The Frozen Dead (24 page)

The prosecutor paused for a moment to think.

‘True, we'll have to put off the visit until tomorrow. In the meantime I'll organise a press conference to distract the journalists' attention. Martin, what is your take on things?'

‘Captain Ziegler, Dr Propp and I will go to the Institute first thing tomorrow while you give your press conference, and Lieutenant Espérandieu will attend the autopsy. Today we can interview the chemist's widow.'

‘Fine, let's do that. But let's not lose sight of our two priorities: a) to find out whether Hirtmann could have got out of the Institute, and b) find the connection between the two crimes.'

*   *   *

‘There's one angle of attack we didn't consider,' declared Simon Propp once they had left the meeting.

‘And what is that?' asked Servaz.

They were in the little car park at the rear of the building, out of sight of the media. Servaz aimed his remote-control key at the car, which a mechanic had dropped off after replacing the tyres. A few snowflakes were fluttering in the cold air, and the sky above was a relentless grey: it would start snowing again soon.

‘Pride,' answered the shrink. ‘Someone in this valley is playing God. He thinks he's above mankind, above the law, and he's manipulating us poor mortals. That takes boundless pride. And one way or another an ego like that will show on the person who has it – unless he hides it beneath extreme false modesty.'

Servaz stopped short and looked at Propp.

‘That's a description that fits Hirtmann,' he said. ‘Apart from the false modesty.'

‘And plenty of other people as well,' Propp corrected him. ‘Pride is not hard to come by, believe me, Commandant.'

*   *   *

The chemist's house was the last one on the street. A street which, in fact, was more like a track barely wide enough for vehicles. When he saw the house, Servaz was reminded of Sweden or Finland, a Scandinavian sort of place: it was covered in faded blue shingles, with a large wooden terrace that took up part of the first floor beneath the roof. Birch and beech trees grew all around.

Servaz and Ziegler got out of the car. On the other side of the track, warmly wrapped children were making a snowman. Servaz pulled up his collar and watched them scraping the last layer of snow from the grass. In a sign of the times, they had armed their creation with a plastic gun. For a brief moment Servaz was glad to see, in spite of the warlike pose they'd given their snowman, that children could still enjoy simple pleasures, instead of staying cloistered in their bedrooms, glued to their computers and game consoles.

Then his blood froze. A little boy had just gone over to one of the large dustbins along the street. Servaz saw him stand on tiptoes to open it. Before the eyes of the astounded policeman, the boy plunged his arm inside and pulled out a dead cat. He took hold of the little corpse by the scruff of its neck, crossed the snowy ground and dropped his trophy two metres from the snowman.

The scene was amazingly true to life: it looked exactly as if the snowman had just shot the cat.

‘Dear Lord,' said Servaz, petrified.

‘According to child psychiatrists,' said Irène Ziegler next to him, ‘it has nothing to do with the influence of television and the media. They know what's real and what isn't.'

‘Well, sure,' said Servaz. ‘I used to play Tarzan when I was a kid, but I never believed for a moment I could really confront a gorilla or swing from tree to tree.'

‘And yet they're bombarded with violent games and images and ideas from early childhood.'

‘All we can hope is that the psychiatrists are right,' he said with a sad irony in his tone.

‘Why do I suspect that they aren't?'

‘Because you're a cop.'

A woman was waiting for them in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Narrowing her eyes behind the ribbon of smoke, she watched them walk towards her. Although the gendarmerie had informed her only three hours earlier of her husband's murder, she did not seem terribly upset.

‘Hello, Nadine,' said Chaperon. Captain Ziegler had asked him to come along. Now he said, ‘Please accept my sincere condolences. You know how fond I was of Gilles … This is terrible … what has happened…'

The mayor's words were halting; he was still having trouble talking about it. The woman gave him a half-hearted kiss, but when he went to put his arms around her, she held him firmly at a distance, directing her attention to the newcomers. She was in her fifties, tall and lean, with a long horsy face and grey hair. Servaz also offered his condolences. The handshake he received in return was surprisingly strong. He immediately felt the hostility in the air. What had Chaperon told them? That she worked in charity.

