The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Servaz suddenly focused his attention.

  ‘Do you mean that these traces are intact, that no one has stepped on them?’

  ‘I would not allow my colleagues to come anywhere near the area or to walk in the snow,’ answered the steward. ‘There are only two sorts of footsteps here: mine, and the ones belonging to the bastard who decapitated my horse.’

  ‘If I dared, Monsieur Marchand, I would kiss you,’ said Ziegler. Servaz saw the old stable boss blush and he smiled. They retraced their steps and looked over the yellow tape.

  ‘There,’ said Marchand, pointing to the footprints that ran along the wall, sharp and clear, the dream of any crime scene investigator. ‘Those are his prints; these are mine, there.’

  Marchand had kept his footsteps a good metre away from his predecessor’s. At no point did their paths cross. He had not, however, been able to resist the temptation of going over to the mound, as the path of his steps showed.

  ‘You didn’t touch the mound?’ asked Ziegler when she saw where his footprints led.

  He lowered his head.

  ‘I did. I’m the one who brushed the snow off the ears and eye. As I already told your colleagues, I nearly went on to brush off all the snow, but then I realised what I was doing and stopped in time.’

  ‘You did the right thing, Monsieur Marchand,’ said Ziegler, congratulating him.

  Marchand turned to them with a dazed expression, full of fear and bemusement.

  ‘What sort of person could do this to a horse? Maybe you understand something about this society we live in – because I certainly don’t. Are we all going mad?’

  ‘Madness is contagious,’ replied Servaz. ‘Like the flu. That’s something psychiatrists should have figured out a long time ago.’

  ‘Contagious?’ asked Marchand, disconcerted.

  ‘It doesn’t jump from one individual to the next the way flu does,’ explained Servaz, ‘but from one sector of the population to another. It contaminates an entire generation. The carrier of malaria is the mosquito. The carrier of madness, or at least its preferred carrier, is the media.’

  Marchand and Ziegler looked at him, stunned. Servaz gave a little wave of the hand, as if to say, ‘Don’t mind me,’ and walked away. Ziegler checked her watch. Nine forty-three. She looked at the sun blazing brilliantly above the trees.

  ‘For God’s sake! What are they doing? The snow is going to melt all this before long.’

  The sun had turned and some of the footprints, which had been in the shade when they arrived, were now exposed to its rays. It was still cold enough to stop the snow from melting, but it would not stay that way for much longer. At last they heard the sound of a siren coming from the forest. The crime scene investigators’ lab van pulled up in the courtyard one minute later.

  * * *

  A yellow plastic tab with a black number had been stuck into the snow next to every clue or print to be photographed. Squatting down by one of the prints, an investigator was taking pictures with a flash, enlarging or reducing the depth of field with each shot. A small, graduated black vinyl ruler lay on the snow next to the print. A second man came over and opened a briefcase, which Servaz recognised as a footprint moulding kit. The first investigator came to lend him a hand, for they had to act quickly: the snow was already melting in several places. While they were busy, the third man was uncovering the horse’s head. The back wall faced north so, unlike his colleagues, he could take his time. Servaz felt as if he were watching the patient labour of an archaeologist unearthing a particularly precious artefact. At last the entire head appeared. Servaz didn’t know anything about horses, but he could have sworn that even a specialist would have said Freedom was a splendid specimen. The animal had his eyes closed, as if he were sleeping.

  ‘It looks as if he were put to sleep before he was killed and beheaded,’ remarked Marchand. ‘If that’s the case, at least he won’t have suffered. And that would explain why no one heard anything.’

  Servaz exchanged a glance with Ziegler: the toxicology test would confirm it, but this already went some way towards answering one of their questions. On the other side of the tape the investigators were taking their last samples with the help of tweezers, sealing them in tubes. Servaz knew that fewer than seven per cent of all criminal investigations were solved thanks to the material evidence found at the scene of the crime, but that in no way diminished his admiration for the men’s patience and perseverance.

  When they had finished, Servaz was the first to step over the tape, and he bent down over the footprints.

