The Frozen Dead (43 page)

Just as he was approaching the lower station the fog lifted all of a sudden and the roofs of the town became visible. Servaz saw the flashing of revolving lights and many vehicles in the car park. Uniformed gendarmes were coming and going. He could also make out the white-clad figures of the CSIs, and the body laid out on a gurney beneath a silver tarp, next to an ambulance with an open tailgate.

He froze.

Perrault was dead.

They had stopped the gondolas in order to make the initial findings. Then they had taken him down and restarted the cars. Servaz knew at once that the killer had managed to get away. As soon as the pivoting arm opened the door, he burst out of the gondola and hurried across the concrete. He found Ziegler, Maillard, Confiant and d'Humières at the bottom of the steps. Ziegler was wearing a leather jumpsuit, but in several places the leather was torn: her knee and elbow were swollen, covered in bruises and scabs of dried blood. Clearly she hadn't even had time to dress her wounds. She was still holding her helmet in her hands, and the visor was cracked.

‘What happened?' he asked.

‘We should ask you that,' retorted Confiant.

Servaz glared at him. For a brief moment he wished that the young judge were a fragile figurine and that he were a hammer. Then he turned to Cathy d'Humières.

‘Is it Perrault?' he asked, pointing to the body under the tarp.

She nodded.

‘He called me,' he explained. ‘He wanted to speak to me in person. He sounded afraid; he must have felt threatened. He told me to meet him up there. I alerted Captain Ziegler and got up there as quickly as I could.'

‘And you didn't see fit to ask for reinforcements?' asked Confiant.

‘There wasn't time. He wanted me to come alone. He wanted to speak to me alone.'

Confiant stared at him, his eyes bright with fury. Cathy d'Humières was thoughtful. Servaz glanced again at the covered shape on the gurney: the investigators were folding the wheels and loading it onto the ambulance. He couldn't see the pathologist; he must have already left. Curious onlookers stood behind the police tape at the far end of the car park. There was a sudden flash. Then another one. The helicopter must have landed; he couldn't hear it anymore.

‘And the killer?' he said.

‘He got away.'

‘How?'

‘When we finally saw the gondola, there was a windowpane missing and Perrault was hanging underneath,' said Maillard. ‘That's when we blocked everything. There's one spot where the gondolas go past a path that leads up to the resort. It's a fairly wide path, and in winter it doubles as a ski trail if you want to ski back down to Saint-Martin. There's a drop of about four metres between the gondolas and the path. But your guy probably got down using the other end of the rope he hanged Perrault with. After that, a good skier can be down here in three minutes.'

‘Where does the path come out?'

‘Behind the thermal baths.' Maillard pointed to the mountain. ‘They're in the east part of town. The path winds round the mountain and comes out just behind the building – it's hidden from view.'

Servaz pictured the big building he'd gone by twice already. There was a vast rectangular esplanade, with the baths at one end, abutting the mountain. Around the other three sides of the esplanade there were hotels and cafés. In the middle was a car park. And, consequently, dozens of cars.

‘That's where we lost his trail,' said Maillard.

‘Did you include the path in the crime scene?'

‘Yes, we closed off the entire area and a team of investigators is going over every metre from the gondolas to the car park at the baths.'

‘He had it all worked out,' Ziegler commented.

‘And yet he didn't have a lot of time.'

‘How did he know that Perrault had called for help?' asked the gendarme.

They thought about it for a while, but no one came up with a satisfactory explanation.

‘He used dynamic rope,' said Maillard. ‘Good mountaineering equipment. He may have had it in his car all along, together with the skis. Then he could have put it in a backpack.'

‘Someone sporty,' said Ziegler. ‘A cool customer.'

Servaz nodded.

‘He must have had a weapon. Perrault would never have gone up with him otherwise. But I didn't see any weapon, or skis, or backpack. It all happened so quickly. And I didn't really notice what else was there.'

Perrault's face, distorted by fear. He could not get it out of his mind.

‘Where was he in relation to Perrault?' asked Ziegler.

‘Perrault was closer to me, and the killer was behind him.'

