The Frozen Dead (32 page)

She went in slowly through an opening. The halls and corridors on the ground floor were covered with the same scourge that blooms on the walls of the poorer neighbourhoods: graffiti promising to ‘fuck the police' or ‘screw the cops', laying claim to their territory, although no one would have dreamt of fighting with them over it; primitive, obscene drawings … everywhere. She concluded that Saint-Martin must also have its share of budding artists.

Her steps echoed in the void of the hallways. Icy currents caressed her, making her shiver. She could easily imagine the hordes of kids running and shoving here and there, and the good-natured monitors like sheepdogs gathering them into the fold. Still, without knowing why, she could not shake off the impression that this place was more redolent of sadness and duress than the joys of summer holidays. She recalled a credibility evaluation she had carried out on an eleven-year-old boy when she was working in private practice in forensic psychology in Geneva: the child had been raped by an activity-camp monitor. She was well positioned to know that the world did not resemble
Heidi.
Perhaps it was because she found herself in an unfamiliar place, perhaps it was because of recent events, but she could not help but think of the seemingly countless incidents of rape, murder, torture and physical and psychological brutality, all the time, no matter where, at all God's hours – a thought almost as unbearable as staring into the sun – and some lines by Baudelaire came back to her:

Among the jackals, the panthers, the hounds,

The apes, the scorpions, the vultures and snakes,

The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters,

In the vile menagerie of our vice.

Suddenly she froze. There was the sound of an engine outside. A car slowed and came to a halt. Tyres crunched. Motionless in the hallway, she listened carefully. She heard a door slam. Someone was coming. Was it the budding artists, returning to finish their Sistine Chapel? If so, she wasn't sure whether it would be a good idea to find herself alone with them in this place. She turned round and was already heading soundlessly towards the back of the building when she realised that she had taken a wrong turn, that this corridor was a cul-de-sac.
Shit!
Her pulse began to beat faster. She was already retracing her steps when she heard the visitor's footfall, as furtive as leaves blowing in the wind, crossing the concrete at the entrance. She started. He was already there! She had no reason to hide, but that didn't mean she should show herself. Particularly as the person was walking so cautiously, and had now stopped. She did not make another sound. She leaned against the cold concrete and felt her fear cause tiny drops of sweat to pearl at the roots of her hair. Who could possibly want to hang about such a place? The fact the visitor was proceeding so cautiously made her think instinctively that he or she must have a reason too shameful to mention. But what would happen if she suddenly burst out and called, ‘Hello'?

The visitor began to walk decisively in her direction. Diane went into a panic. Not for long, however: the visitor stopped again and she heard him turn round and head back the other way. She took a chance to peer round the corner that was hiding her from him. What she saw did nothing to reassure her: a long black cape with a hood flapping against his back like a bat's wing. A cape for the rain, its stiff waterproof fabric rustling with every step.

Viewed from behind, with such a loose garment, Diane could not say whether it was a man or a woman … Yet there was something so stealthy about the way the figure was moving, so shifty, that it was as if someone were running a cold finger over her neck.

She seized her chance to come out of her hiding place when the visitor began to head the other way, but the toe of her boot struck something metallic, making a loud scraping noise against the concrete. Diane plunged back into the shadows, her heart pounding. She could hear the footsteps stop again.

‘Is anyone there?'

A man. A high, reedy voice, but it was a man's.

Diane felt as if her neck were swelling and deflating, so wildly was her terrified heart pumping the blood through her arteries. A minute went by.

‘
Is someone there?
' shouted the man, even more loudly.

There was something unusual about his voice. A touch of something menacing, but also a plaintive note, fragile and tormented. Inexplicably, Diane thought of the way a frightened cat will arch its back.

It was not a voice she recognised, in any case.

