The Frozen Dead (53 page)

Servaz shook his head.

‘Lawrence Kohlberg was an American psychologist. He was inspired by Piaget's theory of the stages of acquisition, and he postulated the existence of six stages of moral development in man.'

Xavier paused, leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his belly while he gathered his thoughts.

‘According to Kohlberg, an individual's sense of morality is acquired in successive stages during the development of his personality. None of these stages can be skipped. Once an individual reaches a certain moral stage, he cannot go back: he will be at that level for life. However, not all individuals attain the final level, far from it. Many of them stop at a lower level. Finally, these stages are shared by all of humanity, and are the same regardless of culture.'

Servaz sensed that he had aroused the psychiatrist's interest.

‘At level 1,' began Xavier enthusiastically, ‘good is rewarded and evil is punished. As when you hit a child's fingers with a ruler to make him understand he's done something wrong. Obedience is perceived as a value in itself, and the child obeys because the adult has the power to punish him. At level 2, the child no longer obeys for obedience's sake, but to obtain gratification: this marks the beginning of an exchange.'

Xavier gave a little smile.

‘At level 3, the individual reaches the first stage of conventional morality, and seeks to satisfy the expectations of those around him. It is the judgement of family or the group which matters. The child learns respect, loyalty, trust, gratitude. At level 4, the notion of the group is expanded to society as a whole. This is where respect for law and order comes in. We are still in the domain of conventional morality, and this is the stage of conformism: good consists in doing one's duty, and evil is what society condemns.'

Xavier leaned forward.

‘From level 5 on, the individual is freed from convention and surpasses it. This is post-conventional morality. The individual moves beyond selfishness to become altruistic. He also knows that values are relative, that laws must be respected but that they are not necessarily good. Above all he has the interests of the collective in mind. Finally, at level 6, the individual adopts freely chosen ethical principles which may come into conflict with the laws of his country, if he considers those laws to be immoral. It is his conscience and reasoning that will prevail. The moral individual at level 6 has a clear, coherent and integral value system. A person like this is active in associations and charities, and a sworn enemy of selfishness and greed.'

‘This is very interesting,' said Servaz.

‘Isn't it? I don't need to tell you that a great many individuals remain stuck at levels 3 and 4. Kohlberg also envisaged a level 7. There are very few individuals who ever attain it. The individual at level 7 is bathed in universal love, compassion and holiness, far above common mortals. Kohlberg mentions only a few examples: Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi. In a way, we might say that psychopaths are those who remain stuck at level 0. Even if that is not a very academic notion for a psychiatrist.'

‘And you think it would be possible to come up with a similar scale for evil?'

The psychiatrist's eyes sparkled behind his glasses when he heard Servaz's question. He licked his lips.

‘That's a very interesting question,' he said. ‘I confess I've often wondered the same thing myself. On such a scale, someone like Hirtmann would be at the far end of the spectrum, the mirrored opposite of a level 7 individual, basically.'

The psychiatrist was staring him straight in the eyes. He looked as if he were wondering what level Servaz had attained. Servaz felt himself sweating again, his pulse accelerating. Something was growing in his chest. Panic. Again he saw the headlights in his rear-view mirror, Perrault screaming in the cabin, Grimm's naked corpse hanging beneath the bridge, the headless horse, Hirtmann staring at him, Lisa Ferney's gaze along the corridors of the Institute. The fear had been there from the start, deep inside, like a seed, asking only to sprout and blossom. He wanted to flee from this place, this valley, these mountains.

‘Thank you, Doctor,' he said, getting abruptly to his feet.

Xavier stood up and reached out his hand.

‘Don't mention it.' He held Servaz's hand for a moment. ‘You look very tired, Commandant, not at all well. You should get some rest.'

‘That's the second time today someone has told me that,' said Servaz with a smile.

But his legs were shaky as he walked to the door.

