The Frozen Dead (63 page)

‘Yes.'

He had already hung up when she remembered that her car wouldn't start.

*   *   *

In the beam of his headlights he saw the buildings of the riding academy. It looked dark and deserted. There were no horses or grooms in sight. The boxes had been closed for the night – or for the winter. He pulled up in front of the big brick building and got out.

Whirling snowflakes engulfed him. Servaz turned up his collar and headed towards the entrance. The dogs started barking and pulling on their chains. A silhouette appeared in a window; someone looking outside. The door was ajar, and there was a light on in the passage behind it. Servaz went in. On his right he saw a horse and rider circling the large indoor arena under rows of lamps, despite the late hour. Marchand came out of the first door on the left.

‘What's going on?' he said.

‘I have a few questions for you.'

The manager led him to another door further along. Servaz went in. It was the same office he had seen on his first visit. On the laptop screen was a photograph of a horse. A magnificent animal with a bay coat. Perhaps it was Freedom. Marchand walked past him again and Servaz smelled the whisky on his breath. A bottle of Label 5 stood on a shelf, already over half empty.

‘It's about Maud Lombard,' he said.

Marchand gave him a surprised, wary look. His eyes were a bit too shiny.

‘I know she committed suicide,' said Servaz.

‘Yes,' said the old horse trainer. ‘A bad business.'

‘What do you mean?'

He saw that Marchand was hesitating. For a moment, the man looked away before finally turning his gaze on Servaz.
He was about to tell a lie.

‘She slit her wrists—'

‘That's bullshit!' shouted Servaz, grabbing the trainer by the collar. ‘You're lying! Look: an innocent person has just been accused of the murders of Grimm and Perrault. If you don't tell me the truth right now, I will accuse you of being an accessory. Make your mind up. I haven't got all night!' he added, pale with fury, reaching for his handcuffs.

The trainer looked terrified by Servaz's anger, as unexpected as it was violent. Then he went pale when he heard the clink of the handcuffs. His eyes opened wide. But he tried to probe the cop nevertheless.

‘You're bluffing.'

A good poker player, not easily taken in. Servaz grabbed him by the wrist and spun him round.

‘What are you doing?' asked Marchand, stunned.

‘I warned you.'

‘You have no proof!'

‘Do you know how many people have been taken in without proof and are still rotting in custody?'

‘Wait! You can't do this!' protested Marchand, suddenly in a panic. ‘You have no right!'

‘I'm warning you: there are photographers outside the gendarmerie,' lied Servaz, dragging him towards the door. ‘But we'll put a jacket over your head when we take you out of the car. All you'll have to do is look at the ground and let us lead you.'

‘Wait, wait! Shit, wait!'

But Servaz had a firm grip on him now. They were already out in the corridor.

‘All right! All right! I was lying! Take them off!'

Servaz paused. The horse and rider had stopped and were watching them from the arena.

‘First, the truth,' murmured Servaz in his ear.

‘She hanged herself. In the garden at the chateau, damn it!'

Servaz held his breath. Another hanging. This was it. He released the handcuffs. Marchand rubbed his wrists.

‘I'll never forget it,' he said, his head down. ‘It was twilight, summertime. She was wearing a white dress, almost transparent. She was floating like a ghost above the lawn with her neck broken, in the setting sun. I can still see it, before my eyes. Almost every night.'

Summertime.
The season she had chosen to die, like the others. A white dress.
Look for white,
Propp had said.

‘Why did you lie?'

‘Because
someone
asked me to, of course,' said Marchand, lowering his eyes. ‘Don't ask me what difference it makes – I have no idea. The boss didn't want people to know.'

‘It makes a huge difference,' answered Servaz, heading to the door.

*   *   *

Espérandieu had just switched off his laptop when the phone rang. He sighed, looked at the time – ten forty – and picked up. He sat up a fraction straighter when he recognised the voice of Luc Damblin, his contact at Interpol. He had been waiting for this call ever since he got back to Toulouse, and had begun to lose hope.