‘The police would like to ask you a few questions,' continued the mayor. ‘They promised me they'd ask you only the most urgent ones and keep the others for later. May we come in?'

Without a word, the woman turned on her heels and led them inside. Servaz saw that the house was entirely made of wood. There was a tiny hall, with a shaded lamp on a shelf on the right, next to a stuffed fox with a crow in its mouth. It made Servaz think of a hunting lodge. There was also a coat rack, but Nadine Grimm did not offer to take their coats. She disappeared up a steep staircase that led to the first-floor terrace. Still not making the slightest sound, she pointed to a wicker sofa full of worn cushions that faced out onto the fields and forests. She herself collapsed into a rocking chair near the railing and pulled a blanket over her lap.

‘Thank you,' said Servaz. ‘My first question,' he added after a moment of hesitation, ‘is, do you have any idea who could have killed your husband?'

Nadine Grimm breathed out smoke and looked deep into Servaz's eyes. Her nostrils quivered as if she had just smelled something unpleasant.

‘No. My husband was a chemist, not a gangster.'

‘Had he ever received any strange or threatening phone calls?'

‘No.'

‘Visits from drug addicts at the pharmacy? Was he ever burgled?'

‘No.'

‘Did he distribute methadone?'

The look she gave them was one of impatience mixed with exasperation.

‘Do you have many more questions like this? My husband had nothing to do with drug addicts, he had no enemies, and he wasn't mixed up in any shady business. He was just an imbecile and a drunk.'

Chaperon went pale. Ziegler and Servaz exchanged a glance.

‘What do you mean?'

She looked at them, her disgust even more apparent.

‘Nothing, just what I said. What has happened is revolting. I don't know who could have done such a thing. Even less, why. I can only see one explanation: one of those crazies locked away up there managed to escape. You'd do better doing something about that, rather than wasting your time here,' she added bitterly. ‘But if you were expecting to find a weeping widow, you could have spared yourself the trouble. My husband did not like me very much, and I didn't like him either. I had nothing but scorn for him. For a long time, our marriage has been nothing than a sort of … modus vivendi. But I didn't kill him for all that.'

Distracted, Servaz thought he had heard a confession, until he understood that she was saying just the opposite: she hadn't killed him, although she had reason to do so. He had rarely seen so much coldness and hostility concentrated in a single person. Such arrogance and detachment was disconcerting. For a moment he did not know quite how to behave. They would have to dig further into the life of the Grimms – but he wondered if now was the right time.

‘Why did you feel scorn for him?' he asked finally.

‘I just told you.'

‘You said your husband was an imbecile. What gives you the right to say that?'

‘I ought to know, of all people, don't you think?'

‘Please be more exact.'

She was on the verge of saying something unpleasant. But then her gaze met Servaz's and she thought better of it. She exhaled more smoke, and then with a gesture of mute defiance said, ‘My husband studied to become a chemist because he was too lazy and stupid to be a doctor. He bought the pharmacy thanks to his parents, who had a prosperous business. It's a good location, right in the centre of Saint-Martin. And yet, because of his laziness, because he simply didn't have what it takes, he never managed to make the shop turn a profit. There are six pharmacies in Saint-Martin. His had the fewest customers by far; people only went there as a last resort, or by chance: tourists who were walking by and needed something. Even I didn't trust him when I needed medicine.'

‘Then why didn't you get a divorce?'

She sniggered.

‘Can you see me starting life over at my age? This house is big enough for two. We each had our own territory, and we avoided getting in each other's way as much as possible. Besides, I'm often away for work. That makes … made things easier.'

Servaz thought of a legal expression in Latin:
Consensus non concubitus facit nuptias.
‘Consent, not consummation, makes the marriage.'

