The Frozen Dead (60 page)

*   *   *

It was just after noon when Servaz parked by the cemetery. Samira Cheung was waiting for him. Despite the cold, she was wearing a simple leather jacket, hotpants over thick tights, and worn brown leather hiking boots. The music from her headphones was so loud that Servaz could hear it as soon as he got out of the Jeep. Beneath her hat her ruddy face made him think of a strange creature from a film, one that Margot had dragged him to see, full of magicians and magic rings. He frowned when he saw the skull on Samira's sweatshirt.
Rather appropriate,
he thought. She looked less like a cop than a grave robber.

They climbed up a small hill, through the trees and gravestones towards a copse of evergreen trees that marked the end of the cemetery. An old woman gave them a stern look. The Lombard tomb stood out. Its mere size made it practically a mausoleum, or a chapel. On either side stood a carefully pruned yew tree. Three stone steps led up to the entrance, which was guarded by a fine wrought-iron gate. Samira tossed her cigarette to one side, went round the monument and hunted for a moment before she came back with a key.

‘That's what I saw Ziegler do,' she said. ‘It's hidden underneath a loose stone.'

‘She didn't see you?' asked Servaz sceptically, eyeing his subordinate's outfit.

Samira frowned.

‘I know my job. When she spotted me, I was in the middle of setting out a bouquet of flowers on a tomb for a guy called Graves. Funny, don't you think?'

Servaz looked up, but there was nothing written on the triangular pediment above the entrance. Samira turned the key and pulled open the creaking door. Servaz followed her in. A dim light filtered through an opening on their right, not enough for them to make out anything other than the vague shapes of three tombs. Once again Servaz wondered why everything had to be so heavy and sad and filled with darkness – as if death were not enough already. Yet there were countries where death was almost light, almost joyful, where there were celebrations, where people feasted and laughed, instead of these dreary, cheerless churches and all these requiems and
lacrimae rerum,
these kaddishes and prayers full of vales of tears.
As if cancer and road accidents and hearts that gave way and suicides and murders were not enough,
he thought. He noticed a single bouquet placed on one of the tombs: a spot of light in the gloom. Samira took out her iPhone and loaded the ‘flashlight' app. The screen went white, and she held it above each of the three tombs in turn:
Édouard Lombard … Henri Lombard
 … the grandfather and father. Servaz told himself that the third tomb must be that of Éric's mother, Henri's wife – the former failed actress, the ex-call girl, the
whore,
according to Henri Lombard … Why on earth would Irène leave flowers on that tomb?

He bent down to read the inscription. And frowned.

He had thought they were one step closer to the truth. But now everything had become more complicated, once again.

He looked at Samira, then again at the inscription, in the glow of her mobile:

MAUD LOMBARD, 1976–1998

*   *   *

‘Who is it?'

‘Éric Lombard's sister, born four years after him. I didn't know she was dead.'

‘Does it matter?'

‘It might.'

‘So why do you think Ziegler is leaving flowers on her tomb? Any idea?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘Did she ever talk about it with you? Or say that she knew her?'

‘No.'

‘What does it have to do with the murders?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Well, at least you have a link this time,' said Samira.

‘What do you mean?'

‘A link between Lombard and the rest of the case.'

‘What link?' he asked, puzzled.

‘Ziegler didn't come and put flowers on this tomb by chance. There's a link. And even if you don't know what it is, she does. All you've got to do is ask her.'

Yes, he thought. Irène Ziegler knew a lot more than he did about the entire case. Maud Lombard must have been about the same age as Ziegler. Had they been friends? Obviously, Irène Ziegler had more than one secret.

In any case, there was no sign of Henri Lombard's wife, Éric's mother. Repudiated even in death, she had not been allowed to share in the family's appalling eternity. As they made their way back to the entrance, Servaz thought about the fact that Maud Lombard had died at the age of twenty-one. It felt like a crucial point. How did she die? An accident, illness? Or something else?

