The Frozen Dead (58 page)

‘Catch up with her. Hurry! I need five minutes.'

He hung up.

He switched on the desk lamp and bent down to pick up the map.

*   *   *

It was two minutes past two when Espérandieu saw Irène Ziegler come out of the Pink Banana in the company of another woman. While Ziegler, in her leathers and boots, looked like some fascinating Amazon, her companion was wearing a white satin jacket with a fur collar over tight jeans and white-heeled boots laced from top to bottom. Straight from the pages of a magazine. She was as dark as Ziegler was fair, her long hair falling onto her collar. The two young women went over to Ziegler's bike, and the gendarme got on it. They exchanged a few more words. Then the dark-haired woman leaned over the blonde. Espérandieu swallowed when he saw them kissing deeply.

Blimey,
he thought, his throat suddenly dry.

Ziegler revved the engine, a leather-clad Amazon welded to the steel of her bike.
That woman may be a killer,
he thought, to pour a cold shower on his incipient lust.

Suddenly another thought came to him.
It had taken two people to kill Éric Lombard's horse.
He took a photo of the dark-haired woman just before she disappeared back into the club. Who was she?
Could the assassins have been two women?
He took out his mobile and rang Servaz.

‘Shit!' he swore after hanging up. Martin was staying in the flat! He must be out of his mind. He should have got out of there at once. Espérandieu took off at top speed, passing the bouncer. He took the turn at the exit a bit too abruptly and skidded once again before accelerating down the long straight road. He only lifted his foot from the pedal once he saw the motorcycle's tail light again, and glanced automatically at the clock on the dashboard: seven minutes past two.

Martin, for heaven's sake, get out of there!

*   *   *

Servaz was turning the road map every which way.

A detailed map of the High Comminges region. On a scale of 1/50,000. No matter how much he stared at it, he couldn't see anything. Yet Ziegler had looked at this map recently.
It's here, somewhere, but you can't see it,
he thought. See what? What was he supposed to be looking for? And then it came to him: Chaperon's hiding place!

It had to be there, of course – somewhere on this map.

*   *   *

There was a spot in the road, after a long straight stretch, where you had to slow right down to take the bends. The road zigzagged through a landscape of fir trees and snow-laden birches, among low white hills and a winding stream. A picture-postcard landscape by day, and eerie at night in the glow of the headlights.

Espérandieu saw Ziegler slow down and brake, then lean very carefully into the first bend before disappearing behind the tall fir trees. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and entered the bend with the same caution. He was almost in slow motion by the time he reached the spot where the stream flowed. But it was not enough.

At the time, he would have been incapable of saying what it was. A black shadow.

It burst out from the other side of the road and leapt into the beam of the headlights. Instinctively, Espérandieu slammed on the brakes: the wrong reflex. The car swerved sideways, rushing to meet the animal with a violent shock. Clinging to the steering wheel, he managed to right the car but too late. It came to a halt; he put on his hazard lights, took off his seatbelt, grabbed a torch and hurried outside. A dog! He'd hit a dog. The animal was lying in the middle of the road, and looked imploringly at Espérandieu in the beam of light, breathing heavily, a cloud of vapour at his muzzle; one of his paws was trembling.

Don't move, mate! I'll be right back!
thought Espérandieu, almost speaking out loud.

He put his hand inside his anorak. His mobile wasn't there! Espérandieu looked desperately down the road. The motorcycle was long gone.
Shit, shit, shit!
He rushed to the car, leaned in and ran his hand under the seats. Nothing! Not a trace of the damned phone. Not on the seat, or on the floor. Where was the fucking thing?

*   *   *

No matter how Servaz turned the map, he could find no hint of a place where Chaperon might be hiding. But maybe Ziegler hadn't needed to mark it. Maybe all she'd had to do was glance at it to check something she already knew. Servaz stared at Saint-Martin, with its ski resort, the surrounding valleys and summits, the road he'd taken to get here and the one that led to the power station, the holiday camp, the Institute and all the surrounding villages.

