowstorm stops you. Go directly to the gendarmerie and ask to speak to the chief prosecutor. Tell her I sent you. And tell her everything you just told me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He had already hung up when she remembered that her car wouldn’t start.

  * * *

  In the beam of his headlights he saw the buildings of the riding academy. It looked dark and deserted. There were no horses or grooms in sight. The boxes had been closed for the night – or for the winter. He pulled up in front of the big brick building and got out.

  Whirling snowflakes engulfed him. Servaz turned up his collar and headed towards the entrance. The dogs started barking and pulling on their chains. A silhouette appeared in a window; someone looking outside. The door was ajar, and there was a light on in the passage behind it. Servaz went in. On his right he saw a horse and rider circling the large indoor arena under rows of lamps, despite the late hour. Marchand came out of the first door on the left.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘I have a few questions for you.’

  The manager led him to another door further along. Servaz went in. It was the same office he had seen on his first visit. On the laptop screen was a photograph of a horse. A magnificent animal with a bay coat. Perhaps it was Freedom. Marchand walked past him again and Servaz smelled the whisky on his breath. A bottle of Label 5 stood on a shelf, already over half empty.

  ‘It’s about Maud Lombard,’ he said.

  Marchand gave him a surprised, wary look. His eyes were a bit too shiny.

  ‘I know she committed suicide,’ said Servaz.

  ‘Yes,’ said the old horse trainer. ‘A bad business.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He saw that Marchand was hesitating. For a moment, the man looked away before finally turning his gaze on Servaz. He was about to tell a lie.

  ‘She slit her wrists—’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’ shouted Servaz, grabbing the trainer by the collar. ‘You’re lying! Look: an innocent person has just been accused of the murders of Grimm and Perrault. If you don’t tell me the truth right now, I will accuse you of being an accessory. Make your mind up. I haven’t got all night!’ he added, pale with fury, reaching for his handcuffs.

  The trainer looked terrified by Servaz’s anger, as unexpected as it was violent. Then he went pale when he heard the clink of the handcuffs. His eyes opened wide. But he tried to probe the cop nevertheless.

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  A good poker player, not easily taken in. Servaz grabbed him by the wrist and spun him round.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Marchand, stunned.

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘You have no proof!’

  ‘Do you know how many people have been taken in without proof and are still rotting in custody?’

  ‘Wait! You can’t do this!’ protested Marchand, suddenly in a panic. ‘You have no right!’

  ‘I’m warning you: there are photographers outside the gendarmerie,’ lied Servaz, dragging him towards the door. ‘But we’ll put a jacket over your head when we take you out of the car. All you’ll have to do is look at the ground and let us lead you.’

  ‘Wait, wait! Shit, wait!’

  But Servaz had a firm grip on him now. They were already out in the corridor.

  ‘All right! All right! I was lying! Take them off!’

  Servaz paused. The horse and rider had stopped and were watching them from the arena.

  ‘First, the truth,’ murmured Servaz in his ear.

  ‘She hanged herself. In the garden at the chateau, damn it!’

  Servaz held his breath. Another hanging. This was it. He released the handcuffs. Marchand rubbed his wrists.

  ‘I’ll never forget it,’ he said, his head down. ‘It was twilight, summertime. She was wearing a white dress, almost transparent. She was floating like a ghost above the lawn with her neck broken, in the setting sun. I can still see it, before my eyes. Almost every night.’

  Summertime. The season she had chosen to die, like the others. A white dress. Look for white, Propp had said.

  ‘Why did you lie?’

  ‘Because someone asked me to, of course,’ said Marchand, lowering his eyes. ‘Don’t ask me what difference it makes – I have no idea. The boss didn’t want people to know.’

  ‘It makes a huge difference,’ answered Servaz, heading to the door.

  * * *

  Espérandieu ha
d just switched off his laptop when the phone rang. He sighed, looked at the time – ten forty – and picked up. He sat up a fraction straighter when he recognised the voice of Luc Damblin, his contact at Interpol. He had been waiting for this call ever since he got back to Toulouse, and had begun to lose hope.

  ‘You were right,’ said Damblin straight off. ‘It was him all right. What is it you’re working on? I have no idea what’s going on, but, Jesus, I get the feeling you’ve landed a big fish. Can you tell me any more about it? What does someone like him have to do with a crime squad case?’

  Espérandieu had nearly fallen off his chair. He swallowed and sat up again.

  ‘Are you sure? Your man at the FBI confirmed it? Tell me how he got his information.’

  Over the next five minutes, Luc Damblin explained in detail. Jesus wept! thought Espérandieu when he hung up. It was time to get hold of Martin. Right away.

  * * *

  Servaz felt as if the elements were in league against him. A real blizzard. Tonight of all nights. He hoped that the psychologist had managed to get down to Saint-Martin, that the road was still open. A few minutes earlier, on leaving the riding academy, he had made one last call.

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice on the line.

  ‘I have to see you. Tonight. And I’m a little bit hungry. It’s not too late?’

  Laughter at the other end. But then it suddenly broke off.

  ‘New developments?’ asked Gabriel Saint-Cyr, not trying to hide his curiosity.

  ‘I know who it is.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Silence at the other end.

  ‘And do you have a warrant?’

  ‘Not yet. I’d like your opinion first.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘First of all I have to clarify a few legal points with you. Then I’ll make my move.’

  ‘Don’t you want to tell me who it is?’

  ‘Let’s have dinner first; then we’ll talk.’

  Once again, a little laugh on the other end of the line.

  ‘I have to admit you’ve got me on tenterhooks. Come on over. I have some chicken left.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Servaz, and he hung up.

  As Servaz was parking the car at Saint-Cyr’s he could see that the windows of the mill were streaming with warmth and light through the storm. Servaz had not passed a single car on his way, or a single pedestrian. He locked the Jeep and, bent double against the wind, hurried towards the little bridge. The door opened at once. A lovely smell of roast chicken, wood burning in the fireplace, wine and spices. Saint-Cyr took his jacket and hung it up, then showed him into the living room below.