The Frozen Dead (38 page)

‘That's true,' said Servaz. ‘Everyone has their unsolved mystery. And in those cases there is always one lead that is more significant than the others. A vague idea that hasn't panned out, but we go on feeling that it might have led somewhere, if only we'd been lucky, or if the investigation had turned out differently. So there was nothing like that, really? Something that isn't in the box?'

The judge took a deep breath and looked Servaz straight in the eye. Once again he seemed to hesitate. He brought his bushy brows together, then said, ‘Yes, there was one hypothesis I particularly liked. But I couldn't find a single thing, no testimony to support it. So it stayed in here,' he added, tapping his skull with his index finger.

‘Les Isards Holiday Camp,' said Saint-Cyr. ‘Maybe you've heard of it?'

Servaz allowed the words to wander through his brain until the memory pinged like a coin dropped in a piggy bank: the abandoned buildings, the rusty sign on the road to the Institute. He recalled his reaction at the sight of that sinister place.

‘We went by it on our way to the Institute. It's all boarded up, right?'

‘Exactly. But the camp was in operation for several decades. It was opened after the war, and only stopped taking in children at the end of the 1990s.'

He paused.

‘Les Isards was set up for children from Saint-Martin and the surrounding area who couldn't afford real summer holidays. It was run partly by the municipality, a director was appointed, and they took in kids between eight and fifteen. The usual activities: hiking on the mountain, ball games, physical exercise, swimming in the nearby lakes…'

The judge grimaced, as if he had a toothache coming on.

‘What got me interested in the place was the fact that five of the suicide victims had been at the camp. And it was within the two years preceding their suicide. In fact, that was almost the only thing they had in common. When I took a closer look, I found they had all been there for two consecutive summers. And that the director of the camp had changed the year before the first summer.'

Servaz was rapt with attention. He could guess where the judge was heading.

‘So, I began to look into the background of the director – a young man in his thirties – but I couldn't find anything. He was married, had a little girl and a little boy, an uneventful life…'

‘And do you know where he is now?' asked Servaz.

‘In the cemetery. He had a motorcycle accident, collided with an artic ten years ago or so. But I couldn't find anything anywhere suggesting that the teenagers might have been sexually abused. And besides, two of the suicide victims hadn't even been to the camp. Moreover, given the number of local kids who went there, it's not at all surprising several of them would have that in common. So I finally gave up on that lead…'

‘But you go on thinking you might have been on to something?'

Saint-Cyr looked up. His eyes were sparkling.

‘Yes.'

‘You mentioned the complaint filed against Grimm and the other three that was almost immediately withdrawn – I suppose you questioned them, too, during the investigation into the suicides, no?'

‘Why should I? There was no connection.'

‘You're sure you didn't think about them at any point?' asked Servaz.

Saint-Cyr seemed to hesitate yet again.

‘No, of course I did…'

‘Can you explain?'

‘This business with the sexual blackmail wasn't the first rumour to go round about those four. There were others, both before and after. But never anything that led to an official complaint, other than that one time.'

‘What sort of rumours?'

‘Rumours implying that other girls had been subjected to the same sort of treatment – and that for some of them it ended badly, that the boys had a tendency to drink, and once they were drunk they became violent – that sort of thing. But the girls in question were all of age, or almost. Whereas the suicide victims were children. So I rejected that theory. And besides, there was no shortage of rumours in those days.'

‘And was it true? About Grimm and the others?'

‘Perhaps it was … but I wouldn't bank on it: things are the same here as anywhere else. There are untold numbers of self-proclaimed gossips and nosy-parkers who are prepared to spread terrible stories about their neighbours just to pass the time of day. And they'll make them up if need be. It proves nothing. There is an element of truth in there, I'm convinced, but the rumour was probably exaggerated every time someone new got hold of it.'

Servaz nodded.

‘But you're right to wonder whether the chemist's murder is connected in some way with this ancient history,' continued the judge. ‘Everything that happens in this valley has its roots in the past. If you want to find out the truth, you must leave no stone unturned – and look carefully at what you find underneath.'