  ‘Size forty-five or forty-six,’ he reckoned. ‘Ninety nine per cent sure it’s a man.’

  ‘According to the investigator, those are hiking boots,’ said Ziegler. ‘And the guy wearing them tends to lean a bit too much on the heel and the outside of his foot. Imperceptible, though. Except to a podiatrist. There are also some characteristic defects – there, there and there.’

  Like fingerprints, the marks left by a pair of shoes were distinctive, not only because of the size and the pattern on the sole, but also due to an entire range of tiny telltale signs acquired through wear: everyday damage, tiny pieces of gravel embedded in the sole, gashes, holes and cuts caused by branches, nails, pieces of glass or metal or by sharp stones … Except that, unlike fingerprints, these signs had a limited lifespan. Only a rapid comparison with the original pair could ensure positive identification, before kilometres of walking, over all sorts of terrain, would erase these tiny defects and replace them with others.

  ‘Have you informed Monsieur Lombard?’ he asked Marchand.

  ‘Yes, he’s crushed. He is going to cut short his stay in the US to come back as soon as possible. He’ll be on the plane tonight.’

  ‘Are you the one who’s in charge of the stables?’

  ‘The riding academy, yes.’

  ‘How many people work here?’

  ‘It’s not a very big academy. In the winter there are four of us. Between us we do everything, more or less. But let’s say there’s one groom, there’s me, there’s Hermine – she’s the most distraught of all – who works mainly as a stablehand for Freedom and two other horses, and then there’s a riding instructor. In the summer we hire additional staff: two instructors, guides for trekking, seasonal workers.’

  ‘How many of you sleep on site?’

  ‘Two of us: the groom and me.’

  ‘Is everyone here today?’

  Marchand looked at them in turn.

  ‘The instructor is on holiday until the end of the week. Autumn is slack season. I don’t know whether Hermine came in today. She’s terribly upset. Follow me.’

  They walked across the stable yard towards the tallest building. On entering, Servaz was overwhelmed by the smell of horse manure. A thin film of sweat formed at once on his face. They walked past the tack room and found themselves at the entrance to a large indoor riding ring. A horsewoman was exercising a white horse; the horse marked out each of his steps with an infinite grace. The rider and her horse seemed completely united. The animal’s white coat was tinged with blue: from a distance, his chest and nose shone like porcelain. Servaz thought of a female centaur.

  ‘Hermine!’ called the manager of the stables.

  The horsewoman turned her head and rode slowly towards them, came to a halt and dismounted. Servaz saw that her eyes were red and swollen.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, patting the horse’s neck and nose.

  ‘Can you fetch Hector? The police want to interview you. You can go into my office.’

  She nodded silently. No older than twenty. Smaller than average, quite pretty in a tomboyish way, with freckles, and hair the colour of wet straw. She gave Servaz a sorrowful look, then walked away, leading the horse behind her, head down.

  ‘Hermine loves horses; she’s an excellent rider and an excellent trainer. And a good kid, but she’s got quite a personality. She just needs to grow up a bit. She’s the one who looked after Freedom. Ever since he was bo
rn.’

  ‘What did that involve?’ asked Servaz.

  ‘Getting up very early, grooming and caring for the horse, feeding, taking him out to the field to lunge him. The groom’s job is both to exercise and take care of the horses. Hermine also has two other adult thoroughbreds she’s responsible for. Show animals. It’s not a profession where you count your hours. Of course, she wasn’t going to start breaking Freedom in until next year. Monsieur Lombard and she were waiting impatiently. He was a very promising horse, with a fine pedigree. He was the mascot here, so to speak.’

  ‘And Hector?’

  ‘He’s the oldest of us all. He’s been working here for ever. He was here long before I arrived, before anyone.’

  ‘How many horses are there?’ asked Ziegler.

  ‘Twenty-one. Thoroughbreds, French saddle horses, one Holsteiner. Fourteen of them belong to us; the rest are boarders. We provide boarding, foaling and coaching for outside customers.’

  ‘How many boxes are there?’

