The Frozen Dead (52 page)

‘How long will you need?'

‘We have enough material now for me to work fairly quickly. I'll bring you my conclusions on Monday.'

‘On
Monday?
Let's hope the killers don't work on the weekend either,' said d'Humières curtly.

Her sarcasm made the psychologist blush.

‘One last thing: good work, Martin. I always knew I made the right choice putting you on this case.'

As she said this, her gaze went from Servaz to Confiant, who preferred to stare at his fingernails.

*   *   *

Espérandieu was listening to the Raconteurs singing ‘Many Shades of Black' when the telephone rang. He pricked up his ears when he found it was Marissa, calling back from the financial crime unit.

‘You did say you wanted to know if anything strange had happened lately to do with Éric Lombard?'

‘Basically, yes,' he agreed.

‘I might have something for you. I don't know if this can help – at first glance it doesn't seem connected with your case – but it happened recently and did cause a certain stir, apparently.'

‘Tell me anyway.'

So she told him. Her explanation took a while. Espérandieu had some difficulty understanding exactly what it was about: something to do with the sum of $135,000 earmarked in Lombard Media's account books for a television documentary commissioned from a certain production company. When they checked with the company in question, there was no record of any such documentary. Clearly, the accounting entry was hiding a misappropriation of funds. Once Marissa had finished, Espérandieu was disappointed: he wasn't sure he'd understood it all, and he didn't see how it might help them. But he did take down a few notes on his pad.

‘Well, does that help you or not?'

‘Not really,' he replied. ‘But thanks all the same.'

*   *   *

There was something electric in the atmosphere at the Institute: Diane had been watching Xavier all morning, scrutinising his every little act and gesture. He seemed worried and tense – on the verge of exhaustion in fact. Several times over, their gazes met.
He knew
 … Or more precisely,
he knew that she knew.
But perhaps she was imagining things. Projection, transfer: she knew all about that.

Should she inform the police? All morning the question preyed on her mind.

She wasn't convinced they would see as direct a link as she did between the drug shipment and the death of the horse. She had asked Alex whether anyone at the Institute had a pet: he seemed surprised, then said no. She also recalled that she had spent the morning with Xavier on the day she arrived –
the morning the horse had been discovered
– and that he certainly didn't look like someone who had stayed up all night beheading an animal, transporting it and hanging it up at an altitude of two thousand metres in temperatures of ten degrees below zero. He had seemed fresh and rested that day – and above all unbearably arrogant and condescending.

In any case, far from exhausted or stressed out.

She wondered whether she wasn't jumping to conclusions, whether the isolation and the strange mood that reigned in this place weren't making her paranoid. In other words, whether she was imagining it all. And wouldn't she look completely ridiculous if she contacted the police only for them to discover the true reason why the medication had been ordered, destroying completely any credit she might have with Xavier and the rest of the staff. Not to mention her reputation when she went back to Switzerland.

This prospect had a definite dampening effect.

‘Aren't you interested in what I have to tell you?'

Diane came back to the present. The patient sitting across from her was looking at her sternly. Even now, he still had a working man's large, callused hands. A former worker who had attacked his boss with a screwdriver after an unwarranted dismissal. After reading his file, Diane felt that a few weeks in a psychiatric hospital would have been enough for the poor man. But he had fallen into the hands of a zealous psychiatrist; he'd been put away for ten years. In addition, they had given him massive and prolonged doses of psychotropic drugs. A man who on arrival was probably just suffering from depression had ended up completely crazy.

‘Of course I am, Aaron. I am interested.'

‘You aren't, I can tell.'

‘I assure you.'

‘I'm going to tell Dr Xavier that you're not interested in what I'm telling you.'

‘Why would you do that, Aaron? If you don't mind, we could get back to—'

‘Blah blah blah, you're just trying to gain time.'

‘Gain time?'

‘You don't have to repeat everything I say.'

‘What's got into you, Aaron?'