He looked around him. A sheet of paper on the desk caught his attention. One paper among many.

He reached for it. The deed to some property. His pulse began to race. A deed in the name of Roland Chaperon, resident of Saint-Martin-de-Comminges. There was an address: Chemin 12, sector 4, valley of Aure, municipality of Hourcade. Servaz swore. He didn't have time to go and consult the property register. Then he noticed that Ziegler had written a letter and number in red felt tip at the bottom of the sheet.
D4.
That was it. With moist palms he held the sheet of paper closer while his finger ran feverishly over the map.

*   *   *

Espérandieu retraced his steps and saw the mobile phone in the road. He rushed to pick it up. It was in two pieces, the plastic shell split open. He tried to dial Servaz all the same, in vain. He was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Martin! The dog let out a heartbreaking whimper. Espérandieu looked at him.
What the fuck! What is this nightmare!

He yanked open the rear door, went back to the dog and lifted him up. He was heavy. The dog growled, threateningly, but let himself be carried. Espérandieu settled him on the back seat, slammed the door and got back behind the wheel. He glanced at the clock. Twenty past two! Ziegler would be back any minute.
Martin, get out of there, now! For the love of Christ!
He took off like a shot into a sideways skid, righted the car at the last minute and tore down the white road, clinging to the wheel like a rally driver. His heart was going 160 a minute.

*   *   *

A cross, a tiny cross in red ink that he had originally failed to see. Right in the middle of square D4. Servaz was jubilant. On the map there was a tiny black square in the middle of a deserted zone of forests and mountains. A chalet, a cabin? It hardly mattered. Now Servaz knew where Ziegler would be headed.

Suddenly he remembered the time: twenty past two. There was something wrong. Espérandieu should have called him ages ago. Ziegler had left the club sixteen minutes earlier! That was more than enough time to … He felt a cold sweat down his spine. He had to get out of there, right away. He cast a panicked look at the door, put the map back where he had found it, turned off all the lights and went into the living room. He heard a rumbling outside. Servaz hurried to the window, just in time to see Ziegler's motorbike. He went cold all over.
She's here already!

He quickly switched off the living-room light.

Then he hurried to the front door, left the flat and closed the door gently behind him. His hand was trembling so much he almost dropped the skeleton key. He locked the door and started down the stairs, then stopped short after a few steps. Where was he going? This would lead nowhere. If he went out this way, he'd find himself face to face with her. He had a shock when he heard the front door creak open, two floors further down. He was trapped. He went back up the stairs two at a time, as silently as possible, and found himself back where he had started: the second-floor landing. He looked all around. There was no way out, no hiding place – Ziegler lived on the top floor.

His heart was thudding in his chest, fit to tunnel right through it. He tried to think. She would show up any second and find him there. How would she react? He was supposed to be sick in bed, and it was almost two thirty in the morning.
Think!
But he couldn't. He had no choice. He got out the skeleton key once again, opened the door, then locked it behind him. Then he rushed into the living room. The damned flat was too bare. There was nowhere to hide! For a split second he thought about turning the light on, sitting down and greeting her like that, as casual as could be. He would tell her that he had let himself in. That he had something important to tell her. No! That was stupid! He was sweating, out of breath; she would see the fear in his eyes straight away. He should have waited for her out on the landing. What an idiot! Now it was too late! Would she go so far as to kill him?

With an icy shiver he thought that she had already tried. At the holiday camp, that very morning. The thought of it revived him.
You have to hide!
In a few strides he was in the bedroom. He slipped under the bed just as he heard a key in the front door.

As he crawled deeper, he could see her boots in the hall. His chin against the floor, his face dripping with sweat – it was like a nightmare. Something not quite real, something that could not happen.

He heard her drop her keys noisily onto the chest in the entrance. For a moment of absolute terror he thought she was coming straight into the bedroom.