‘You were right,' said Damblin straight off. ‘It was him all right. What is it you're working on? I have no idea what's going on, but, Jesus, I get the feeling you've landed a big fish. Can you tell me any more about it? What does someone like him have to do with a crime squad case?'

Espérandieu had nearly fallen off his chair. He swallowed and sat up again.

‘Are you sure? Your man at the FBI confirmed it? Tell me how he got his information.'

Over the next five minutes, Luc Damblin explained in detail.
Jesus wept!
thought Espérandieu when he hung up. It was time to get hold of Martin. Right away.

*   *   *

Servaz felt as if the elements were in league against him. A real blizzard. Tonight of all nights. He hoped that the psychologist had managed to get down to Saint-Martin, that the road was still open. A few minutes earlier, on leaving the riding academy, he had made one last call.

‘Hello?' said the voice on the line.

‘I have to see you. Tonight. And I'm a little bit hungry. It's not too late?'

Laughter at the other end. But then it suddenly broke off.

‘New developments?' asked Gabriel Saint-Cyr, not trying to hide his curiosity.

‘I know who it is.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.'

Silence at the other end.

‘And do you have a warrant?'

‘Not yet. I'd like your opinion first.'

‘What do you plan to do?'

‘First of all I have to clarify a few legal points with you. Then I'll make my move.'

‘Don't you want to tell me who it is?'

‘Let's have dinner first; then we'll talk.'

Once again, a little laugh on the other end of the line.

‘I have to admit you've got me on tenterhooks. Come on over. I have some chicken left.'

‘I'm on my way,' said Servaz, and he hung up.

As Servaz was parking the car at Saint-Cyr's he could see that the windows of the mill were streaming with warmth and light through the storm. Servaz had not passed a single car on his way, or a single pedestrian. He locked the Jeep and, bent double against the wind, hurried towards the little bridge. The door opened at once. A lovely smell of roast chicken, wood burning in the fireplace, wine and spices. Saint-Cyr took his jacket and hung it up, then showed him into the living room below.

‘A glass of mulled wine to begin with? The chicken will be ready in twenty minutes. That way, we'll be able to talk.'

Servaz looked at his watch. Half past ten. The coming hours would be decisive. He had to think several moves ahead, but was his mind clear enough? The old judge would help him avoid any blunders. Their adversary was formidable. Servaz couldn't trip up on the smallest detail. He was also terribly hungry; the smell of the chicken was giving him stomach cramps.

The fire was burning briskly in the hearth. The room was filled with the sound of crackling logs, of the wind keening in the chimney and the rush of the stream outside. No Schubert this time. Clearly Saint-Cyr did not want to miss a word of what Servaz was about to tell him.

Two balloon glasses half filled with a ruby-coloured wine were waiting on a coffee table. The wine was steaming.

‘Sit down,' said the judge, pointing to a chair.

Servaz took the glass nearest him. It was hot. He turned it in his fingers and breathed in the enticing fragrance. He could smell orange, cinnamon, nutmeg.

‘Mulled wine,' said Saint-Cyr. ‘Invigorating and full of calories for a night like this. Above all an excellent remedy for fatigue. It will give you a boost. This will be a long night, won't it?'

‘Is it that obvious?' asked Servaz.

‘Is what obvious?'

‘How tired I am.'

The judge's gaze lingered on him.

‘You look exhausted.'

Servaz drank. He made a face when he burned his tongue. A powerful taste of wine and spices filled his mouth and throat. Saint-Cyr had set out a few little slices of gingerbread on a saucer to go with the mulled wine. Servaz ate first one, then another. He was famished.

‘Well?' said Saint-Cyr. ‘Aren't you going to tell me?
Who is it?
'

*   *   *

‘Are you sure?' asked Cathy d'Humières into the speakerphone.

Feet propped up on his desk, Espérandieu stared at his Converse trainers.

‘My informant was categorical. He works at Interpol headquarters in Lyon. A gentleman by the name of Luc Damblin. He got hold of a contact at the FBI. He is certain, two hundred per cent.'

‘Good heavens!' exclaimed the prosecutor. ‘And you haven't been able to get in touch with Martin?'