‘Perrault may have had a gun to his back. Or perhaps a blade.'

‘It's possible. Brilliantly staged, once again. In spite of the lack of time. He's quick, and arrogant. Maybe too arrogant. When the gondolas came close to me, he hid behind Perrault,' Servaz added, frowning.

‘Why would he do that, since he was wearing a balaclava?'

‘So that I wouldn't see his eyes.'

Ziegler gave him a sharp look.

‘You mean he was afraid you would recognise him?'

‘Yes. Which means that I've already seen him. And that I've seen him close up.We have to question the man at the ticket window,' he said. ‘Ask him if he saw anyone.'

‘We already have. He recognised Perrault. After that, he's categorical: no one went up until you did.'

‘How is that possible?'

‘You can also reach Saint-Martin 2000 by road. It takes roughly ten minutes from the south end of town. The killer had plenty of time to get up that way.'

Servaz considered the lie of the land. From the square where the baths were located you left town on a road that ended twelve kilometres away, a stone's throw from the Spanish border. That was the way he had gone to Grimm's cabin. Another road branched off from that one and went up to the ski resort.

‘In that case, he would have needed two cars,' he said. ‘One to get up there, and one waiting below.'

‘Yes. And probably someone waiting below,' Ziegler said. ‘Outside the thermal baths. Unless a second vehicle had been parked there for a long time.'

‘The first car may still be up there. Did you set up a roadblock on the way to the resort?' he asked Maillard.

‘Yes, we're checking all the cars coming back down. And we'll check all the ones that stayed up there.'

‘There are two killers,' said Ziegler.

Servaz looked at her.

‘Yes. There were two of them at the power plant – and there were two of them this time, too.'

Something suddenly occurred to him.

‘We have to call the Institute, right away.'

‘We already have: Hirtmann is in his cell. He hasn't left it all morning. Two people from the Institute spoke to him, and Xavier himself went to check.'

Confiant was staring at Servaz, as if to say, ‘I told you so.'

‘This time, the press will go to town,' said d'Humières. ‘We'll be all over the headlines, and not just the local press. I don't want anyone going off on their own, making statements that are out of line.'

Servaz and Ziegler didn't say anything.

‘I suggest that Monsieur Confiant and I should take care of the press. The rest of you, absolute silence. The investigation is progressing; we have several leads. Nothing more. If they want details, let them come to me or to Martial.'

‘On condition that His Honour doesn't use his statements to destroy our work,' said Servaz.

Cathy d'Humières shot him an icy look.

‘What on earth do you mean by that?'

‘Commandant Servaz gave Dr Propp and me a rough time on our way back from the Institute the day before yesterday,' said Confiant. ‘He lost his cool; he seemed to have it in for everyone.'

The prosecutor turned to Servaz.

‘Martin?'

‘“Lost my cool” … that's a bit much,' said Servaz sarcastically. ‘What I do know is that His Honour warned Dr Xavier that we were coming, and he didn't consider it necessary to inform you, or us, of the fact, even though we had all agreed that it was supposed to be a surprise visit.'

‘Is that true?' asked d'Humières icily, turning to Confiant.

The young judge's face fell.

‘Xavier is a friend of mine. I couldn't decently show up there with the police without warning him.'

‘In that case, why didn't you tell us?' Cathy flung at him, her voice trembling with rage.

Confiant looked down, sheepish.

‘I don't know … it didn't seem that important.'

‘Listen! We're going to be in the spotlight.' She jerked her chin furiously towards the reporters clustered behind the police tape. ‘We certainly mustn't treat them to the sight of a divided team. Since that is how things are, we will speak with one voice: mine! I hope we'll get somewhere soon with this investigation,' she said, walking off. ‘And I want a meeting in thirty minutes to go over what we've got.'

The look Martial Confiant gave Servaz as he walked away was worthy of a Taliban fighter happening upon a porn star.

‘Well, you certainly know how to make friends,' said Ziegler as she watched them leave. ‘Did you say they were one behind the other in the gondola?'

‘Perrault and the killer? Yes.'

