The Frozen Dead (15 page)

‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Servaz.'

‘Please hold.'

An endless ringing. Then the voice of a middle-aged man.

‘Yes?'

‘I would like to speak with Éric Lombard.'

‘Who's calling?'

‘Commandant Servaz, crime unit.'

‘What is this regarding?'

Servaz felt his temper flaring.

‘Listen, your boss is the one who asked to see me. I have enough on my plate without this. So I have no time to waste!'

‘Spell your name clearly and tell me why you are calling,' said the man on the other end of the line, unflappable. ‘Monsieur Lombard also has no time to waste.'

The man's arrogance left Servaz speechless. He almost hung up, but caught himself in time.

‘Servaz, S-E-R-V-A-Z. I'm calling regarding his horse Freedom.'

‘Could you not have said so earlier? Please hold.'

The man was back on the line twenty seconds later.

‘Monsieur Lombard will be expecting you at three o'clock this afternoon.'

It was not an invitation; it was an order.

*   *   *

Driving into Éric Lombard's territory was like entering a fairy-tale land. They had left the car and motorcycle behind in the car park of the gendarmerie in Saint-Martin and borrowed a squad car. They took the same route as before, the one that led to the riding academy, but instead of turning left into the forest, they carried on straight ahead.

Then they drove through an open, hilly landscape planted with oaks, elms, linden and fir trees. The estate was vast, stretching as far as the eye could see. There were fences everywhere, horses in meadows and farm machinery by the roadside, ready for use. There were still patches of snow here and there, but the air was luminous and clear. Servaz was put in mind of a ranch in Montana or a hacienda in Argentina. They saw signs, ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY DO NOT ENTER', nailed to tree trunks or fences round the fields. But there were no walls. Then five kilometres further along they saw the stone wall. It was four metres high and blocked off part of the landscape. Beyond it was woodland. They stopped the car outside the gate. There was a granite plaque on one of the pillars.

Servaz read ‘Chateau-Blanc' in golden letters.

At the top of the pillar a camera was turning. They did not need to get out and speak into the intercom: the gates opened almost immediately.

They drove another kilometre or more along an avenue of centuries-old oak trees. The road, straight as a ruler and impeccably paved, traced a black line beneath the twisted branches of the great trees. Servaz saw the house gradually approaching at the end of the grounds. A few moments later they parked alongside a border of winter heather and pale pink camellias covered in snow. Servaz was disappointed: the chateau was not as big as he'd expected. But a second look immediately cancelled that impression: it was a building of childlike beauty, probably built at the end of the nineteenth century or the beginning of the twentieth, part Loire chateau, part English stately home. A fairy-tale castle … Outside the ground-floor windows was a row of boxwood trees pruned in the shape of animals: an elephant, a horse, a giraffe and a stag stood out against the snow. On their left, to the east, Servaz saw a formal garden with ornamental basins and statues. A covered swimming pool and a tennis court. A vast orangery towards the back, with a host of strange antennas on the roof.

He recalled the figures he had seen online: Éric Lombard was one of the wealthiest men in France, and one of her most influential citizens. He was the head of an empire present in over seventy countries. In all likelihood the former orangery had been converted into an ultramodern communications centre. Ziegler slammed her door.

‘Look.'

She was pointing to the trees. He looked. Counted thirty or more cameras fixed to the tree trunks, among the branches. They must cover the entire perimeter of the garden. There were no blind spots. Somewhere in the chateau they were being watched. They headed up a gravel path through the flowerbeds and passed two topiary crouching lions. Each one was five metres high.
Strange,
thought Servaz,
it's like a garden designed for the entertainment of very rich children.
But he had not read anywhere that Éric Lombard had children. On the contrary, most of the articles described a confirmed bachelor with numerous conquests. Or did these sculptures date back to his own childhood? Waiting at the top of the steps was a man in his sixties. Tall, dressed in black. He looked at them with a gaze as hard as ice. Although he was seeing him for the first time, Servaz immediately knew who it was – the man on the telephone – and he felt his anger welling up again. The man greeted them without a smile and asked them to follow, then turned on his heels. His tone indicated that once again, this was not a request but an order.

They crossed the threshold.

A long series of rooms led one into the other, vast, empty and echoing, all the way through the building; they could see the daylight at the far end, as if they were in a tunnel. The interior was monumental. The hall was two storeys high, the light coming in from windows far up the walls. The man in black led them along the hall and through a salon empty of any furniture before turning to a double door on their right. A library whose walls were covered in ancient books, with four high French doors giving out onto the forest. Éric Lombard was standing by one of them. Servaz recognised him at once, although he had his back to them. The businessman was talking into a headset.

‘The police are here,' said the man in black, his tone half deferential, half scornful in referring to the visitors.

‘Thank you, Otto.'

Otto left the room. Lombard finished his conversation in English, removed the headset and put it down on an oak table. His gaze lingered on them, Servaz first, then Ziegler, for longer, sparking briefly with surprise at her outfit. He gave a warm smile.

‘Please excuse Otto. He's got the wrong era. He has an occasional tendency to treat me like a prince or a king, but I also know I can count on him under any circumstances.'

Servaz said nothing. He waited for what came next.

‘I know you are very busy. And that you have no time to waste. Nor do I. I was very fond of that horse. A marvellous animal. I want to be sure that everything, absolutely everything, will be done in order to find the person who committed this abominable deed.'

Again he looked closely at them. There was sadness in his blue eyes, but also toughness and authority.

‘Let me make this much clear, you can call me at any time of day or night, ask me any question you think might be useful, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. I asked you to come here so that I can insist that no stone be left unturned, that you'll do everything in your power to solve this. What I want is to get to the bottom of this case, and I have been assured that you are excellent investigators.' He smiled; then the smile faded. ‘If it should prove otherwise, if you are negligent in any way, if you treat this matter in an offhand manner on the pretext that it's only a horse, I will be merciless.'