  ‘Thirty-two. And one foaling box that’s forty metres square, with video surveillance. And exam rooms for pregnant mares, a dispensary, two stabling areas, an inseminating centre, two outdoor schools with professional showjumping obstacles, eight hectares of paddocks, pens and pathways, with wooden shelters and a galloping track.’

  ‘It’s a very fine academy,’ confirmed Ziegler.

  ‘At night there are only the two of you to keep an eye on everything?’ asked Servaz.

  ‘There’s an alarm system, and all the boxes and buildings are locked: these horses are worth a great deal.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Do you take something to help you sleep?’

  Marchand gave him a scornful look.

  ‘We’re not in town here. We sleep well. We live the way we were meant to live, to the rhythm of things.’

  ‘Not the slightest odd noise? Anything unusual? That might have woken you up in the middle of the night? Try and remember.’

  ‘I’ve already tried. If I had thought of something, I would have told you. There are always noises in a place like this: the horses move; the wood creaks. With the forest nearby, it’s never silent. I haven’t paid it any mind for a long time. And then there are Cisco and Enzo; they would have barked.’

  ‘The dogs,’ said Ziegler. ‘What breed are they?’

  ‘Cane corso.’

  ‘I don’t see them anywhere. Where are they?’

  ‘We’ve locked them in.’

  Two dogs and an alarm system. And two men on site …

  How much did a horse weigh? He tried to remember what Ziegler had told him: roughly two hundred kilos. The visitors could not possibly have come and gone on foot. How could they have killed a horse, decapitated it, loaded it onto a vehicle and left again without anyone noticing, without waking up the dogs or the residents? Without setting off the alarm? Servaz didn’t get it. Neither the men nor the dogs had been alerted – and the watchmen at the power plant had not heard a thing, either: it was simply impossible. He turned to Ziegler.

  ‘Could we ask a vet to come and take a blood sample from the dogs? At night, are they free to roam or kept in the kennel?’ he asked Marchand.

  ‘They’re outdoors, but attached to a long chain. No one can get to the boxes without walking within reach of their fangs. And their barking would have woken me. Do you think they were drugged, is that it? That would surprise me: they were wide awake yesterday morning, perfectly normal.’

  ‘The toxicology test will confirm that,’ replied Servaz, already wondering why the horse had been drugged and not the dogs.

  * * *

  Marchand’s office was a cluttered little room between the tack room and the stables, its shelves crowded with trophies. The window looked out onto the forest and snow-covered fields bounded by a complex network of gates, enclosures and hedges. On his desk were a laptop computer, a lamp and a jumble of invoices, binders and books about horses.

  During the previous half-hour Ziegler and Servaz had toured the facilities and examined Freedom’s box, where the CSIs were already busy at work. The door to the box had been forced, and there was a great deal of blood on the ground. Clearly Freedom had been decapitated there and then, probably with a saw, probably after he had been put to sleep. Servaz turned to the groom.

  ‘You didn’t hear anything that night?’

  ‘I was asleep,’ replied Hector.

  He hadn’t shaved. He looked old enough to have taken retirement long ago. Grey hairs pricked his chin and hollow cheeks like the spines of a porcupine.

  ‘Not a single sound? Nothing?’

  ‘There’s always some noise in a stable,’ he said, echoing Marchand’s words, but unlike the two watchmen’s answers, this did not sound rehearsed.

  ‘Have you been working for Monsieur Lombard for a long time?’

  ‘I’ve always worked for him. And his father before him.’

  His eyes were bloodshot, and tiny burst veins wove a fine purplish network over the thin skin of his nose and cheeks. Servaz would have wagered he didn’t take sleeping tablets but always had another soporific to hand, of the liquid variety.

  ‘What is he like to work for?’

  The man stared at Servaz with his red eyes.

  ‘We don’t see him very often, but he’s a good boss. And he loves the horses. Freedom was his favourite. Born right here. A royal pedigree. He was crazy about that horse. So was Hermine.’

  The old man lowered his eyes. Servaz saw that, next to him, the young woman was trying to keep from crying.

