The Frozen Dead (64 page)

‘Has that psychologist spoken to anyone else?'

‘No, I don't think so. I advised her to go down to Saint-Martin and contact Cathy d'Humières.'

‘So you think that—'

‘I think that Éric Lombard is behind the murders of Grimm and Perrault,' said Servaz. He felt as if his tongue were sticking to his palate and his jaw muscles were seizing up. ‘I think he's taking revenge for what was done to his sister, a sister he adored, and he is accusing them, rightfully, of causing her suicide and that of seven other young people. I think he came up with a Machiavellian plot to dispense justice himself, while removing all suspicion from himself, with the help of an accomplice at the Wargnier Institute.'

He looked at his left hand. It was jumping on the armrest. He tried to keep it still, without success. When he raised his eyes, he saw that Saint-Cyr was staring at it.

‘Lombard is a very clever man: he understood that sooner or later whoever was investigating the murders would make the connection with the wave of adolescent suicides fifteen years earlier, including his sister's. He must have figured that the best way to divert suspicion was to include himself among the victims. So he had to be the target of the first crime. But how to do it? He couldn't possibly kill an innocent person. At some point he must have had a flash of inspiration; he could commit a crime no one would ever suspect him of, by killing something he loved more than anything: his favourite horse. He must have been sick at heart when he finally decided to do it, but what better alibi than a slaughter that took place while he was – or so he said – in the US? That's why the dogs at the riding academy didn't bark. And the horse didn't neigh. He might even have another accomplice at the academy, as well as the head nurse at the Institute. Because it would have taken at least two people to get the horse up there. And the alarm at the academy didn't go off, either. However, he would never have let someone else kill the animal. That isn't the way the Lombards do things, and Éric Lombard is an adventurer, a warrior, used to the most extreme challenges, used to assuming responsibility. And not at all afraid of getting his hands dirty.'

Was it exhaustion, or the lack of sleep? His vision seemed to be blurring, as if he was suddenly wearing glasses with the wrong prescription.

‘I also think that Lombard, or one of his henchmen, blackmailed the two watchmen at the power station – no doubt by threatening to have them sent back to jail, or by buying their silence. And Lombard must have known fairly quickly that the Hirtmann lead would not go far. But that didn't bother him: it was only a smokescreen. At a push, the fact we were looking into suicides from fifteen years earlier would not trouble him either; it would only multiply the leads. The guilty party could have been any of the parents, or even one of the teenagers who'd been raped and was now an adult. I wonder how much he knew about Ziegler, the fact that she'd stayed at the holiday camp. And that she'd make an ideal suspect. Or perhaps that was simply a coincidence.'

Saint-Cyr didn't respond; he seemed glum, as if concentrating on something. With his cuff Servaz wiped away the sweat pouring into his eyes.

‘So in the long run he must have figured that even if everything wasn't turning out exactly as he'd planned, he'd shuffled the cards so well that it would be almost impossible to get at the truth – or to trace it back to him.'

‘Almost,' agreed Saint-Cyr with a sad smile. ‘But he failed to reckon with someone like you.'

Servaz noticed that the judge's tone had changed. The old man was smiling at him in a way that was both admiring and ambivalent. Servaz tried to move his hand; it was no longer trembling, but it felt as heavy as lead.

‘You are a remarkable detective,' said Saint-Cyr frostily. ‘If I'd had someone like you working for me, who knows how many cases I would have solved?'

Servaz's mobile began to ring. He tried to reach for it, but his arm felt as if it were bound in quick-setting cement. It seemed to take for ever to move his hand just a few inches. The mobile rang for a long time, piercing the silence that had fallen between the two men; then the call went to voicemail. The judge was staring at him.

‘I – I – feel – feel really
strange,
' stammered Servaz, letting his arm drop beside him.