But then he saw the boots vanish into the living room, and heard the squeaking of her leather jumpsuit. He was about to wipe the sweat off his face with his sleeve when suddenly he froze: he'd forgotten to switch off his mobile.

*   *   *

The dog was whimpering on the back seat. But at least he wasn't moving. Espérandieu started into the last bend the way he had in all of them: virtually out of control. The rear of the car seemed to want to pull away, but he declutched, swung the wheel the opposite way, stepped briefly on the accelerator and managed to straighten up.

Ziegler's building.

He parked outside, reached for his gun and leapt out. He looked up and saw that there was light in the living room. Ziegler's motorcycle was there, too. But no sign of Martin. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the moaning of the wind.

Shit, Martin, show yourself!

Espérandieu was desperately scanning the surroundings when an idea came to him. He got back behind the wheel and started the car. The dog protested faintly.

‘I know, old boy. Don't worry, I won't let you down.'

He drove back up the short, steep hill that led to the car park, reached for his binoculars and crept into the space in the hedge just in time to see Ziegler walking out of her kitchen with a bottle of milk. She had tossed her jacket onto the sofa. He saw her take a drink, then remove the belt from her leather trousers and pull off her boots. Then she left the living room. A light came on in the small frosted-glass window on the left. The bathroom. She was taking a shower. Where had Martin got to? Had he had time to make his escape? If so, then where was he hiding, for Christ's sake? Espérandieu swallowed. There was another window between the bathroom and the big one in the living room. Since the blinds were up and the door was open, he could just make out what must be a bedroom. Suddenly a figure emerged from under the bed. The shadow stood up, hesitated for a moment, then left the bedroom and headed stealthily towards the front door. Martin! Espérandieu felt like shouting for joy, but merely trained his binoculars on the entrance to the building until Servaz appeared at last. A smile lit up Espérandieu's face. Servaz looked from left to right, hunting for him, until Espérandieu put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Servaz looked up and saw him. He pointed upwards and Espérandieu understood. He trained his binoculars on the windows; Irène Ziegler was still in the shower. He motioned to Servaz to go to the side of the building and he climbed back into the car. One minute later his boss was opening the passenger door.

‘Shit, where were you?' asked Servaz, a puff of white coming from his mouth. ‘Why didn't you—'

He broke off when he saw the dog lying on the back seat.

‘What is that?'

‘A dog.'

‘I can see that. What's it doing there?'

Espérandieu described the accident briefly. Servaz got into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

‘You let me down for a …
dog?
'

Espérandieu made an apologetic face.

‘It's my Brigitte Bardot side. And besides, my mobile is in pieces. You scared the shit out of me! We really fucked up on this one.'

In the dark car Servaz was shaking his head.

‘It's entirely my fault. You were right, it wasn't a very good idea.'

It was one of the things Espérandieu liked about Martin. Unlike so many bosses, he knew how to admit when he was wrong, and how to take responsibility for his mistakes.

‘But I found something all the same,' he added.

He told him about the map. And the property deed. He took out a piece of paper where he'd written down the coordinates. They were quiet for a moment.

‘We have to call Samira and the others. We'll need reinforcements.'

‘Are you sure you didn't leave any trace?'

‘I don't think so. Other than a litre of sweat under the bed.'

‘OK, that's good,' said Espérandieu. ‘We've got something more urgent to deal with.'

‘What's that?'

‘The dog. We have to find a vet. Right away.'

Servaz looked at his assistant and wondered if he were joking. Vincent looked as serious as could be. Servaz turned round and stared at the animal. The dog looked very weak; he was in a bad way. He lifted his nose from the seat and looked at Servaz with gentle eyes, sad and resigned.

‘Ziegler is taking a shower,' said his assistant. ‘She won't be going out again tonight. She knows she's got all day tomorrow to get Chaperon, because you're supposed to be staying at home. She'll do it in broad daylight.'

Servaz hesitated.

‘OK,' he said. ‘I'll call the gendarmerie and find out where there's a vet. In the meantime, you get Samira out of bed and tell her to get down here with two more officers.'