The Frozen Dead (55 page)

‘I need to ask you a favour.'

Damblin gazed absently at the posters in front of him: Russian mafiosi, Albanian pimps, Mexican and Colombian drug lords, Serbian and Croatian jewellery thieves, international paedophiles rife in poor countries. Someone had added red Santa Claus hats and white beards to the photos; it didn't make them look any more jovial. Damblin listened patiently to his colleague's explanation.

‘You're in luck,' he replied in the end. ‘There's a bloke at the FBI in Washington who owes me one. I gave him a nudge in the right direction on one of his cases. I'll call him and see what we can do. But why do you need to know?'

‘An investigation I'm working on.'

‘Something to do with the States?'

‘I'll explain. Here, I've just sent you the photo,' said Espérandieu.

Damblin checked his watch.

‘It could take some time. My contact is fairly busy. How soon do you need an answer?'

‘It's rather urgent, I'm afraid.'

‘It's always urgent,' answered Damblin. ‘Don't worry: I'll put your request at the top of my pile. For old times' sake. Besides, Christmas is coming: this can be your present.'

*   *   *

Servaz woke up two hours later. It took him a moment to recognise the hospital bed, the white room, the big window with blue blinds. When he figured out where he was, he looked for his belongings and found them in a plastic bag on a chair. He jumped out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible. Three minutes later, he was outside and calling a number from his mobile.

‘Hello?'

‘It's Martin. Is the inn open this evening?'

At the other end of the line, the old man laughed.

‘I'm glad you called. I was about to make dinner.'

‘I have a few questions for you.'

‘And here I thought it was all about my cooking. What a disappointment! Have you found something?'

‘I'll explain.'

‘Good. I'll see you later.'

*   *   *

Night had fallen, but the street outside the lycée was well lit. Sitting in an unmarked car, Espérandieu saw Margot Servaz come out of the school. He almost didn't recognise her: her black hair had changed to Scandinavian blonde. She had two little bunches on either side of her head that made her look like a caricature of a German
Mädchen.
And a peculiar hat.

When she turned round, he also saw, even from this distance, that she had a new tattoo on her neck. An enormous, multicoloured tattoo. Vincent thought about his daughter. How would he react if, later on in life, Mégan also went in for this sort of thing? Checking to see that his camera was where it should be on the passenger seat, he turned the ignition. Like the day before, Margot chatted on the pavement with her schoolmates for a moment and rolled a cigarette. Then her attentive escort with the scooter appeared.

Espérandieu sighed. At least this time if they got ahead of him, he would know where to find them. He wouldn't have to drive as recklessly as before. He pulled out and started after them. The driver of the scooter indulged in his usual acrobatics. On Espérandieu's iPhone, the Gutter Twins were singing,
O, Father, now I can't believe you're leaving.
At the next traffic light, he slowed and came to a halt. The car in front of him had stopped and the scooter was already four cars ahead of him. But Espérandieu knew that at the crossroads they would be going straight; he relaxed.

The hoarse voice in his headphones was declaring,
My mother, she don't know me / And my father, he can't own me
when the light turned green, and the scooter turned to the right, back-firing. Espérandieu spluttered with irritation.
What the fuck are they doing now?
This wasn't the way home. The queue in front of him was taking an exasperatingly long time to move. Espérandieu got nervous. The light changed to amber, then red. He went through on red, just in time to see the scooter turning left at the next traffic light two hundred metres further along. Fucking hell! Where were they off to in such a hurry? He made it through the next crossroads on amber and set about trying to catch up.

They were heading into the centre.

He was nearly behind them now. The traffic was much heavier, it was raining, and the beams from the headlights bounced off the wet pavement. In these conditions it was no easy thing to follow the zigzagging vehicle. Sixteen minutes later, the scooter dropped its passenger on the rue d'Alsace-Lorraine and took off again immediately. Espérandieu parked in a prohibited spot, pulled down the screen marked ‘Police', and got out. His instinct told him that there was something going on. Then he discovered he had left his camera on the passenger seat; he swore, went back to get it, then ran to catch up with his target.