The silence seemed endless. The man didn't move; nor did she. Somewhere nearby, water was dripping into a puddle. The slightest sound resonated ominously in the bubble of silence. A car passed by on the road, but she hardly noticed it. Then she gave a sudden start when the man let out a long, croaking wail which bounced against the walls like a squash ball.

‘Bastards, bastards, baaastards!' she heard him sob. ‘Scum! Vermin! I hope you all die! That you'll burn in hell!'

This was followed by a terrible cry.

Diane hardly dared breathe. She was covered in goosebumps. The man burst into tears. She could hear his cape rustling as he fell to his knees. He cried and moaned for a long time and she ventured another glance, but there was no way to see his face beneath the hood. Then suddenly he got up and left at a run. A moment later she heard the car door slam, the engine started, and the vehicle took off down the road. She came out of her hiding place and forced herself to breathe normally. She had no idea what she had just seen and heard. Did the man come here often? Had something happened in this place that might explain his behaviour? The sort of behaviour she would have expected to find at the Institute …

In any event, he had scared her half to death. She decided to go home and cook something hot in the staff kitchenette. It would calm her nerves. Once she had left the buildings behind, the wind became even chillier and she began to shake uncontrollably. She knew it wasn't only from the cold.

*   *   *

Servaz went straight to the town hall. It sat in a long rectangular square by the river, French and European Union flags hanging listlessly from its balcony. Servaz left his car in a little car park between the square and the river, which flowed wide and fast past the foot of a concrete embankment.

He skirted the flowerbeds and threaded his way past the cars parked by the cafés before he entered the town hall. When he reached the first floor, he learned that the mayor was not in, and could probably be found at the mineral-water bottling plant he managed. The secretary gave him a hard time before agreeing to give Servaz the mayor's mobile number, but when Servaz called, it went straight to voicemail. He suddenly felt hungry and looked at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes past three. They had spent more than five hours at the Institute.

On leaving the town hall he sat down in the first café he found, facing the square. Nearby, teenagers were heading home from college, schoolbags on backs; others went by on mopeds with deafening exhaust pipes.

The waiter came over. Servaz looked up. Tall, dark, just short of thirty, he must be popular with the women, with his stubble and dark eyes. Servaz ordered an omelette and a beer.

‘Have you lived around here for long?' he asked the waiter.

The waiter regarded him warily. An amused wariness. Servaz suddenly understood that the man was wondering if he was making a pass. It probably wouldn't be the first time.

‘I was born twenty kilometres from here,' he replied.

‘The suicides – does that mean anything to you?'

This time, wariness won out over amusement.

‘What are you? A journalist?'

Servaz showed him his warrant card.

‘Crime unit. I'm investigating the murder of the chemist, Grimm. You must have heard about it?'

The waiter nodded cautiously.

‘So? The suicides – does that mean anything to you?'

‘Same thing as to everyone else round here.'

His words made Servaz sit up straight.

‘Which is?'

‘It's an old story. I don't know much about it.'

‘Tell me the not much you do know.'

The waiter was looking more and more uncomfortable, casting a nervous glance around the terrace.

‘It happened a long time ago…'

‘When?'

‘About fifteen years ago.'

‘“It happened” … What happened?'

‘Well … the series of suicides.'

Servaz looked at him, not understanding.

‘What series of suicides?' he said, annoyed. ‘Make yourself clear, for God's sake!'

‘There were several suicides … teenagers. Boys and girls between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, I think.'

‘Here in Saint-Martin?'

‘Yes. And in the villages in the valley.'

‘There were several suicides? How many?'

‘How am I supposed to know? I was eleven at the time! Maybe five. Or six. Or seven. No more than ten, anyway.'

‘And did they all die at the same time?' asked Servaz, stunned.

‘No. But close together. It lasted for several months.'

‘What do you mean by that? Two months? Three? Twelve?'

‘More like twelve. Yes. Maybe a year. I don't know…'

No Einstein, our Sunday playboy,
thought Servaz.
Or else he had no desire to cooperate.