The threat was not even veiled.
What I want
 … The man was direct. He had no time to lose and went straight to the point. Consequently Servaz found him almost likable. Along with his love for his horse.

But Irène Ziegler clearly didn't see it that way. Servaz noticed she had turned very pale.

‘You won't get anywhere by threatening us,' she retorted, her anger cold.

Lombard stared at her. His features softened and his expression became one of sincere contrition.

‘Forgive me. I am sure you are both perfectly competent and conscientious. Your superiors cannot stop singing your praises. I am being foolish. These …
events
have been very upsetting. Please accept my apologies, Captain Ziegler. They are sincere.'

Ziegler nodded reluctantly but said nothing more.

‘If you have no objection,' said Servaz, ‘I'd like to start right away by asking you a few questions, since we are here.'

‘Of course. Follow me. Let me offer you a coffee.'

Éric Lombard opened another door at the far end of the room. A drawing room. The sun spilled in through French windows onto two leather sofas and a coffee table, where a tray was waiting with three cups and a coffee pot. Servaz knew the coffee pot must be a priceless antique. Like the rest of the furnishings. Everything was already set out, including the sugar, some Danish pastries and a jug of milk.

‘My first question,' said Servaz straight off, ‘do you have any idea who could have committed this crime, or who at least would have a reason to commit it?'

Éric Lombard was pouring the coffee.

He paused in what he was doing to stare intensely at Servaz. His blond hair was reflected in the large mirror behind him. He was wearing an off-white rollneck jumper and grey woollen trousers. And he was very tanned.

He did not blink when he replied, ‘Yes.'

Servaz shuddered. Next to him Ziegler too had reacted.

‘And no,' he added at once. ‘Those are two questions in one: yes, I know plenty of people who would have good reason to do it. No, I don't know anyone actually capable of doing it.'

‘Could you be more specific?' said Zeigler, annoyed. ‘Why would anyone want to kill the horse?'

‘To hurt me, to get their revenge, to intimidate me. I suppose you know that in a profession like mine and with my fortune you are bound to make enemies: you arouse people's envy; you invade your rival's market; you reject people's offers; you drive people to ruin; you give hundreds the sack … If I had to make a list of everyone who despises me, it would be as thick as a telephone directory.'

‘Could you be just a little more specific?'

‘Unfortunately, no. I can see what you're getting at: someone has killed my favourite horse and stuck it up on top of a cable car that belongs to me. So they are trying to get at me. It all points to me, I couldn't agree with you more. But I don't have the slightest idea who could have done it.'

‘You haven't received any written or verbal threats, any anonymous letters?'

‘No.'

‘Your group does business in over seventy-five countries,' said Servaz.

‘Seventy-eight,' corrected Lombard.

‘Does the group have any connections, even indirectly, with any local mafias or organised crime rings? I can imagine there are some countries where this type of …
contact
is more or less unavoidable.'

Once again, Lombard stared at Servaz, but without aggression this time. He even allowed himself a smile.

‘You get straight to the point, Commandant. Maybe you are thinking of the horse's head in
The Godfather?
No, my group has no connections with organised crime. In any case, not that I know of. I'm not saying that there aren't a few countries where we have to turn a blind eye to certain behaviour, say in Africa or in Asia, but in those cases, let's be frank, we're dealing with dictatorships, not the mafia.'

‘And that doesn't bother you?' asked Ziegler.

Lombard raised an eyebrow.

‘Dealing with dictators,' she explained.

Lombard smiled again, indulgently, but the smile was that of a monarch hesitating between laughing at the impertinence of one of his subjects and having her beheaded on the spot.

‘I don't think it will be much use to your investigation for me to answer that question,' he replied. ‘You should also know that, contrary to appearances, I am not the only one in charge: there are many sectors where we have partners, including the French government. From time to time there are “political” aspects that I have no control over.'

Direct, but capable of coming out with the cant when he has to,
thought Servaz.

‘There is one thing I don't understand. How is it possible that nobody heard or saw anything, either at the riding academy or the power plant? You don't drag a dead horse around like that in the middle of the night.'

Lombard's face clouded over.

‘You're right. That's something I've wondered myself. Someone, somewhere has got to be lying.
And I would like very much to find out who,
' he added, threateningly.

He put his cup back down so brusquely that they were startled.

‘I summoned everyone – day and night staff of the power plant, employees at the stud farm. I questioned them all one by one as soon as I got here. It took me four hours. I'm sure you'll believe me when I tell you I put as much pressure on them as I possibly could. No one heard a thing that night. Of course it's impossible. I do not doubt the sincerity of Marchand or Hector: they have never hurt a single one of my horses, and they've been working for the family for a very long time. They are honest, competent men, and my dealings with them have always been excellent. They are part of the family, so to speak. So you can cross them off your list. And Hermine as well. She's a nice girl, and she adored Freedom. This has been devastating for her.'

‘Did you know that the watchmen disappeared?' asked Servaz.

Lombard frowned.

‘Yes. They are the only ones I didn't question.'

‘There are two of them, and it would take at least two people to hang the horse up there. And they both have police records.'

‘Two ideal suspects,' said Lombard dubiously.

‘You don't seem convinced?'

‘I don't know … Why would they go and hang Freedom up right where they work? What better way to attract suspicion?'

Servaz nodded in agreement.

‘But they did run off, all the same,' he objected.

‘Put yourself in their position. With their police records. Don't be offended, but they know perfectly well that when the police find a culprit, they rarely go looking any further.'

‘Who hired them?' asked Ziegler. ‘What do you know about them? I'll bet you've found out all about them since yesterday.'