Samira was right: Ziegler held the key. Once she was in custody, she might come clean, but he doubted it. He had had plenty of chances to learn that Irène Ziegler had a strong character.

In the meantime, where had she got to?

He was overwhelmed by anxiety. They hadn't had any news in a while. He was about to call Pujol when his mobile rang.

‘We've lost her!' shouted Simeoni.

‘What?'

‘Dyke bitch – I think she spotted us! With her fucking motorbike, she had no trouble at all leaving us behind!'

Shit!
Servaz felt the adrenaline rush through his veins, and a sinking sensation in his guts. He looked up Maillard's number on his mobile.

‘Pujol and Simeoni have lost the target,' he yelled. ‘She could be anywhere! Let Lieutenant Espérandieu know, and stand ready!'

‘OK. No problem. We're waiting for her.'

Servaz hung up. He wished he could be as calm as the gendarme was.

*   *   *

Suddenly something else occurred to him. He took out his mobile and dialled Saint-Cyr's number.

‘Hello?'

‘Maud Lombard, does that mean anything to you?'

There was a hesitation at the other end of the line.

‘Of course. Éric Lombard's sister.'

‘She died at the age of twenty-one. That's a bit young, no? Do you know how she died?'

‘She committed suicide,' replied the judge, without the slightest hesitation this time.

Servaz held his breath. Just what he had hoped to hear. The pattern was coming to the surface. More and more clearly …

His pulse accelerated.

‘What happened?'

A second hesitation.

‘It was a tragic business,' said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Maud was a fragile, idealistic person. While she was studying in the United States, she fell passionately in love, I think. And the day her young man left her for someone else, she couldn't take it. That, along with her father's death the previous year … She came back here and killed herself.'

‘And that's it?'

‘What were you expecting?'

‘The topiary in the Lombards' garden – is that in her memory?'

There was another hesitation.

‘Yes. As you know, Henri Lombard was a cruel, tyrannical man, but occasionally he could show he cared. Moments when his paternal love took over. He had the animals sculpted when Maud was six years old, if memory serves me. And Éric Lombard kept them. In honour of his sister, as you said.'

‘She never stayed at Les Isards holiday camp, did she?'

‘A Lombard at Les Isards, you must be joking! Les Isards was reserved for the children of poor families who couldn't afford holidays.'

‘I know.'

‘Then how could you think a Lombard child might set foot there?'

‘One more suicide. You weren't tempted to include her on the list?'

‘Five years later? The chain of suicides had stopped long before. And besides, Maud was a woman, not a teenager.'

‘One last question: how did she do it?'

Saint-Cyr paused for a moment.

‘She slit her wrists.'

Servaz was let down: no hanging.

*   *   *

At half past twelve, Espérandieu got a message on his walkie-talkie.
Lunch.
He looked at Chaperon sprawled on the bunk, gave a shrug and went out. The others were waiting at the edge of the forest. As a ‘guest' of the forces of law and order, he had the choice between a Parisian sandwich consisting of baguette, ham and Emmental, a
pan-bagnat
or a Moroccan sandwich with kebab, tomatoes, peppers and salad.

Moroccan, he decided.

*   *   *

As Servaz climbed back into the Cherokee, a thought emerged slowly from the muddle of unanswered questions.
Maud Lombard committed suicide … Lombard's horse was the first on the list.
What if that was the key to the investigation, and not the holiday camp? He had a feeling this would open new perspectives. There was a door that had not yet been tried, and the name ‘Lombard' was written on it. Why had Éric Lombard been one of the avenger's targets? He hadn't been paying enough attention to that. He remembered how Commissioner Vilmer had gone pale when he had suggested there might be a connection between Lombard and the sex offenders. At the time it was just a joke, meant to destabilise him. But beneath the joke lay a real question. Now Ziegler's visit to the Lombard tomb showed just how crucial the question might be: what exactly was the link between Lombard and the other victims?

*   *   *

‘She's on her way.'

‘Copy.'

