Fuck, what the hell is that?
At first, Rico simply could not understand what he was seeing. He wondered if he wasn’t hallucinating, given his lack of restraint the night before, but he knew at once that this was no vision. It was too real, too terrifying. It had nothing to do with the horror films he liked to watch. What he saw before his eyes was a man … a man who was dead, and naked, and hanging from a bridge!
Fucking hell!
A polar chill ran through his veins.
He glanced round. The man had not died all on his own; this was no suicide: in addition to the strap round his neck he was bound to the metallic structure of the bridge and someone had placed a hood over his head – a hood made of black waterproof cloth, which hid his face and belonged to the cape hanging down his back.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Rico was overwhelmed with terror. He had never seen anything like it. The sight filled his veins with a venomous panic. He was all alone on the mountain, four kilometres from the nearest dwelling, and there was only one path to get here, the one he had taken.
The path the murderer had taken.
He wondered if the murder had just been committed. Was the killer still nearby? Rico gazed apprehensively at the rocks and the mist. Then he took two deep breaths and turned on his heels. Two seconds later, he was hurtling down the path towards Saint-Martin.
* * *
Servaz had never been one for sports. To be honest, he hated them. In any shape or form. In a stadium or on television. He disliked watching sports as much as he did playing any himself. One of the reasons he did not have a television was that they showed too much sport for his liking and, more and more, at any time of day or night.
In the old days, that is, during the fifteen years he was married, he had nevertheless forced himself to do a minimum of physical activity, which meant thirty-five minutes, and not a minute more, of jogging on a Sunday morning. In spite of, or perhaps thanks to this minimal activity, he had not gained a single pound since the age of eighteen, and he still bought the same size trousers. He knew the reason for this miracle: he had his father’s genes, and the old man had stayed as thin and dashing as a greyhound all his life – except towards the end, when drink and depression had left him all skin and bone.
But since his divorce Servaz had forsworn any activity that remotely resembled exercise.
If he had suddenly decided to start up again that Sunday morning, it was because of what Margot had said the day before: ‘Dad, I’ve decided we should spend the summer holidays together. The two of us. All alone. A long way away from Toulouse.’ She had talked about Croatia, the small inlets, the mountainous islands, the monuments and sunshine. She wanted a holiday that would be both playful and sporty, which meant jogging and swimming in the morning, wandering and sightseeing in the afternoon, and in the evening he would take her dancing or they’d go for a walk by the sea. She had it all planned. In other words, Servaz had better be in shape.
So he put on a pair of old shorts, a shapeless T-shirt and some running shoes, and set off along the banks of the Garonne. It was a grey day, with a little bit of mist. Ordinarily he never set foot outdoors before noon when he was off duty, but now he was experiencing an astonishingly peaceful atmosphere in the pale pink city, as if on Sunday mornings even fools and bastards took time off.
As he ran at a moderately good pace, he thought back to what his daughter had said. A long way away from Toulouse … Why a long way from Toulouse? Once again he saw her sad, tired expression and his worry returned. Was there something in Toulouse that she wanted to get away from? Something or someone? He thought again of the bruise on her cheek and suddenly had a dark premonition.
A second later, he ground to a halt, wheezing, gasping for breath.
He’d set off at far too brisk a pace.
He stooped with his hands on his knees, his lungs on fire. His T-shirt was drenched in sweat. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes! He’d lasted ten minutes! Yet he felt like he’d been running for half an hour! For Christ’s sake, he was shattered. Only just turned forty and I’m limping around like an old man, he moaned, and at that very moment his telephone began to vibrate deep in his pocket.
‘Servaz,’ he croaked.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Cathy d’Humières. ‘Don’t you feel well?’
‘I was jogging,’ he barked.
‘I get the impression you need it. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. Something’s come up. This time, I’m afraid, it’s not a horse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve got a dead body – in Saint-Martin.’
He stood up straight.
‘A … dead body?’ He was still trying to catch his breath. ‘What sort of dead body? Have you got an ID?’
‘Not yet.’
‘No documents on him?’
‘No. He was naked – except for his boots and a black windbreaker.’
Servaz felt as if he just been kicked by a horse. He listened to d’Humières telling him what she knew: the young guy who’d set off to run round the lake, the metal bridge above the torrent, the body hanging underneath …
‘If he was hanging from a bridge, it might have been suicide,’ he ventured, not altogether convinced – who would want to make their exit in such a ridiculous outfit?
‘According to the initial report, it looks more like murder. I don’t have any more details. I’d like you to meet me there.’
Servaz felt an icy hand caressing the back of his neck. What he’d been dreading had happened. First there had been Hirtmann’s DNA, and now this. What did it mean? Was it the first of a series? This time, Hirtmann could not possibly have left the Institute. In that case, who had killed the man under the bridge?
‘All right,’ he answered. ‘I’ll let Espérandieu know.’
She told him where to go, then hung up. There was a nearby bench and Servaz went and sat down. He was in the park, the Prairie aux Filtres, lawns sloping gently down towards the Garonne, at the foot of the Pont-Neuf. There were lots of joggers running along the river.