‘“What's got into you, Aaron?” For one hour I've been talking to a wall.'

‘Not at all! I just—'

‘“Not at all! I just…” Knock-knock-knock, what's going on in your head, Doctor?'

‘Pardon?'

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘Why do you say that, Aaron?'

‘“Why do you say that, Aaron?” Questions, all I ever get is questions!'

‘I think we should postpone this interview until later—'

‘No, I don't think so. I'm going to tell Dr Xavier that you are wasting my time. I don't want any more sessions with you.'

She could not help but blush, in spite of herself.

‘Oh, come on, Aaron! This is only our third one. I—'

‘You're somewhere else, Doctor. You don't feel concerned. Your mind is elsewhere.'

‘Aaron, I—'

‘You know what? You don't belong here. Go back to where you came from. Go back to Switzerland.'

She was startled.

‘Who told you I was Swiss? We've never talked about it.'

He threw his head back and burst out laughing, an ugly laugh. Then he looked straight at her with a gaze as smooth and dull as a slate.

‘What do you think? We know everything, here. Everyone knows that you are Swiss,
like Julian.
'

*   *   *

‘No doubt about it,' said Delmas. ‘He was dropped into space with the strap round his neck. We've got significant bulbar and medullary lesions, unlike the chemist, and there are also lesions round the cervical vertebrae due to the shock.'

Servaz avoided looking at Perrault's body, which was lying face down with the back of the neck and skull cut open. The spinal cord glistened like jelly in the light of the autopsy room.

‘There are no signs of haematoma or injections,' continued the pathologist, ‘but since you had seen him alive in the cabin just before … Basically, he followed his murderer of his own free will.'

‘Or was threatened with a weapon, more like,' said Servaz.

‘Well, that's not my jurisdiction. I'll run a blood test anyway. Grimm's blood has just shown minute traces of flunitrazepam. It's an antidepressant ten times more powerful than Valium, prescribed in cases of severe sleep disorders and marketed under the name of Rohypnol. It is also used as an anaesthetic. Grimm was a chemist; perhaps he took it for his own insomnia. It's possible … It has also been classified among the so-called date-rape drugs, because it provokes amnesia and it is a powerful anti-inhibitor, particularly when taken with alcohol, and because it is odourless, colourless and tasteless, is quickly absorbed, and leaves very little trace in the blood, making it virtually undetectable: any chemical trace disappears within twenty-four hours.'

Servaz let out a low whistle.

‘The fact we found only tiny traces is certainly due to the lapse of time between absorption and the taking of the blood sample. Rohypnol can be administered orally or intravenously, swallowed, chewed or dissolved in a drink. The aggressor probably used it to make his victim more malleable. The man you're looking for is a control freak, Martin. And he is very, very clever.'

Delmas turned the body over onto its back. Perrault no longer had the terrified expression Servaz had seen in the gondola. Instead, his tongue was sticking out. The coroner picked up an electric saw.

‘Right, I think I've seen enough,' said the cop. ‘In any case, we already know what happened. I'll read your report.'

‘Martin,' called Delmas just as he was about to leave the room.

He turned round.

‘You don't look well,' said the pathologist, with the saw in his hand like a Sunday handyman. ‘Don't start taking all this business too personally.'

Servaz nodded and left. In the corridor, he looked at the padded casket that was waiting for Perrault once he left the mortuary. Servaz went out of the hospital basement and up the concrete ramp, and took huge lungfuls of fresh air. But the memory of the odour of formaldehyde, disinfectant and corpse would stick to his nostrils for a long time. His mobile rang just as he was unlocking the Jeep. It was Xavier.

‘I have the list,' announced the psychiatrist, ‘of the people who were in touch with Hirtmann. Do you want it?'

Servaz looked at the mountains.

‘I'll come over and get it,' he answered. ‘See you later.'