No panic: Margot Servaz was walking calmly ahead of him through the crowd. As he jogged to reach her he checked that the camera was working.

She turned into the Place Esquirol. The bright windows and Christmas lights gave a new life to the trees and the old façades. With only a few days left until Christmas, it was crowded. Which suited him fine: that way she wouldn't notice him. Suddenly, he saw her stop short, look all around, then turn abruptly and go into the Brasserie du Père Léon. Espérandieu's alarm bells started ringing: this was not the behaviour of someone with nothing to hide. He hurried to follow her as far as the café. Now he had a dilemma: he had already met Margot half a dozen times. How would she react if she saw him come in right behind her?

He looked through the window just in time to see her kiss someone on the lips, then sit down opposite him. She looked radiant. Espérandieu saw her laugh joyfully at what her companion was saying.

Then he turned to look at him.
Oh, fuck.

*   *   *

On that cold December evening he gazed up at the stars scattered above the mountains, and the lights from the mill, reflected in the water, promised a welcoming warmth. A brisk wind stung his cheeks; the rain was once again turning to snow. Saint-Cyr opened the door and Servaz saw his face freeze with astonishment.

‘Good Lord! What happened to you?'

Servaz had looked at his face in the hospital mirror, and knew it was frightening. He had dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes worthy of Christopher Lee's Dracula, his neck was bruised up to his ears, his lips and nostrils had been irritated by the plastic bag, and there was a horrible purplish scar where the rope had dug into his throat. His eyes were filling with tears from the cold, or the tension.

‘I'm late,' he said in a scratchy voice. ‘If you don't mind, I'll come straight in. It's cold out tonight.'

He was still trembling all over. Once he was inside, Saint-Cyr took a closer look at him.

‘My God! Come along and get warm,' said the old judge, going down the steps to the spacious living room.

The table had been set, and a bright fire was crackling in the hearth. Saint-Cyr pulled out a chair for Servaz to sit down. He picked up a bottle and filled a glass.

‘Drink. And take your time. Are you sure you'll be all right?'

Servaz nodded. He took a sip. The wine was a deep red colour, almost black, strong but excellent. At least as far as Servaz could tell; he wasn't really a connoisseur.

‘Somontano,' said Saint-Cyr. ‘I bring it back from the other side of the Pyrenees, from the High Aragon. So, tell me what happened.'

Servaz told him. He couldn't stop thinking about the holiday camp, and adrenaline shot through him every time, like a fishbone rammed down a cat's throat. Who had tried to strangle him? He played back his memories of the day. Gaspard Ferrand? Élisabeth Ferney? Xavier? But Xavier had come to his help. Unless at the last minute the psychiatrist had baulked at the idea of killing a policeman. One minute Servaz was being brutally assaulted, and the next Xavier was there by his side. Could it have been the same person? No, it couldn't, because they had heard the Volvo drive off! Then he summed up the last two days – Chaperon's sudden flight, his empty house, the discovery of the cape and the ring, the box of bullets on the desk.

‘You are getting closer to the truth,' concluded Saint-Cyr with a worried look. ‘You're almost there. But this,' he added, looking at Servaz's neck, ‘what he did to you, it's unspeakably violent – it looks as if he'll stop at nothing. He's ready to kill a policeman if he has to.'

‘He, or they,' said Servaz.

Saint-Cyr gave him a sharp look.

‘This is very worrying for Chaperon.'

‘You have no idea where he might be hiding?'

The magistrate was pensive.

‘No. But Chaperon is very keen on mountaineering. He knows every trail and every refuge on either side of the border. You should enlist the help of the mountain gendarmerie.'

Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier?

‘I made something light,' said Saint-Cyr. ‘Per your request. Trout in an almond sauce. It's a Spanish recipe. I'm sure you'll like it.'

He went to the kitchen and came back with two steaming plates. Servaz took another sip of wine, then started on the trout. An enticing aroma rose from his plate. The sauce was light but deliciously spiced, with a hint of almonds, garlic, lemon and parsley.