‘I tried twice. Both times, it was engaged. I got his voicemail. I'll try again in a few minutes.'

Cathy d'Humières checked her watch, a Chopard in yellow gold that her husband had given her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. Ten to eleven. She sighed.

‘I'd like you to do something for me, Espérandieu. Keep calling him. Again and again. When you do reach him, tell him that I'd like to be in bed before dawn, and that we won't spend all night waiting for him!'

At the other end of the line, Espérandieu gave a military salute.

‘Very well, madame.'

*   *   *

Irène Ziegler listened to the wind outside the barred windows. She had stepped away from where she'd been standing with her ear to the wall. It was d'Humières's voice; the walls were as thin as cardboard in this gendarmerie – as they were in hundreds of others throughout France.

Ziegler had heard everything. Apparently Espérandieu was on to something major. Something that would radically change the course of the investigation. Ziegler thought she knew what it was about. And Martin had vanished into thin air. She had an idea where he might be, where he'd gone in search of advice before making his next move. She knocked on the door, which opened almost at once.

‘I need to go to the toilet,' she said.

The officer closed the door in her face. It opened again on a young woman in uniform, who gave her a suspicious look.

‘Follow me, Captain. No messing about.'

Ziegler stood up, holding her handcuffed wrists in front of her.

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘I'd also like to speak to the prosecutor. Tell her that. Tell her it's important.'

*   *   *

The wind was howling down the flue, flattening the flames. Servaz was on the verge of collapse. He put his glass down and saw that his hand was shaking. He held it close to his body so Saint-Cyr wouldn't notice. The spiced wine tasted good, but there was a bitter aftertaste. He felt tipsy, and he couldn't afford that. He told himself he would drink nothing but water for the next half-hour, and then ask for a strong coffee.

‘You don't seem to be doing too well,' said the judge, putting his glass down and watching him attentively.

‘I've done better, but I'll be all right.'

In all honesty he could not recall ever having been so exhausted and on edge: dog-tired, his head full of cotton wool, prone to dizziness – and yet he was on the verge of cracking the strangest case of his entire career.

‘So, you don't think that Irène Ziegler is guilty?' continued the judge. ‘Everything seems to point to her.'

‘I know. But there's something new.'

The judge's eyebrows went up.

‘I got a phone call this evening from a psychologist who works at the Wargnier Institute.'

‘And?'

‘Her name is Diane Berg; she's from Switzerland. She hasn't been there long. Apparently she thought there was something strange going on, and she conducted her own little investigation behind everyone's back. That's how she found out that the head nurse at the Institute got hold of horse anaesthetics … and also that this woman is the mistress of a certain Éric, a very rich man who travels a great deal, judging from the emails he sends her.'

‘How did she manage to find all that out?' asked the judge sceptically.

‘It's a long story.'

‘And so, this Éric, you think it's…? But he was in the States the night the horse was killed.'

‘The perfect alibi,' said Servaz. ‘Besides, who would suspect the victim to be the culprit?'

‘This psychologist – is she the one who contacted you? And you believe her? How do you know she can be trusted? That Institute must be tough on a person's nerves when they're not used to it.'

Servaz looked at Saint-Cyr. He had a moment of doubt. What if the judge were right?

‘Do you remember when you told me that everything that happens in this valley has roots in the past?' said Servaz.

The judge nodded.

‘You told me yourself that Éric Lombard's sister, Maud, committed suicide aged twenty-one.'

‘That's right,' said Saint-Cyr at last. ‘So do you think that her death has something to do with the holiday-camp suicides? She never went there.'

‘There were two other victims who didn't stay there either,' answered Servaz. ‘How did Grimm and Perrault die?' he asked. His heart was pounding.

‘They were found hanging.'

‘Exactly. When I asked you how Éric Lombard's sister committed suicide, you told me she slit her wrists. That's the official version. Well, this evening I discovered that actually she hanged herself as well. Why did Lombard lie about that? Unless it was to prevent someone from making a connection between Maud's suicide and the murders?'