The sky was dark, but it was no longer raining when he headed for the Institute. At every turn, the last vestiges of autumn, yellow and red leaves along the side of the road, lifted up from the snow and blew away as the Jeep went by. A bitter wind shook the naked branches, which reached out to scratch the car like fleshless fingers. At the wheel of the Cherokee he thought again of Margot. Had Vincent done his job of following her? Then he thought about Charlène Espérandieu, and the boy named Clément, and Alice Ferrand … Everything was whirling; everything was mixed up in his head.

His mobile buzzed again. He picked up. It was Propp.

‘I forgot to tell you something: white is important, Martin. The white mountaintops for the horse, the whiteness of a naked body for Grimm, and again the snow for Perrault. White is for the killer. He sees it as a symbol of purity and purification.
Look for white.
I think you will find white around the killer.'

‘White like the Institute?' said Servaz.

‘I don't know. I thought we had ruled out that lead, right? I'm sorry, there's nothing more I can tell you at the moment.
Look for white.
'

Servaz thanked him and hung up. A knot in his throat. There was something threatening in the air, he could feel it.

It wasn't over.

PART
3

White

23

‘Eleven,' said Xavier. He handed the sheet across the desk. ‘Eleven people have been in contact with Hirtmann over the last two months. Here's the list.'

The psychiatrist seemed preoccupied, and his features were drawn.

‘I had a long talk with each of them,' he said.

‘And?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What do you mean, nothing?'

‘Nothing came of it. No one seems to have anything to hide. Or else they all do. I don't know.'

He saw Servaz's questioning gaze and waved his hand in apology.

‘What I mean is, we live in isolation here, far away from everything. In these circumstances, there is a kind of scheming that seems incomprehensible to outsiders. Little secrets, manoeuvring behind the scenes, plots hatched against one person or another; cliques are formed; it's a game governed by rules that would seem surreal to anyone else. You must wonder what I'm going on about.'

Servaz smiled.

‘Not at all,' he said, thinking about the force. ‘I know only too well what you mean, Doctor.'

Xavier relaxed slightly.

‘Would you like a coffee?'

‘Please.'

Xavier got up to go to the little coffee machine in the corner. The coffee was good, and Servaz made it last. To say that this place made him uncomfortable would be an understatement. He wondered how anyone could work here without going stark raving mad. It wasn't only the residents, it was also the place itself: the thick walls, the mountains.

‘In short, it is difficult to see things clearly,' continued Xavier. ‘Everyone here has their little secrets. Under these conditions, no one plays fair.'

Dr Xavier gave him an apologetic smile behind his red glasses.
And you're not playing fair, either, my friend,
thought Servaz.

‘I see.'

‘So I put together the list of everyone who has been in contact with Julian Hirtmann, but it doesn't mean I suspect them all.'

‘No?'

‘Our head nurse, for example. She is one of the longest-serving members of staff. She started when Dr Wargnier was here. So much of the everyday functioning of this establishment relies on her competence and her knowledge of the residents. I trust her implicitly. You needn't waste your time on her.'

Servaz looked at the list.

‘Hmm. Élisabeth Ferney, that's her?'

Xavier nodded.

‘Altogether trustworthy,' he insisted.

Servaz raised his eyes and looked closely at the psychiatrist, who blushed.

‘Thank you,' he said, folding the sheet and putting it in his pocket. Then he hesitated. ‘I have a question for you that has nothing to do with the investigation. A question for the psychiatrist, not the man or the witness.'

Xavier raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

‘Do you believe in the existence of evil, Doctor?'

The psychiatrist remained silent longer than Servaz would have expected. All that time, behind his peculiar red glasses, he was staring at Servaz, as if he were trying to determine what the cop was driving at.

‘As a psychiatrist,' he said finally, ‘my answer is that the question is not a matter for psychiatry. It is a matter for philosophy. And more specifically, morality. From that vantage point, evil cannot be conceived without good; you cannot have one without the other. Have you heard of Kohlberg's stages of moral development?' he asked.