*   *   *

Half past three. The winter afternoon was coming to a close. The silhouette of the mountain cut across a grey, threatening sky closing over the valley like a lid. He sat in the Jeep and looked at the list. Eleven names. He knew at least two of them: Lisa Ferney and Dr Xavier himself. He turned the ignition and backed round to drive away. On the pavement the snow had almost all melted, replaced by a black, oily film, soft and shining. There were no other cars on the narrow road, but a few kilometres further along, as he drew level with the holiday camp, he saw a car parked near the entrance to the drive. An old red Volvo 940. Servaz slowed down and tried to read the number plate in the glow of his headlights. The car was so dirty that half the numbers had disappeared under mud and leaves. Chance or disguise? He felt a gnawing anxiety come over him.

He glanced inside as he went by. No one. Servaz parked five metres further along and got out. There was no one about. The wind was making a mournful sound in the branches, like old papers rustling in an empty street. And the rush of the torrent. The light was fading fast. He reached for a torch in the glove compartment and walked over to the Volvo, trampling the dirty snow on the side of the road. There was nothing special about the inside of the car, though it was just as dirty as the outside. He tried to open the door; it was locked.

Servaz had not forgotten the episode of the cable cars: this time, he went back to get his gun. As he walked over the rusty little bridge, he could feel an updraught of chill air from the river. The minute he started slipping in the mud on the path, he regretted not wearing boots, which reminded him of what Alice had written in her journal. In a few strides his city shoes were in the same pitiful state as the Volvo. It began to rain again as he entered the forest. He started walking under the cover of trees, but as soon as the path led into a clearing, the rain drummed on his skull like dozens of little fingers, a diabolical rhythm. Servaz turned up his collar over his dripping neck. Hammered by the downpour, the holiday camp looked completely deserted.

As he drew near the buildings the path started up a gentle slope and he slipped in the mud and almost fell flat on his face. His weapon slid into a puddle. He swore and picked it up. He told himself that if someone was hiding somewhere watching him, they would be laughing at his clumsiness.

The buildings seemed to be waiting for him.

Servaz called out, but no one answered. His pulse was racing now. Every alarm signal, one after the other, was flashing red. Who could be wandering about the deserted camp, and why? And above all, why was there no answer to his call? It must have been audible, carried by the echo.

The three buildings were in the chalet style, but made of concrete, with just a few wooden embellishments; there were big slate roofs, rows of windows on each floor and large picture windows on the ground floor. The buildings were connected by covered walkways open to the wind. There was no light at any of the windows. Half of the panes were broken; a few had been replaced by plywood boards. Water gushed from broken gutters, splattering the ground. Servaz swept the beam of his torch over the central building and discovered a faded motto painted above the entrance: ‘There are no holidays in the school of life.'
Nor in crime,
he thought.

Suddenly something moved at the edge of his vision, to the left. He swung round. A moment later, he was no longer quite sure what he had seen. Perhaps it was branches shaken by the wind. Yet he was almost certain he had glimpsed a shadow. A shadow among the shadows.

This time he made sure the safety was off and a bullet in the chamber. Then he stepped forward, on the alert. Once he passed the furthest chalet, he had to be careful where he trod, because the ground rose steeply, slippery and unstable with mud. On either side the tall, straight beech trunks rose to their black branches far above, and if he looked up, he could see patches of grey sky and the pouring rain. The muddy slope careened down through the trees to a stream a few metres below.

Suddenly he saw something.

A glow of light.

As tiny and flickering as a will-o'-the-wisp. He blinked to chase the rain from his lashes; the glow was still there.

Shit, what is that?

A flame. Dancing, fragile, minute, a metre from the ground, against one of the tree trunks.

His inner alarm continued to sound. Someone had lit that flame, and that someone could not be far away. Servaz looked all around. Then he went down the slope to the tree. A candle. A tea light, the kind used in chafing dishes, or to give atmosphere to a room. It sat on a little wooden tray fixed to the tree trunk. The beam of his torch swept over the rough bark and he saw something that left him rooted to the spot. A few inches above the flame a large heart had been carved into the bark. And inside were five names:

Ludo + Marion + Florian + Alice + Michaël

The suicide victims. Servaz stared at the heart, petrified, speechless.