‘Every Saturday evening he had his poker games,' he said, turning to the mayor. ‘Who else took part?'

‘It was me and a few friends,' answered Chaperon, ‘as I already told the captain.'

‘Who was there yesterday evening?'

‘Serge Perrault, Gilles and me.'

‘Are they your usual partners?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you play for money?'

‘Yes, small amounts. Or for restaurant meals. He never signed any IOUs, if that's what you're thinking. And anyway, Gilles often won: he was a very good player,' he added, looking in the widow's direction.

‘Did anything in particular happen during that game?'

‘Such as?'

‘I don't know. An argument…'

‘No.'

‘Where were you playing?'

‘At Perrault's place.'

‘And afterwards?'

‘Gilles and I left together, as usual. Then Gilles went on his way and I went home to bed.'

‘You didn't notice anything on the way back? You didn't run into anyone?'

‘No, not that I can recall.'

‘Your husband didn't mention anything out of the ordinary recently?' Ziegler asked Nadine Grimm.

‘No.'

‘Did he seem worried, anxious?'

‘No.'

‘Did your husband have anything to do with Éric Lombard?'

She looked at them, not understanding. Then there was a brief spark in her eyes. She crushed her cigarette against the railing and smiled.

‘You think there's a connection between my husband's murder and that horse business? That's absurd!'

‘You didn't answer my question.'

She sniggered again.

‘Why would someone like Lombard waste his time with a loser like my husband? No. Not that I know of.'

‘Do you have a photograph of your husband?'

‘What for?'

Servaz nearly lost it, forgetting that she had only been a widow for a few hours. But he restrained himself.

‘I need a photograph for the investigation,' he replied. ‘If you have several, that would be even better. As recent as possible.'

He met Ziegler's gaze briefly and she understood:
the severed finger.
Servaz hoped that the signet ring would be visible in one of the photographs.

‘I don't have any recent photographs. And I don't know where he put the older ones. I'll have a look through his things. Anything else?'

‘Not for the moment,' said Servaz, getting to his feet.

He felt chilled to the bone, and wanted simply to get out of there as fast as possible. He wondered if that was why the widow Grimm had seated them out on the terrace, to encourage them to leave. Anxiety and cold were twisting his guts, for he had noticed something that pricked him like a needle, a detail he alone had seen: when Nadine Grimm reached out to crush her cigarette on the railing, the sleeve of her jumper had slid up … Gaping, Servaz had clearly seen the little white ridges of several scars on her bony wrist: the woman had tried to end it all.

As soon as they were in the car he turned to the mayor. A thought had occurred to him while he was listening to the widow.

‘Did Grimm have a mistress?'

‘No,' said Chaperon without hesitating.

‘Are you sure?'

The mayor gave him a strange look.

‘You can never be one hundred per cent sure. But as far as Grimm is concerned, I'd stake my life on it. He wasn't the sort with anything to hide.'

Servaz thought for a moment about what the mayor had just said.

‘If there is one thing we do learn in this job,' he said, ‘it is that people are rarely what they seem. And that everyone has something to hide.'

As he was saying this, he looked into his rear-view mirror, and again witnessed something quite unexpected: Chaperon had gone very pale, and his eyes had filled with pure terror.

*   *   *

Diane came out of the Institute and the icy wind hit her. Fortunately she had put on her down jacket, a rollneck jumper and fur-lined boots. She took out her keys as she walked towards her Lancia. She was relieved to be able to get out of that place for a while. She sat behind the wheel, turned the ignition and heard the click of the starter. The indicator lights came on, then went out again almost at once. Nothing else happened.
Shit!
She tried again. Same thing.
Oh, no!
She tried again and again, turning the key over and over. Nothing …

The battery,
she thought.
It's dead.

Or else it's the cold.

She wondered if anyone at the Institute could help her, but a wave of discouragement swept over her. She sat motionless behind the wheel, looking at the buildings through the windscreen. Her heart was pounding for no particular reason. Suddenly she felt very far from home.