‘Do you think someone might be taking revenge for the teenagers?'

Servaz nodded with a grimace. His throat hurt with every swallow. He soon lost his appetite and pushed back his plate.

‘I'm sorry, I just can't,' he said.

‘Of course. I'll get you a coffee.'

Servaz thought of the heart carved in the tree bark. With the five names. Five of the seven suicide victims.

‘So the rumours were justified,' said Saint-Cyr as he came back with Servaz's coffee. ‘It's incredible that we missed that diary. And that we didn't manage to find the least little clue to confirm the theory.'

Servaz understood that while the judge was relieved the truth was finally out, he was feeling what any person would when they've been chasing after something for years and suddenly, just when they have become resigned to the fact they will never reach it, someone else seizes it: the feeling that he had missed the very crux of the matter, that he had been wasting his time.

‘In the end your hunch was correct,' Servaz pointed out. ‘And apparently the men never took off their capes when they committed the appalling acts, never showed their faces to their victims.'

‘But not one of their victims ever spoke out!'

‘That is often the case, as you well know. The truth comes to light many years later, when the victims have grown up, when they've gained some confidence and are no longer afraid of their torturers.'

‘I suppose you've already had a look at the list of the children who stayed at the holiday camp?' asked Saint-Cyr.

‘What list?'

The judge looked surprised.

‘The one I made of all the children who'd stayed at the holiday camp, the one in the box I gave you.'

‘There was no list in the box,' Servaz said.

Saint-Cyr seemed offended.

‘Of course there was! You think I've gone mad? All the documents are there, I'm sure of it. Including that one. At the time, I tried to find a link between the suicide victims and the children who had been at the holiday camp, as I told you. I figured that there might have been other, earlier suicides that had not been noticed because they were isolated incidents, other children who had taken their own lives. That would have confirmed my hunch that the suicides were connected with Les Isards. So I went to the town hall and I got a list of all the children who had been at the camp since it began. That list is in the box.'

Saint-Cyr did not like it when anyone cast doubt on what he said, thought Servaz. Or on his intellectual capacities. The man seemed absolutely sure of himself.

‘I'm sorry, but I didn't find any list like that.'

The judge shook his head.

‘You have everything. I was meticulous back then. Not like nowadays. I made photocopies of every document in the file. I am certain that list was there.'

He stood up.

‘Follow me.'

They went along a corridor with fine floor tiles of aged grey stone. The judge went through a low door and switched on the light. Servaz found himself surrounded by utter chaos, a dusty little office in an indescribable mess. Bookshelves, chairs and coffee tables, covered with law books piled every which way, stacks of files and folders spilling reams of paper precariously held together. There were even some on the floor and in the corners. Saint-Cyr grumbled as he rummaged through a pile that was stacked thirty centimetres high on a chair. Then another. Finally, after five minutes had gone by, he stood up straight with some stapled sheets and handed them triumphantly to Servaz.

‘Here we are.'

Servaz looked at the list. Dozens of names over two columns on three pages. He let his gaze wander down the columns, and at first none of the names gave him pause. Then there was the first familiar name: Alice Ferrand. He went on reading. Ludovic Asselin. Another suicide victim. He found the third one a bit further along: Florian Vanloot. He was looking for the names of the two other teens who had stayed at the camp before their suicide when his gaze came upon another name, a completely unexpected name.

A name that should never have been on that list.

It made him dizzy. Servaz shuddered as if he had just been given an electric shock. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. He blinked, opened them again. The name was still there, along with the other children. Irène Ziegler.

Shit, it can't be!

24

He sat at the wheel of the Cherokee for a long time, staring blankly through the windscreen. He did not see the snowflakes, or the layer of snow rising on the road. A streetlamp cast a circle of light over the snow; the lights in the mill went out one after the other, except for one, surely the bedroom. Servaz thought the old judge must read in bed. He didn't close the shutters. There was no point: a burglar would have to swim against the current and climb along the wall to reach the windows. That was at least as effective as a dog or a burglar alarm.