‘And what about Hirtmann's role in all this?'

The judge gave him a thoughtful look.

‘That is what, back in my working days, I would call the “detail that doesn't fit”. There was always one in every case: an element that obstinately refused to fit into the puzzle. Rule it out and everything made sense. But it was still there. It refused to go away. It meant that something, somewhere had escaped us. Sometimes it was important. Sometimes it wasn't. Some judges and cops decide outright to ignore it; that's often the way a judicial error is born. As for me, I never overlooked that detail. But I didn't allow myself to become obsessed by it, either.'

Servaz looked at his watch and got to his feet.

‘It's a pity you and I are not on this case together,' he said. ‘I'd much rather be working with you than with Confiant.'

‘Thank you,' said Saint-Cyr, getting up in turn. ‘I think we would have made a good team.'

He gestured at the table, the kitchen and the empty glasses on the coffee table.

‘Allow me to make a suggestion. Whenever you have to stay overnight in Saint-Martin, you will be my guest for dinner. That way you won't be obliged to eat that disgusting hotel food or go to bed on an empty stomach.'

Servaz smiled.

‘If it's always this generous, before long I won't be able to conduct any more investigations.'

Gabriel Saint-Cyr gave a hearty laugh, banishing the tension that had lingered from his story.

‘Let's say that was an inaugural meal. I wanted to impress you with my culinary talents. The next one will be more frugal, I promise. We have to keep the commandant in shape.'

‘In that case, I accept.'

‘At the same time,' added the judge with a wink, ‘we'll be able to discuss how you're getting on with the investigation. Within the limits of what you can tell me, naturally. Or shall we say, from a theoretical rather than practical point of view. It never hurts to have to justify your conclusions to another person.'

Servaz knew the judge was right. He had no intention of telling him everything. But he was aware of the fact that Saint-Cyr, with his sharp mind and professional logic, could prove very useful. And if there were a connection with the suicides, the former judge would have a lot to tell him.

They shook hands warmly, and Servaz went back out into the night. When he reached the little bridge, he saw it was snowing again. He took a deep breath of night air to sober up a little, and felt the wet snowflakes on his cheeks. He had nearly reached the car when the phone in his pocket vibrated.

‘Something's come up,' said Ziegler.

Servaz stiffened. He looked at the mill on the other side of the stream. The judge's silhouette went by the window, carrying plates and cutlery.

‘We found some blood at the crime scene that didn't belong to Grimm. The DNA has just been identified.'

Servaz felt as if an abyss had just opened at his feet. He swallowed. He knew what she was going to say.

‘It's Hirtmann's.'

*   *   *

It was past midnight at the Institute when Diane heard the tiny creak. She was not asleep, but in bed with her eyes open – fully clothed. She turned her head and saw the ray of light under her door. Then she heard the muffled steps.

She got up.

Why was she doing this? She didn't have to. She opened the door a crack.

The corridor was dark again, but the stairway at the end was lit. She glanced in the other direction, then went out. She was wearing jeans, a jumper and slippers. How would she justify her presence in the corridors at this time of night if she ran into someone? She reached the stairs. Listened again. The echo of furtive footsteps going down. They did not stop on either the third or the second floor. Finally on the first floor the footsteps came to a halt. Diane froze, without daring to lean over the banister.

A click.

Whoever she was following had just entered the access code to the first floor. There was one security box per floor, except the top floor, where the staff sleeping quarters were. She heard the door to the first floor give a buzz, open, then close again. Was she really doing this, tailing someone in the dead of night?

She went as far as the security door, where she hesitated, then counted up to ten. She was about to put in the code when something occurred to her.

The cameras.

Surveillance cameras were installed wherever the patients slept or could move about. At every strategic spot, on the ground floor as well as the first, second and third floors. There were no cameras, however, in the service stairs, which were off limits to the residents, or around the staff quarters. Everywhere else the cameras kept a close watch. If she carried on following the night wanderer, she would find herself recorded at some point or another …

So the person ahead of her was not afraid of being filmed. But if the cameras were to capture Diane's passage in their wake, she would be the one to look suspicious.

