The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Who were Irène Ziegler and Gaspard Ferrand? By the looks of it, two people connected to the Les Isards holiday camp. Like Lisa Ferney … That was where she should start. The only concrete lead she had: the head nurse.

  * * *

  Servaz went into the cabin. A low sloping roof: the top of his head touched the ceiling. At the back was an unmade bunk with white sheets and a brown blanket, and a soiled pillow. There was a big woodstove, whose black pipe vanished into the roof; next to it was a pile of logs. Under the window, a sink and a little countertop; a burner, connected no doubt to a gas bottle. A book of crossword puzzles lay open on the table next to a beer bottle and an overflowing ashtray; a storm lamp was hanging directly above. There was a smell of wood smoke, tobacco, beer and, above all, stale sweat. There was no shower. He wondered how Chaperon managed to get washed.

  This is what’s left of those bastards: two corpses and a pathetic bloke who’s gone to earth like a stinking rat.

  He opened the cupboards, slid his hand under the mattress, searched the pockets of the jacket hanging behind the door. Inside it he found keys, a change purse and a wallet. He opened the wallet and found an ID card, a chequebook, a national insurance card, a Visa and an American Express. In the purse he found €800 in €20 and €50 notes. Then he opened the drawer, where he found the gun and the bullets.

  He went back outside.

  * * *

  In less than five minutes, the men had taken their positions. Ten of them around the cabin and in the woods; six others at strategic points above the valley and overlooking the path, so they would see her arrive; all of them as stocky as Playmobil figurines in their Kevlar jackets. Servaz and Espérandieu waited inside the hut with Chaperon.

  ‘What the fuck,’ said the mayor. ‘If you’ve got nothing on me, I’m out of here. You can’t hold me against my will.’

  ‘As you like,’ said Servaz. ‘If you want to end up like your friends, you’re free to go. But we’re confiscating the gun. And the moment you take a step out of here, you’ll have no protection – spies who lose their cover call it being “in the cold”.’

  Chaperon shot him a look full of hatred, weighed the pros and cons, shrugged and slumped back onto the bunk.

  * * *

  At nine fifty-four, Samira called to let him know that Ziegler was leaving her house. She’s taking her time, he thought. She knows she’s got the whole day ahead of her. She must have it all figured out. He reached for the walkie-talkie and warned all the units that the target was on the move. Then he poured himself a coffee.

  * * *

  By ten thirty-two, Servaz was on to the third coffee of the morning and his fifth cigarette, despite Espérandieu’s protests. Chaperon sat at the table playing patience, in silence.

  * * *

  At ten forty-three, Samira called to say that Ziegler had stopped at a coffee bar, and she’d bought some cigarettes, stamps and flowers.

  ‘Flowers? From a florist’s?’

  ‘Yes, hardly from a butcher’s.’

  She must have spotted them …

  * * *

  At ten fifty-two, Servaz learned that Ziegler was heading for Saint-Martin at last. To reach the small valley where the cabin was, you took a road leading to Saint-Martin from the town where she lived, then a second one that headed due south and finally a forest track.

  * * *

  ‘What the fuck is she doing?’ asked Espérandieu, when it was well past eleven. They had not said three words in over an hour, except for the exchanges between Samira and Servaz.

  Good question, thought Servaz.

  * * *

  At nine minutes past eleven, Samira rang to say that Ziegler had gone past the road leading to the valley without slowing down, and was now headed into Saint-Martin. She’s not coming here. Servaz swore and went outside to get a breath of fresh air. Maillard emerged from the woods and went up to him.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  * * *

  ‘She’s at the cemetery,’ said Samira at eleven forty-five.

  ‘What? What’s she doing at the cemetery? She’s taking you for a ride: she’s spotted you!’

  ‘Maybe not. She did something weird.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She went into a tomb and stayed in there for five minutes. That’s what the flowers were for. She came back out without them.’

  ‘A family tomb?’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t hers. I went to check. It was the Lombard family tomb.’

  Servaz jumped. He didn’t know the Lombards were buried in Saint-Martin. The situation was getting away from him. There was a blind spot. It had all begun with Éric Lombard’s horse; then the investigation had sidelined Lombard in order to concentrate on the Grimm-Perrault-Chaperon trio and the suicide victims. And now Lombard had suddenly turned up in the game again. What did it mean? What was Irène Ziegler doing in that tomb? He didn’t get it.

  ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m still at the cemetery. She saw me, so Pujol and Simeoni have taken over.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  He went out of the cabin, down the path to the forest track, then headed into the thicket on his right. He pulled aside the snow-laden branches that were hiding the Jeep, and slipped behind the wheel.

  * * *

  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.

&nbs
p; ‘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?’