Shit! What was wrong with him? His jaw was stiffening and he was finding it incredibly difficult to speak. He tried to get to his feet. The room immediately began to spin. Drained of strength, he collapsed into the armchair. He thought he heard Saint-Cyr say,
‘It was a mistake to involve Hirtmann…'
He wondered if he'd heard correctly. He struggled against the mist in his mind, tried to concentrate on the words coming from the judge's mouth:

‘… predictable: Hirtmann's
ego
got the upper hand, as was to be expected. He wormed the information out of Élisabeth in exchange for his DNA; then he got you heading down the trail of those suicides simply for the pleasure of showing you he was in charge. It flattered his pride. His immense vanity. It seems he took a fancy to you.'

Servaz tried to frown. Was that really Saint-Cyr who was speaking? For a split second he thought he saw Lombard across from him. Then he blinked, trying to rid his eyes of the stinging drops of sweat, and saw it was indeed the judge. Saint-Cyr took a mobile phone from his pocket.

‘Lisa? It's Gabriel. Apparently your little snoop didn't speak to anyone else. She only had time to ring Martin. Yes, I'm sure … Yes, I've got the situation under control.'

He hung up and turned his attention back to Servaz.

‘I'm going to tell you a story,' he said. Servaz felt as if his voice were coming to him from the end of a tunnel. ‘The story of a little boy who was the son of a tyrannical, violent man. A very intelligent little boy, a wonderful little boy. When he came to see us, he always brought a bouquet of flowers that he'd picked along the path, or some pebbles he'd gathered from the banks of the river. We didn't have any children, my wife and I. So you can imagine that when Éric came into our life, it was a gift from heaven, a ray of sunshine.'

Saint-Cyr made a gesture as if to keep the memory at a distance, to refrain from yielding to emotion.

‘But there was a cloud in that blue sky. Éric's father, the famous Henri Lombard, terrorised everyone around him, both in his factories and at home. And although there were times when he was affectionate with his children, at other times he terrified them with his fits of rage, the way he'd shout, the blows that rained down on their mother. Needless to say, both Éric and Maud were profoundly disturbed by the atmosphere that reigned at the chateau.'

Servaz tried to swallow and couldn't. He tried to move. Once again, his phone rang for a long time, then fell silent.

‘In those days, my wife and I lived in a house in the woods not far from the chateau, on the banks of this same stream,' continued Saint-Cyr. ‘Henri Lombard may have been tyrannical, suspicious, paranoid and downright insane, but he never surrounded his property with fences or barbed wire or cameras, the way people do nowadays. It just wasn't done back then. You didn't have all the crime, the threats. No matter what people say, the world we lived in was still human. In short, our house was a refuge for young Éric, and he often spent the entire afternoon there. Sometimes he brought Maud with him; she was a pretty child with a sad expression; she almost never smiled. Éric loved her very much. By the time he was ten he seemed to have decided he would protect her.'

He paused for a moment.

‘My professional life was very demanding and I wasn't often at home, but from the moment Éric came into our lives I tried to set aside as much free time as I could. I was always happy to see him coming down the path to our house, on his own or with his sister trailing behind him. I became a second father to him. I raised that boy as if he were my own. There is nothing I am prouder of. My greatest success. I taught him everything I knew. He was an extraordinarily receptive child. Just look at what he has become today! And it's not only because of the empire he inherited. No. It was thanks to my lessons, and our love.'

Dumbfounded, Servaz saw that the old judge was weeping, tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks.

‘Then there was that bad business. I remember the day we found Maud hanging from the swing. Éric was never the same after that. He withdrew into himself, became glum and obstinate. Seemed to harden himself. I suppose it was useful in business. But he was no longer the Éric I had known.'

‘And what … what … happened to … to…?'

‘To Maud? Éric didn't tell me the details, but I think she crossed paths with those bastards.'

‘No … after that…'

‘The years went by. Éric had just inherited the company when Maud killed herself; their father had died the previous year. He was overwhelmed by work – one day in Paris, the next in New York or Singapore. He never had a minute to himself. Then all the doubts and questions about his sister's death came back. He got it into his head that he had to go after the truth. He hired some private detectives. Men who weren't very particular about their methods or their morals – and whose silence could be bought at a very steep price. They must have followed more or less the same leads as you, and they uncovered the truth about the four men. From that point on, it wasn't hard for Éric to imagine what had happened to his sister and other women before her. He decided to take the law into his own hands; he had the means. He was well positioned to know that his country's judicial system could be trusted only so far. He also found precious support in Élisabeth Ferney. His mistress. Who also grew up round here, and she's not just Éric Lombard's lover – she too was a victim.'