‘Espérandieu,’ said Espérandieu.
‘We’ve got a dead body in Saint-Martin.’
There was a silence. Then Servaz heard Espérandieu talking to someone. His assistant’s voice was muffled by his hand on the receiver. Servaz wondered if he was still in bed with Charlène.
‘OK, I’ll get ready.’
‘I’ll come by for you in twenty minutes.’
He hung up, then thought, too late, that would be impossible: he had taken ten minutes to get here at a run and, in his state, he wouldn’t be able to make his way home as quickly. He rang Espérandieu back.
‘Yes?’
‘Take your time. I won’t be there for at least half an hour.’
‘You’re not at home?’ asked Espérandieu, surprised.
‘I was getting some exercise.’
‘Exercise? What kind of exercise?’
His assistant’s tone made it clear he didn’t believe it for a moment.
‘Jogging.’
‘You, jogging?’
‘It was my first session,’ said Servaz righteously, annoyed.
He supposed Espérandieu must be smiling at the other end of the line. Maybe even Charlène Espérandieu was smiling, lying there next to her husband. Did they ever make fun of him and his divorcee ways when they were on their own? But there was one thing he was sure of: Vincent admired him. His assistant had been absurdly proud when Servaz agreed to act as godfather to the child they were expecting.
By the time he reached his car at the Cours Dillon car park he was limping, a stitch in his side like a nail. Once he got to his flat, he took a shower, shaved and changed. Then he headed back out towards the suburbs.
A recently built detached house, set back from an unfenced lawn, with a semicircular paved driveway leading to the garage and front door, American-style. Servaz got out of the car. A neighbour was standing at the top of a ladder attaching a Father Christmas to
the edge of the roof; a bit further down the street children were playing ball; a tall, thin couple in their fifties jogged by on the pavement in fluorescent running clothes. Servaz went up the driveway and rang the bell.
He turned to watch the neighbour’s perilous struggle with his fairy lights and Father Christmas at the top of the ladder.
When he turned back, he nearly jumped: Charlène Espérandieu had opened the door without making a sound and was standing there before him, smiling. She was wearing a hooded jersey cardigan open over a lilac T-shirt and a pair of maternity jeans. She was barefoot. You could not fail to see her round belly. And her beauty. Everything about Charlène Espérandieu was lightness, delicacy and spirit. It was as if even pregnancy could not weigh her down or take away her sense of humour and her artist’s wings. Charlène ran an art gallery in the centre of Toulouse; Servaz had been invited to a few private views, and had discovered artwork that was strange, disturbing and sometimes fascinating. For a moment, he stood there without moving. Then he regained his composure and smiled at her, a smile that paid homage to her.
‘Come in. Vincent is almost ready. Would you like a coffee?’
He remembered he hadn’t had a thing since he got up. He followed her into the kitchen.
‘Vincent told me you’ve started jogging,’ she said, sliding a cup over to him.
Her playful tone was not lost on him. He was grateful to her for lightening the atmosphere.
‘Just a try. A fairly pathetic one, I have to admit.’
‘Keep at it. Don’t give up.’
‘Labor omnia vincit. “Hard work conquers all,”’ he translated, with a nod.
She smiled.
‘Vincent told me you often quote things in Latin.’
‘Just a little trick to get attention at important moments.’
For an instant he was tempted to talk to her about his father. He’d never told anyone about him, but if there was one person he could have confided in, it would be Charlène: he had sensed this from the very first evening, when she had subjected him to a veritable interrogation – but it was a friendly interrogation, even tender at times. She approved with a nod of her head, then went on to say, ‘Vincent admires you so much. I’ve noticed there are times when he tries to copy you, to act or respond the way he thinks you would act or respond. In the beginning I couldn’t understand where these changes in him were coming from, but by observing you I figured it out.’
‘I hope he only copies the good parts.’
‘I hope so, too.’
He remained silent. Espérandieu burst into the kitchen, putting on a silvery jacket that Servaz almost found inappropriate, under the circumstances.
‘I’m ready!’
He put one hand on his wife’s round belly.
‘Take care of yourselves.’
‘How far along is she?’ asked Servaz in the car.
‘Seven months. Start preparing yourself to be a godfather. Now, why don’t you give me the rundown.’
Servaz told him the little he knew.
* * *
An hour and thirty minutes later they left the car in the supermarket car park, which had been invaded by motorcycles and vehicles from the gendarmerie. One way or another, the news had got out. The fog had lifted slightly, was nothing more than a veil – it was like looking at their surroundings through a misted windowpane. Servaz saw several press vehicles, including one from the local television station. Journalists and curious onlookers had gathered at the foot of the concrete ramp out of the car park; halfway up, the yellow tape of the gendarmerie blocked any further access. Servaz got out his card and lifted the tape. One of the junior officers pointed them in the direction of the path. They left the furore behind them and walked silently, their tension growing. They met no one until they reached the first bends in the path – but the further they went, the thicker the mist became.
