The Frozen Dead (20 page)

Silence again.

Like her, the person was waiting.

The clicking of a switch, then a ray of light beneath her door. Footsteps in the corridor. So muffled they were almost drowned by the pounding of her heart. For a moment a shadow blocked the light filtering into her room. She hesitated. Then she suddenly made up her mind and opened it. Too late. The shadow had disappeared.

Silence fell once again; the light went out.

She sat on the edge of the bed in the darkness, freezing despite her winter pyjamas and hooded dressing gown. Once again she wondered who could be walking around the Institute every night. Above all, for what purpose? It was clearly something that must remain discreet, because they took a great many precautions to avoid being heard.

The first night, Diane had thought it must be one of the auxiliaries or a nurse with a sudden hunger who didn't want anyone to know that he or she was on a midnight raid of the refrigerator. But her insomnia had kept her awake, and the light in the corridor had passed by again a full two hours later. The following night, exhausted, she had fallen asleep. But last night, the same thing again: her insomnia was back, and with it the infinitesimal creaking of the door, the light in the corridor and the shadow sliding furtively towards the stairway.

Vanquished by fatigue, she nevertheless fell asleep before their return. She slipped under her duvet and looked in the pale rectangle of the window at the reflection of her icy little room with its bathroom and toilet. She had to get some sleep. The next day was Sunday; she'd be off duty. She'd use the time to go over her notes; then she'd go down into Saint-Martin. But Monday was an important day: Dr Xavier had informed her that on Monday he would take her to visit Unit A …

She had to get some sleep.

Four days … She had been at the Institute for four days and it seemed to her that in this short period of time her senses had been sharpened. Was it possible to change in so little time? If so, what would it be like a year from now, when she left to go back home? She scolded herself. She had to stop thinking about that. She had months ahead of her.

She still could not understand why they had locked criminal madmen away somewhere like this, undoubtedly the most sinister and uncommon place she had ever been.

But this will be your home for a year, girl.

With that thought, all desire for sleep evaporated.

She sat at the head of her bed and switched on her bedside lamp. Then she plugged in her computer, opened it and waited for it to boot up so that she could check her inbox. Fortunately, the Institute had wireless Internet connection.

You have no new messages.

She had mixed feelings. Had she really expected him to write? After what had happened? She was the one who had taken the decision to end it, even though it had devastated her. He had accepted with his usual stoicism and she had felt wounded. The depths of her distress had surprised even her.

She hesitated for a moment before tapping away on the keyboard.

She knew he would not understand her silence. She had promised to give him details and write to him soon. Like any expert in forensic psychiatry, Pierre Spitzner was dying to find out everything he could about the Wargnier Institute. When he had heard that Diane's application had been accepted, not only had he seen this as a chance for her, but also as an opportunity for him to learn more about the place that was the source of so many rumours.

She typed the first few words:

Dear Pierre,

I'm doing fine. This place—

Her hand stopped.

An image had suddenly appeared … A clear, sharp flash, like ice …

Spitzner's place overlooking the lake, the room in the half-light, the silence of the empty house. Pierre and herself in the big bed. They had only come to pick up a file he had forgotten. His wife was at the airport, waiting for her flight to Paris, where she would be giving a talk entitled
Characters and Points of View.
(Spitzner's wife was the author of a dozen complicated, bloody crime thrillers with a heavy sexual component that had met with a certain success.) Pierre had taken the opportunity to show her his home. When they arrived outside the couple's bedroom, he had opened the door and taken Diane by the hand. At first she had refused to make love there, but he had insisted in that childlike manner of his that always broke down her resistance. He had also insisted that Diane put on his wife's underwear. Underwear from the most expensive boutiques in Geneva … Diane had hesitated. But the transgressive atmosphere, the spice of the taboo were too tempting for her to obey her scruples for long. She had noticed that she wore the same size as her lover's wife. She lay under him, her eyes closed, their bodies perfectly bonded and in tune, Pierre's scarlet face above her, when a voice – detached, sharp, biting – came from the threshold of the room:

‘Get your whore out of here.'

She closed the computer; any desire to write had fled. She turned her head to switch off the light. And shuddered. The shadow was beneath her door … motionless … She held her breath, unable to move even an inch. Then curiosity and irritation got the better of her and she leapt towards the door.

But the shadow had disappeared once again.

PART
2

Welcome to Hell

10

On Sunday, 14 December, at a quarter to eight in the morning, Damien Ryck, known as Rico, twenty-eight years old, left his house for a solitary hike on the mountain. The sky was grey, and he already knew the sun wouldn't come out that day. As soon as he woke up, he went out on the big terrace and saw a thick fog had enveloped the roofs and streets of Saint-Martin; above the town, the clouds wrapped sooty scrolls round the peaks.

Given the weather forecast, he decided on a simple stroll to clear his mind, and took a path he knew by heart. The night before, or, to be more precise, a few hours earlier, he had unsteadily made his way home after a party where he had smoked several joints, and he had gone to sleep with all his clothes on. Once he was awake, after a shower, a mug of black coffee and another joint, he decided that the pure upland air would do him the world of good. It was Rico's intention to finish inking in a plate sometime later that morning, a delicate task which required a steady hand.

Rico was an author of graphic novels.