  ‘Do you think someone could have had a grievance against Monsieur Lombard?’

  The man kept his head lowered.

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘But you’ve never heard that he’d been threatened in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Monsieur Lombard has a lot of enemies,’ interrupted Marchand.

  Servaz and Ziegler turned to look at the steward.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said.’

  ‘Do you know any of them?’

  ‘I’m not interested in Éric’s business. Only his horses interest me.’

  ‘You used the word “enemy” – you must have meant something by it.’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Éric’s business always causes a lot of tension.’

  ‘That is clear as mud,’ insisted Servaz. ‘Is it involuntary or intentional?’

  ‘Forget what I said,’ answered the steward. ‘It was just idle talk. I don’t know anything about Monsieur Lombard’s business.’

  Servaz didn’t believe it for a moment. But he thanked him. On leaving the building, he was dazzled by the blue sky, the snow melting in the sun’s rays. Horses gazed out of their boxes into a stream of sunlight; others were already being ridden, taken over the jumps. Servaz stood there for a moment, clearing his mind, his face in the sun …

  Two dogs and an alarm system. And two men on site.

  And no one had seen or heard a thing. Here or over at the power plant. Impossible. Absurd.

  The more details they unearthed about this horse business, the more space it seemed to fill in his thoughts. He felt as if he were a pathologist digging up first a finger, then a hand, then an arm, then the entire corpse. He was beginning to feel more and more uneasy. Everything about this business was extraordinary. And incomprehensible. Instinctively, like an animal, Servaz sensed danger. He was trembling, in spite of the sun.

  7

  Vincent Espérandieu raised an eyebrow when he saw a lobster-faced Servaz come into his office on the Boulevard Embouchure.

  ‘You’ve got sunburn,’ he pointed out.

  ‘It’s the reflection,’ answered Servaz by way of a greeting. ‘And I went for a helicopter ride.’

  ‘You, in a helicopter?’

  Espérandieu had known for a long time
that his boss had no liking for speed or heights: drive any faster than 130 kilometres and he went all pale and sunk down into his seat.

  ‘Have you got something for a headache?’

  Vincent Espérandieu opened a drawer.

  ‘Aspirin? Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?’

  ‘Something fizzy.’

  His assistant took out a bottle of mineral water and a glass and handed them to Servaz. He laid a fat, round tablet in front of him, then swallowed a capsule with a bit of water himself. Through the open door, someone let out the perfect imitation of a neigh; there was a smattering of laughter.

  ‘Stupid bastards,’ said Servaz.

  ‘But you’ve got to admit they’re right: the crime unit for a horse…’

  ‘A horse that belongs to Éric Lombard.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And if you’d seen it, you’d be wondering too whether the men who did it aren’t capable of more.’

  ‘Men? You think there are more than one?’

  Servaz looked distractedly at the beautiful little fair-haired girl grinning on Espérandieu’s computer screen, a large star painted round her left eye like a clown.

  ‘Can you see yourself hauling two hundred kilos of meat all alone in the middle of the night and hanging it up three hundred metres from the ground?’

  ‘That is a perfectly valid point,’ his assistant conceded.

  Servaz shrugged and looked around him. On one side of the room, the blinds were lowered against the grey sky and roofs of Toulouse, and on the other, over the glass partition that separated them from the corridor. The second desk, belonging to Samira Cheung, a new recruit, was empty.

  ‘And the kids?’ he asked.

  ‘The eldest has been remanded in custody. As I told you, the other two went home.’

  Servaz nodded.

  ‘I spoke to the father of one of them,’ Espérandieu added, ‘an insurer. He doesn’t get it. He’s shattered. At the same time, when I mentioned the victim, he lost his temper: “He was a tramp. Drunk all God’s hours! You’re not going to put kids in prison because of some homeless tramp?”’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Word for word. He met me in his big office. The first thing he said was, “My son hasn’t done a thing. That’s not how he was brought up. It’s the others. That boy Jérôme dragged him into it. His father is unemployed.” He said it as if in his eyes being unemployed was the same thing as drug trafficking or paedophilia.’