She had got no further with her deliberations when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. She barely had the time to hurry to the stairway and hide before the biometric security lock buzzed again.

For a split second fear gripped her heart. But instead of going back up to the staff quarters, her quarry continued downstairs. Diane hesitated only a second.

You're insane!

When she got to the door on the ground floor, she stopped. There was no one in sight. Where were they? If they had gone into the common rooms, Diane would have heard the security lock buzz again. She almost failed to notice the door to the basement, on her left at the bottom of a final flight of stairs: the door was slowly closing … There was only a fixed doorknob on this side, so it could not be opened without a key. Diane rushed forward and slipped her hand into the space, just in time to stop the heavy metal door from clicking shut.

She struggled to swing it open.

Beyond, she could see more steps, concrete this time. They led into the dark depths of the basement. A dozen or so steps to a landing, then down again in the opposite direction. A steep staircase, peeling walls.

She hesitated.

It was one thing to follow someone along the corridors of the Institute; if she were caught, she could always say she'd stayed late in her office and lost her way. But it was another thing altogether to follow that same person into the basement.

She heard the footsteps continue.

Diane made up her mind, and let the heavy door close behind her. On the basement side, the metal door could be opened thanks to a horizontal safety bolt. It made a slight click as it locked. A damp chill enfolded her, along with a dank smell. She began to go down the steps. She had reached the second flight when all of a sudden the light went out. Her foot missed the next step. She lost her balance and with a little cry fell hard against the wall. Wincing with pain, she lifted her hand to her shoulder. Then she held her breath. The footsteps had stopped! Fear – which until now had been no more than a vague presence at the edge of her mind – overwhelmed her. Her heart was pounding in her chest; all she could hear was the blood throbbing in her eardrums. She was about to turn round when the footsteps started again. They were receding … Diane looked down. It was not completely dark: a faint, ghostly glow came up the stairway and spread against the walls like a fine layer of yellow paint. She continued on her way down, placing each foot cautiously, and eventually she came to a long, poorly lit corridor.

Pipes and bundles of electric wiring beneath the ceiling; rust streaks and black mouldy stains on the walls.

The basement … Not a place many of the staff members were likely to have visited.

The stale air, the terrible chill and damp made her think of a tomb.

The sounds – the fading footsteps, water dripping from the ceiling, the hum of a faraway ventilation system: it was all terrifyingly real.

She shivered, as if an icy hand were caressing her spine. Should she go on or not? The place was like a labyrinth, with its intersections and corridors. Mastering her emotion, she tried to determine which direction the footsteps had gone. They were becoming fainter and fainter, and the light, too, was dimming: she had to hurry. She reached the next corner and peered round it.
There was a silhouette at the end
 … She barely had time to catch a glimpse of it before it disappeared to the right.

Diane could now see that the wavering, irregular light in the corridor had come from an electric torch.

Her throat tight, she rushed onwards, not to be alone in the dark. She was trembling, from cold or fear.
This is madness! What am I doing here?
She had absolutely nothing with which to defend herself. She also had to be careful where she put her feet: here and there the corridors, even though they were wide, were almost completely blocked by piles of old things: bed bases and mattresses propped up against the walls, chipped sinks, broken chairs, boxes, defunct computers and televisions. What was more, the silhouette continually swerved left and right, going ever deeper into the bowels of the Institute, and it was only thanks to the trembling light left in the night visitor's wake that Diane was able to guess where her quarry had gone. She was tempted to give up and go back the way she had come, but she knew it was already too late. She would never find her way out in the darkness! She wondered what would happen if she pressed a light switch, whether all these underground passages would suddenly be lit. The person would know they were being followed. How would they react? Would they retrace their steps? Diane had no other option but to follow the glimmering light. All around her, in almost total darkness, there was the sound of tiny claws scraping the ground.
Rats!
They scurried out of her way. Diane felt the weight of darkness on her shoulders.