The rain snuffed out the candle.

And then came the attack. Ferocious, brutal. Terrifying. He sensed he was no longer alone. A fraction of a second later something cold came down over his head. Panicked, he reared up and fought like the devil, but his aggressor did not yield. He felt the cold thing close over his nose and mouth. His brain screamed in silence:
Plastic bag!
Then the man dealt a terrible blow to his knees and in spite of himself Servaz's legs collapsed beneath him. He was on the ground, his face in the mud, the man's entire weight on top of him. The bag was suffocating him. Through the plastic he could feel the soft, sticky mud. His assailant was pressing his head into the ground, pulling the bag round his neck, kneeling on his arms. As he gasped for breath Servaz remembered the mud in Grimm's hair, and an icy, uncontrollable fear came over him. He flailed, trying to throw the man off his back. No use: he did not let go. With a terrible rustling, sucking noise, the plastic came away from his face whenever he breathed out, then clung again to his nostrils, mouth and teeth the moment he breathed in, filling him with a horrible sensation of suffocation and panic. Struggling for air, his head bound in a prison of plastic, Servaz felt as if his heart was going to stop at any moment. Then suddenly he was pulled violently backwards and a rope closed round his throat, sealing the plastic bag. A searing pain shot through his neck as he was dragged over the ground.

He lashed out in every direction, his feet slithering through the mud to try and reduce the terrible pressure on his neck. His buttocks rose, fell again and slid over the soft earth, while his hands tried in vain to grab the rope. He didn't know where his gun had fallen. He was dragged over several metres, displaced, heaving, an animal being carted to the abattoir.

In less than two minutes he would be dead.

He was already struggling for air.

His mouth opened convulsively, but the plastic was blocking every intake of breath.

Inside the bag, the oxygen was getting scarce.

He was going to suffer the same fate as Grimm.

The same fate as Perrault.

As Alice.

They would hang him.

He was about to lose consciousness when the air hit his lungs as if a floodgate had been opened. Pure, unspoiled air. He could feel the rain streaming over his face. He gulped in the air and the rain, hoarse lungfuls that made a noise like a bellows.

‘Breathe! Breathe!'

Dr Xavier's voice. He turned his head, took a moment to focus and saw the psychiatrist bending over him, supporting him. Xavier looked as terrified as he did.

‘Where – where is he?'

‘He got away. I didn't even see him. Be quiet, breathe!'

Suddenly they heard the sound of an engine and Servaz understood.

The Volvo!

‘Shit,' he found the strength to say.

*   *   *

Servaz was sitting against a tree. He let the rain cleanse his face and hair. Crouching next to him, Xavier seemed equally indifferent to the rain soaking his suit, and the mud on his polished shoes.

‘I was on my way down to Saint-Martin when I saw your car. I wondered what you were doing here. So I decided to come and see.'

The psychiatrist shot him a penetrating look and a tentative smile.

‘I'm like anyone else: this investigation, these murders … it's terrifying – but also very intriguing. In short, I was looking for you, and suddenly I saw you there, lying on the ground, with that bag on your head … and that rope! The man must've heard my car and bolted. He certainly didn't think he'd be disturbed.'

‘A – a trap,' stammered Servaz, rubbing his neck. ‘He set me a – a trap.'

He puffed on his damp cigarette; it crackled. His entire body was shaking. The psychiatrist gingerly pulled the collar of Servaz's jacket to one side.

‘That doesn't look too good. I'm going to take you to hospital. You should get it seen to right away. And have an X-ray of your neck and larynx.'

‘Thank you for coming this – this way.'

*   *   *

‘Good morning,' said Mr Atlas.

‘Good morning,' replied Diane. ‘I'm here to see Julian.'

Mr Atlas studied her, frowning, his enormous hands on the belt of his boiler suit. Diane held his gaze without flinching. She struggled to keep her composure.

‘Isn't Dr Xavier with you?'