A marvellous profession which allowed him to work at home and make a living doing what he loved. His very dark works had found an appreciative audience among connoisseurs, and his renown was growing in the small world of independent graphic novels. As he was a great enthusiast of off-piste skiing, mountain climbing, paragliding, mountain biking and world travel in general, he had discovered that Saint-Martin was an ideal place to come home to. His profession, combined with modern technology, meant that he didn't need to live in Paris, where the offices of his publisher, Éditions d'Enfer, were located and which he visited half a dozen times a year. In the beginning, the inhabitants of Saint-Martin had some difficulty getting used to his caricature alter-globalisation look, with his black and yellow dreadlocks, bandana, orange poncho, numerous piercings and pink beard. In the summertime they could also admire the dozen or more tattoos on his quasi-anorexic body: his shoulders, arms, back, neck, calves and thighs were covered with veritable works of art. Yet it was worth the effort to get to know Rico: not only was he a talented artist, he was also a charming man with a deadpan sense of humour, extremely considerate towards children and old people and all his neighbours.

That morning Rico put on his special lightweight walking boots, and a hat with ear flaps of the kind worn by peasants in the High Andean plateaus. Then he set off at an easy trot towards the hiking trail, which started just beyond the supermarket 200 metres below his house.

The fog had not lifted. He made a loop round the rows of abandoned shopping trolleys in the deserted supermarket car park, and lengthened his stride once he reached the path. Behind him, the church bells rang eight o'clock. Their tolling seemed to reach him through several layers of cotton.

He had to be careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven ground scattered with roots and big stones. He ran two kilometres over deceptively flat terrain, to the roar of a torrent, which he crossed and recrossed over solid little bridges made of fir bark boards. Then the slope grew steeper and he could feel his hamstrings working. The mist had lifted slightly. He saw the metal bridge that crossed the water a short way up, just before it fell in a roaring tumult. This was the toughest part of the trail. Once he was up there, the ground would be nearly flat again. He raised his head, pacing himself, and noticed that there was something hanging below the bridge. Some large bag or other object, fixed to the metal structure.

He lowered his head as he covered the last bends in the trail and only lifted it again when he reached the bridge. His heart was beating 150. But when he looked up, it raced: that was no bag hanging from the bridge! Rico froze. The violent shock, together with the climb, had taken his breath away. With his mouth wide open, he stared at the body; he walked the last few metres, his hands on his hips.

Fuck, what the hell is that?

At first, Rico simply could not understand what he was seeing. He wondered if he wasn't hallucinating, given his lack of restraint the night before, but he knew at once that this was no vision. It was too real, too terrifying. It had nothing to do with the horror films he liked to watch. What he saw before his eyes was a man …
a man who was dead, and naked, and hanging from a bridge!

Fucking hell!

A polar chill ran through his veins.

He glanced round. The man had not died all on his own; this was no suicide: in addition to the strap round his neck he was bound to the metallic structure of the bridge and someone had placed a hood over his head – a hood made of black waterproof cloth, which hid his face and belonged to the cape hanging down his back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Rico was overwhelmed with terror. He had never seen anything like it. The sight filled his veins with a venomous panic. He was all alone on the mountain, four kilometres from the nearest dwelling, and there was only one path to get here, the one he had taken.

The path the murderer had taken.

He wondered if the murder had just been committed. Was the killer still nearby? Rico gazed apprehensively at the rocks and the mist. Then he took two deep breaths and turned on his heels. Two seconds later, he was hurtling down the path towards Saint-Martin.

*   *   *

Servaz had never been one for sports. To be honest, he hated them. In any shape or form. In a stadium or on television. He disliked watching sports as much as he did playing any himself. One of the reasons he did not have a television was that they showed too much sport for his liking and, more and more, at any time of day or night.

In the old days, that is, during the fifteen years he was married, he had nevertheless forced himself to do a minimum of physical activity, which meant thirty-five minutes, and not a minute more, of jogging on a Sunday morning. In spite of, or perhaps thanks to this minimal activity, he had not gained a single pound since the age of eighteen, and he still bought the same size trousers. He knew the reason for this miracle: he had his father's genes, and the old man had stayed as thin and dashing as a greyhound all his life – except towards the end, when drink and depression had left him all skin and bone.

But since his divorce Servaz had forsworn any activity that remotely resembled exercise.

If he had suddenly decided to start up again that Sunday morning, it was because of what Margot had said the day before: ‘Dad, I've decided we should spend the summer holidays together. The two of us. All alone. A long way away from Toulouse.' She had talked about Croatia, the small inlets, the mountainous islands, the monuments and sunshine. She wanted a holiday that would be both playful and sporty, which meant jogging and swimming in the morning, wandering and sightseeing in the afternoon, and in the evening he would take her dancing or they'd go for a walk by the sea. She had it all planned. In other words, Servaz had better be in shape.

So he put on a pair of old shorts, a shapeless T-shirt and some running shoes, and set off along the banks of the Garonne. It was a grey day, with a little bit of mist. Ordinarily he never set foot outdoors before noon when he was off duty, but now he was experiencing an astonishingly peaceful atmosphere in the pale pink city, as if on Sunday mornings even fools and bastards took time off.

As he ran at a moderately good pace, he thought back to what his daughter had said.
A long way away from Toulouse
 … Why a long way from Toulouse? Once again he saw her sad, tired expression and his worry returned. Was there something in Toulouse that she wanted to get away from? Something or
someone?
He thought again of the bruise on her cheek and suddenly had a dark premonition.

A second later, he ground to a halt, wheezing, gasping for breath.

He'd set off at far too brisk a pace.

He stooped with his hands on his knees, his lungs on fire. His T-shirt was drenched in sweat. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes! He'd lasted ten minutes! Yet he felt like he'd been running for half an hour!
For Christ's sake, he was shattered. Only just turned forty and I'm limping around like an old man,
he moaned, and at that very moment his telephone began to vibrate deep in his pocket.

‘Servaz,' he croaked.

‘What's wrong?' asked Cathy d'Humières. ‘Don't you feel well?'

‘I was jogging,' he barked.

‘I get the impression you need it. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. Something's come up. This time, I'm afraid, it's not a horse.'