The light from the candles and lamps hurt Servaz's eyes. He was soaked in sweat.

‘I'm an old man and my time is running out,' said Saint-Cyr. ‘One year, five, ten: what difference does it make? My life is behind me. And what remains will, in any case, be nothing but a long wait for the end. Why not shorten that time if my death can help someone as brilliant and important as Éric Lombard?'

Servaz felt the panic spreading through him. His heart was pounding so hard that he was certain he was on the verge of a heart attack. But he still couldn't move. And the room around him was now a total blur.

‘I'm going to leave behind a letter, claiming responsibility for the crimes,' announced Saint-Cyr in an astonishingly calm, firm voice. ‘So that justice will be served at last. Many people know how obsessed I was by the case of the suicide victims. So no one will be surprised. I will say that I killed the horse because I thought that Henri, Éric's father, had taken part in the rapes. And that I killed you because you had found me out. But afterwards I decided that there was no way out of the situation and, overcome by remorse, I decided it was preferable to confess before taking my own life. A beautiful letter, both moving and dignified: I've already composed it.'

For a moment the terror Servaz felt roused him slightly.

‘Is … is no point. Diane … Diane Berg has proof … guilty … talk to Cathy … d'Humières…'

‘I'm afraid,' continued Gabriel Saint-Cyr unperturbed, ‘that tonight the psychologist will be found dead. After the inquest, among her papers there will be proof that she came from Switzerland for one purpose: to help her compatriot and former lover Julian Hirtmann to escape.'

‘Why … are … doing … this?'

‘I already told you: Éric is my pride and joy. I raised him. I made him what he is today. Not only a brilliant businessman but also an upstanding man. The son I never had.'

‘He's … mixed up … mis … propriation … funds … corruption … exploiting chil … children…'

‘Those are lies!' shouted Saint-Cyr, leaping up from his armchair.

With a gun in his hand. An automatic pistol.

Servaz opened his eyes wide. Saint-Cyr's voice, and every other sound, every smell had become excruciatingly intense. All his senses had been flooded by extremes, leaving his nerves raw.

‘Hallucinogenics,' said Saint-Cyr, smiling once again. ‘You cannot imagine the possibilities they offer. Rest assured, the drugs you've taken with every meal I've fed you are not lethal. The aim was just to weaken you and make your reactions seem suspicious both to yourself and to those around you. The drug I put in your wine will paralyse you for a while. But you won't have a chance to come back round: you'll be dead long before. I'm terribly sorry to have to go to such extremes, Martin: you are the most interesting person I have met in quite a while.'

Servaz's mouth was gaping, like that of a fish out of water. He stared glassily at Saint-Cyr. He felt a sudden surge of anger: because of this fucking drug, he would die looking like an idiot!

‘I've spent my entire life fighting crime, and now I'm going to end it as a murderer,' said the judge bitterly. ‘But you leave me no choice: Éric Lombard must remain free. He has so many plans. Thanks to the associations that he funds, children won't go hungry, artists will be able to work, students will receive grants … I'm not going to let some little cop destroy one of the most brilliant men of his era. A man who has done nothing more than assure, in his way, that justice is done, in a country where the word lost its meaning a long time ago.'

Servaz wondered if they were talking about the same man: the one who had colluded with major pharmaceutical companies to stop countries in Africa manufacturing drugs against AIDS or meningitis; the one whose subcontractors had been encouraged to exploit women and children in India and Bangladesh; the one whose lawyers had bought Polytex for its patents, then sacked all its workers. Who was the real Éric Lombard? The cynical, unscrupulous businessman, or the philanthropist and patron of the arts? The young boy who looked after his little sister, or the shark who exploited human misery? Servaz couldn't think clearly anymore.