Espérandieu sat up abruptly. He released the button of his walkie-talkie and looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes to two. He reached for his gun.

*   *   *

‘Base 1 to command. I've got a sighting. She just left her motorcycle at the top of the path. She's headed towards you. Over to you, base 2.'

‘Base 2 here. OK, she just went by.'

*   *   *

Some minutes later, then:

‘Base 3 here. She has not gone by. I repeat, target has not gone by.'

‘Shit, where is she?' barked Espérandieu into the walkie-talkie. ‘Can anyone see her? Answer!'

‘Base 3 here. No, no sign…'

‘Base 4. I can't see anything either.'

‘Base 5. No one in sight.'

‘We've lost her, command. I repeat, we've lost her!'

*   *   *

Where the fuck was Martin! Espérandieu still had his finger on the walkie-talkie when the door to the cabin was flung open and bounced against the inside wall. He swung round, his weapon pointed … and found himself looking into the barrel of a standard-issue gun, the black eye staring right at him. Espérandieu swallowed.

‘What the hell are you doing here?' asked Ziegler.

‘You're under arrest,' he answered, his voice singularly lacking in conviction.

‘Irène! Put down your weapon!' shouted Maillard from outside.

There was a terrible second of hesitation. Then she lowered her gun.

‘Was this Martin's idea?'

Espérandieu saw a deep sadness in her eyes, just as an immense relief came over him.

*   *   *

At twenty-five to five, as an icy twilight was settling over the mountains, Diane left her room and went down the deserted corridor of the fourth floor. Not a sound. At this time, all the staff were assembled on the lower floors. Diane herself should have been with one of her patients or in her office, but she had slipped quietly back upstairs a quarter of an hour earlier. After leaving her door half open to listen out for any noise, she had concluded that the sleeping quarters were empty.

She looked quickly in both directions and hesitated only a fraction of a second before turning the handle. Lisa Ferney had not locked her door. Diane took this as a bad sign: if the head nurse had anything to hide, she would certainly have locked her door. The small room, bathed in a shadowy light, was exactly like her own. Diane felt for the light switch and a dim yellow glow lit the room. Like an old detective well versed in the art of searching, she felt underneath the mattress, opened the cupboards and the night table, looked under the bed, checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. There were not very many possible hiding places and hardly ten minutes had gone by before she left again empty-handed.

26

‘You can't see her,' said d'Humières.

‘Why not?' asked Servaz.

‘We're waiting for two officers from the gendarmerie disciplinary body. There'll be no interview until they get here. We have to avoid any kind of faux pas. Captain Ziegler's interrogation will take place in the presence of her superiors.'

‘I don't want to interview her, I just want to talk to her!'

‘Please, Martin … the answer is no. We have to wait.'

‘And how soon will they be here?'

Cathy d'Humières looked at her watch.

‘In two hours. Give or take.'

*   *   *

‘It looks like our Lisa is going out tonight.'

Diane turned to look towards the door of the cafeteria. She saw Lisa Ferney go up to the counter and order a coffee. Diane saw that the head nurse had changed her uniform for a long pale pink jumper, jeans, a white coat with a fur collar and thigh-high boots. Her hair fell loosely onto the silky fur, and she had not skimped on the eye shadow, mascara, lipstick and gloss.

‘Do you have any idea where she's going?' asked Diane.

Alex nodded with a knowing smile. The head nurse did not even glance their way. She drank down her coffee and vanished. They heard her hurry down the corridor.

‘She's on her way to meet her “mystery man”,' he said.

Diane stared at him. Just then, he looked like a mischievous little boy about to share his greatest secret with his best friend.

‘What's that all about?'

‘Everyone knows Lisa has a lover in Saint-Martin. But no one knows who it is. When she goes out like that, she usually doesn't come back until the next morning. Some staff members have tried to tease her about it, to get her to talk, but every time she sends them packing. The strangest thing is that no one has ever seen them together, in Saint-Martin or anywhere else.'

‘He's probably a married man.'