‘Compared to Perrault, was the killer shorter or taller?'

Servaz thought.

‘Shorter.'

‘Man or woman?'

Servaz took a moment to consider this. How many witnesses had he interviewed in the course of his career? He knew how difficult it had been for some of them to answer this type of question. Now it was his turn, and he realised how disloyal memory can be.

‘Man,' he said, after hesitating.

‘Why?'

Ziegler had noticed his hesitation.

‘I don't know.' He paused. ‘Because of the way he moved, his attitude…'

‘Couldn't it be, rather, because you find it difficult to imagine a woman doing such a thing?'

He looked at her with a faint smile.

‘Perhaps. Why do you suppose Perrault felt he had to go up there?'

‘By the looks of it, he was running away from someone.'

‘In any case, we've got another hanging.'

‘But no severed finger, this time.'

‘Perhaps it was simply because the killer didn't have time.'

*   *   *

‘A blonde singer with a beard and big, feverish eyes, first name Kurt, 1993. Any idea who that could be?'

‘Kurt Cobain,' answered Ziegler instantly. ‘You saw him in one of the kids' rooms?'

‘Alice's.'

‘The official version is that Kurt Cobain committed suicide,' said the gendarme, limping over to Servaz's car.

‘When?' he asked, stopping short.

‘In 1994, I think. He shot himself.'

‘You think or you're sure?'

‘I'm sure. About the date, anyway. I was a fan at the time, and there were rumours that he was murdered.'

‘In 1994 … if that's the case, then they weren't copycat suicides,' he concluded, starting to walk forward again. ‘Have you seen a doctor?'

‘I'll deal with that later.'

*   *   *

His mobile rang just as he was about to turn the ignition.

‘Servaz.'

‘It's Vincent. What the fuck's the matter with your mobile? I've been trying to reach you all morning!'

‘What's going on?' he asked, ignoring Espérandieu's question.

‘The signet ring: we found out what's inscribed on it.'

‘And?'

‘Two letters: a C and an S.'

‘C S?'

‘Yes.'

‘What do you think it means?'

‘No idea.'

Servaz thought for a moment. Then something else occurred to him.

‘You haven't forgotten the favour I asked you?' he said.

‘What favour?'

‘About Margot.'

‘Oh, blast, damn, hell. Yes, I did forget.'

‘And what's the latest on the homeless bloke?'

‘Oh, right, we got the results back for the prints: all three kids were there. But that doesn't change much – according to Samira, the judge is going with the drowning hypothesis.'

A shadow passed over Servaz's face.

‘Someone must be leaning on him. The autopsy will settle it. It looks as if Clément's father has connections.'

‘While the others certainly don't: the judge wants to interview the oldest one again, the son of the unemployed bloke. He thinks he's the instigator.'

‘Well, well, what a surprise. And anything about Lombard?'

‘I'm still looking.'

*   *   *

A large windowless room, lit by neon lights and divided into several aisles by tall metal bookshelves full of dusty files. Near the entrance were two desks, one with a computer that was at least five years old, the other with an ancient microfilm reader, a heavy, cumbersome machine. Boxes of microfilm were also stacked on the shelves.

The Wargnier Institute's entire history.

Diane had asked whether the files had been computerised and the archivist had practically laughed in her face.

She knew that there were electronic files on the occupants of Unit A. Xavier had entrusted eight more patients to her the day before, to ‘cut her teeth on'. Evidently they were not important enough for someone to have taken the trouble to put their records into the computer. She walked down the rows, examining the folders, trying to determine what system governed the way they were stored. She had learned from experience that you couldn't always tell. Archivists, librarians and other software designers could have twisted minds.

But she was pleased to discover that the archivist was the logical sort, and had classified everything alphabetically. She grabbed the relevant binders and sat down at the little worktable. In the vast silent room, far from the turmoil of other parts of the Institute, she thought again about what had happened last night in the basement, and a chill came over her. From the moment she'd woken up she'd been seeing those gloomy corridors and recalling the icy humidity and smells from the basement, reliving the moment when she found herself plunged into darkness.