Halfway up the slope, Servaz felt the stitch in his side return. He slowed down to catch his breath before attacking the final bend and then he looked up. He could see a number of figures coming and going in the fog above them. And a great burst of light, as if a truck were parked there with all its headlights on.
He climbed the last hundred metres with the growing certainty that the killer had chosen these surroundings deliberately. Like the first time.
He was leaving nothing to chance.
He knew the area.
Something doesn’t fit, thought Servaz. Could Hirtmann ever have been here, before he’d been transferred to the Institute? Could it be he knew the region? These were all questions they would have to answer. He remembered what he’d thought the moment d’Humières rang: this time there was no way Hirtmann could have left the Institute. And that being the case, who had killed the man beneath the bridge?
Through the mist Servaz could see Captain Ziegler and Captain Maillard. Ziegler was having an animated conversation with a suntanned little man with a white lion’s mane of hair, someone Servaz recalled having seen before. Then it came back to him: Chaperon, the mayor of Saint-Martin – he’d been at the power plant. The gendarme said a few more words to the mayor, then headed their way. Servaz introduced her to Espérandieu. She pointed to the steel bridge, and below it in the halo of white light they could just make out a vague figure.
‘It’s dreadful!’ she shouted above the roar of the water.
‘What have you got so far?’ he shouted in turn.
Ziegler pointed to a young man sitting on a rock wearing an orange poncho, and summed up the situation: the young man out jogging, the body dangling under the bridge, Captain Maillard cordoning off the area and confiscating the mobile of their only witness and, despite all that, word had got out to the media.
‘What is the mayor doing here?’ Servaz wanted to know.
‘We asked him to come and identify the body, in case it was a local. Perhaps he told the press. Politicians, even small-timers, always need journalists.’
She made an about-turn and headed towards the crime scene.
‘It seems we’ve identified the victim. According to the mayor and Maillard, it’s a man called Gilles Grimm, a chemist in Saint-Martin. Maillard says his wife called the gendarmerie to report his disappearance.’
‘Disappearance?’
‘According to the wife, Grimm left last night for his Saturday-evening poker game and should have been home by midnight. She called to say he hadn’t returned and she’d had no news from him.’
‘When did she call?’
‘Eight o’clock. When she woke up this morning, she was surprised not to find him at home, and his bed was cold.’
‘His bed?’
‘They sleep in separate rooms,’ she confirmed.
They went closer. Servaz steeled himself. Powerful spotlights lit both sides of the bridge. The mist swirling before them was not unlike the smoke of cannons on a battlefield. In the blinding light of the projectors, everything was vapour, fog, foam. Even the stream seemed to be smoking, as did the rocks, which were as sharp and shiny as knife blades. Servaz went closer. The roaring waters filled his ears, mingled with the roaring of his blood.
The body was naked.
Fat.
White.
Because of the humidity, the skin shone in the blinding halo of light as if it had been oiled. Servaz’s first thought was that the chemist was fat – even very fat. His attention was drawn to the nest of black hair and tiny genitals shrinking against the massive thighs with their folds of flab. Then his gaze travelled up the bulging torso, hairless and white, as flabby as his thighs. Then on up to the throat squeezed by a strap embedded so deep in his flesh that it almost disappeared. And, finally, the hood drawn over his face, and the large black waterproof cape down his back.
‘Why would anyone put a windbreaker over the victim’s head and then hang him up stark naked?’ said Espérandieu, his voice altered, hoarse and shrill at the same time.
‘Because the windbreaker must mean something,’ said Servaz. ‘As will th
e nudity.’
‘What a fucking show,’ added his assistant.
Servaz turned to look at him. He pointed to the young man in the orange poncho seated a bit further down.
‘Borrow a car and take him back to the gendarmerie to get his statement.’
‘Right,’ said Espérandieu, then went quickly on his way.
Two investigators wearing white overalls and surgical masks were bending over the metal railing. One of them had taken out a pen light and was casting its beam over the body below him.
Ziegler pointed at him.
‘The pathologist thinks the cause of death is strangling. Do you see those straps?’
She pointed to the vertical strap circling the dead man’s throat, and the two straps binding his wrists and connecting them to the bridge above him, his arms raised and spread in a V.
‘It would seem that the murderer gradually lowered the body into the void by adjusting the length of the straps on either side. The more slack he gave, the more the central strap tightened round his victim’s neck until eventually it strangled him. It must have taken a very long time to die.’
‘A horrible death,’ said someone behind them.
They turned round. Cathy d’Humières was staring at the dead body. She looked older, drained.
‘My husband wants to sell his shares in his company and open a diving club in Corsica. He wants me to quit my job. On mornings like this I’d be inclined to listen to him.’
Servaz knew she would do no such thing. He could easily picture her as the guerrilla wife, valiant little soldier of the social circuit, finding it no trouble after an exhausting day at work to play hostess to her friends, laugh with them, put up with life’s vagaries without batting an eyelid, as if they were no more significant than a glass of wine spilled on the table.
‘Do we know who the victim is?’
Ziegler repeated what she had told Servaz.
‘Do you know the pathologist’s name?’ asked Servaz.
The Frozen Dead Page 16