‘And does anyone know why they did it?'

‘I don't think so. No.'

‘They didn't leave a note?'

The waiter shrugged.

‘Listen, I was a kid. You're bound to find older people who could tell you about it. That's all I know. Sorry.'

Servaz watched him walk away through the tables and disappear inside. He didn't try to stop him. Through the glass he saw him speaking to a fat man who must be the proprietor. The man glanced darkly in Servaz's direction, then shrugged and went back to his till.

Servaz could have gone over and questioned him in turn, but he didn't believe this was the place to get reliable information. A series of adolescent suicides fifteen years earlier … He thought furiously. What an unbelievable story! What could have driven several teens in the valley to kill themselves? And fifteen years later, a murder and a dead horse … Could there be any connection between the two series of events? Servaz narrowed his eyes at the peaks at the end of the valley.

*   *   *

When Espérandieu rushed into the department at 26, boulevard Embouchure, a stentorian voice could be heard shouting from one of the offices.

‘Hey, here comes the boss's little sweetheart!'

Espérandieu decided to ignore the insult. Pujol was a moron with a big mouth, two things that generally went together. A tall, sturdy man with greying hair, medieval views on life and a repertory of jokes that were funny only to his mate and alter ego, Ange Simeoni – the two inseparable ‘tenors of stupidity', as the Aznavour song went. Martin had brought them in line, and they would never have dared come out with something like that in his presence. But Martin wasn't there.

Espérandieu went along the row of offices until he reached his own at the end of the corridor, next to the boss's. He closed the door behind him. Samira had left a note on his desk:
I entered the watchmen into the FPR the way you asked me to.
The FPR was the missing persons record. He crumpled up the bit of paper, threw it in the basket, put TV on the Radio's ‘Family Tree' on his iPhone, then checked his messages. Martin had asked him to get as much information as he could about Éric Lombard, and Espérandieu knew where to go to get it. He had one advantage over most of his colleagues – with the exception of Samira – he was
modern.
He belonged to the generation of multimedia, cyberculture, social networks, forums. And provided you knew where to look, you often came across interesting people. But he did not particularly want Martin or anyone else to know just how he obtained his information.

*   *   *

‘Sorry, he hasn't been in today.'

The assistant manager of the bottling plant gave Servaz an impatient look.

‘Do you know where I can find him?'

The big man shrugged.

‘No. I tried to reach him, but he hasn't got his mobile on. Normally he should be in work by now. Did you try his home? Perhaps he's ill.'

Servaz thanked him and went back out of the little factory. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with a spiral of barbed wire. Servaz was lost in thought as he unlocked the Jeep. He had already called Chaperon at home, in vain: there was no answer. Servaz felt a knot of anxiety forming in his belly.

He climbed back in the car and sat behind the wheel.

Once again he recalled Chaperon's terrified look when he saw Grimm's body. What was it Hirtmann had said?
Ask the mayor to tell you about the suicides.
What did Hirtmann know that they didn't? And how the devil did he know?

Then another thought came to him. He grabbed his mobile and dialled a number he had jotted down in his notebook. A woman answered.

‘Servaz, crime unit,' he said. ‘Did your husband have a private room – a study, a place where he kept his papers?'

There was a brief silence, then the sound of someone exhaling cigarette smoke near the telephone.

‘Yes.'

‘Would you mind if I come and have a look?'

‘Do I really have any choice?'

She had blurted out the question, but without any real acrimony.

‘You can refuse. In that case I will be obliged to ask for a warrant, and I will get it, and your refusal to cooperate will no doubt attract the attention of the magistrate in charge of the investigation.'

‘When do you want to come?' she asked curtly.

‘Right away, if you don't mind.'

*   *   *

The snowman was still there, but the children had disappeared. As had the cat's carcass. Night was beginning to fall. The sky had filled with dark, threatening clouds, and only a single orange-pink streak remained above the mountains.