For a moment the terror Servaz felt roused him slightly.
‘Is … is no point. Diane … Diane Berg has proof … guilty … talk to Cathy … d’Humières…’
‘I’m afraid,’ continued Gabriel Saint-Cyr unperturbed, ‘that tonight the psychologist will be found dead. After the inquest, among her papers there will be proof that she came from Switzerland for one purpose: to help her compatriot and former lover Julian Hirtmann to escape.’
‘Why … are … doing … this?’
‘I already told you: Éric is my pride and joy. I raised him. I made him what he is today. Not only a brilliant businessman but also an upstanding man. The son I never had.’
‘He’s … mixed up … mis … propriation … funds … corruption … exploiting chil … children…’
‘Those are lies!’ shouted Saint-Cyr, leaping up from his armchair.
With a gun in his hand. An automatic pistol.
Servaz opened his eyes wide. Saint-Cyr’s voice, and every other sound, every smell had become excruciatingly intense. All his senses had been flooded by extremes, leaving his nerves raw.
‘Hallucinogenics,’ said Saint-Cyr, smiling once again. ‘You cannot imagine the possibilities they offer. Rest assured, the drugs you’ve taken with every meal I’ve fed you are not lethal. The aim was just to weaken you and make your reactions seem suspicious both to yourself and to those around you. The drug I put in your wine will paralyse you for a while. But you won’t have a chance to come back round: you’ll be dead long before. I’m terribly sorry to have to go to such extremes, Martin: you are the most interesting person I have met in quite a while.’
Servaz’s mouth was gaping, like that of a fish out of water. He stared glassily at Saint-Cyr. He felt a sudden surge of anger: because of this fucking drug, he would die looking like an idiot!
‘I’ve spent my entire life fighting crime, and now I’m going to end it as a murderer,’ said the judge bitterly. ‘But you leave me no choice: Éric Lombard must remain free. He has so many plans. Thanks to the associations that he funds, children won’t go hungry, artists will be able to work, students will receive grants … I’m not going to let some little cop destroy one of the most brilliant men of his era. A man who has done nothing more than assure, in his way, that justice is done, in a country where the word lost its meaning a long time ago.’
Servaz wondered if they were talking about the same man: the one who had colluded with major pharmaceutical companies to stop countries in Africa manufacturing drugs against AIDS or meningitis; the one whose subcontractors had been encouraged to exploit women and children in India and Bangladesh; the one whose lawyers had bought Polytex for its patents, then sacked all its workers. Who was the real Éric Lombard? The cynical, unscrupulous businessman, or the philanthropist and patron of the arts? The young boy who looked after his little sister, or the shark who exploited human misery? Servaz couldn’t think clearly anymore.
‘Me … the psychologist,’ he stammered. ‘Mur-ders … You go back … principles … end your life … as a … as a murderer.’
He saw a shadow of doubt pass over the judge’s face. Saint-Cyr shook his head vigorously, as if to shake it off.
‘I am leaving without regret. To be sure, there are certain principles I have never compromised in my entire life. But nowadays even those principles are trampled on. Mediocrity, dishonesty and cynicism have become the rule. Today’s men want to be like children. Irresponsible. Stupid. Criminal. An unprecedented wave of barbarity will sweep over us before long; the first signs are already here. And frankly, who will mourn our fate? Our selfishness and greed have made us squander the legacy of our ancestors. Only a few men like Éric are still struggling on in the midst of the mire.’
He waved his gun in Servaz’s face. Servaz sat glued to his chair, but he could feel the anger rising in his body like an antidote to the poison in his veins. He thrust himself forward. No sooner had he managed to hoist himself from his chair than he could tell his effort would be in vain. His legs folded beneath him. Saint-Cyr stood to one side and watched him fall; he hit a side table, knocking over a vase and a lamp. The vase shattered; the blinding light seared his optic nerves, burned his retina where he lay flat on his stomach. He’d gashed his forehead on the side table and blood was trickling into his eyebrows.
‘Come now, Martin, it’s no use,’ said Saint-Cyr indulgently.
Servaz managed to raise himself painfully onto his elbows. The rage inside was burning like an ember. The light was blinding; black spots danced before his eyes. All he could see were shadows and gleams of light.
He crawled towards the judge and reached for him, but Saint-Cyr stepped back. Between the judge’s legs Servaz saw the flames in the fireplace. He was dazzled.
Then it all went very quickly.
‘Put down your weapon!’ said a voice on his left, a voice he recalled having heard somewhere, but he could not put a name to it; his mind was paralysed.
A first shot rang out, then a second. He saw Saint-Cyr fall back against the fireplace. His body bounced against the stone mantelpiece, then fell towards Servaz, who ducked his head. When he looked up again, someone was tugging the heavy body to one side, like the carcass of a horse.
‘Martin! Martin! Are you all right?’
He blinked. A blurry face hovered before his weeping eyes. Irène. Someone was standing behind her. Maillard.
‘Water,’ he said.
Irène Ziegler hurried to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, then held it to his lips. Servaz swallowed slowly, his jaw muscles aching.
‘Help … me … bath … room.’
The two gendarmes lifted him under the arms and supported him. Servaz felt as if he were going to collapse with every step.
‘Lom … bard,’ he stammered.
‘What?’
‘Road … blocks…’
‘It’s done,’ Irène hastened to answer. ‘All the roads have been blocked off since we got the call from your assistant. No one can get out of the valley.’
‘Vin … cent?’
‘Yes. He found proof that Éric Lombard wasn’t in the States the night Freedom was killed.’
‘The … heli—’
‘No way. He couldn’t possibly take off in this weather.’
He bent over the sink. Ziegler turned the tap and splattered him with cold water. Servaz leaned in closer and put his face directly under the icy stream, which had the effect on him of an electric shock. He coughed and spat. How long did he stand there leaning over the sink trying to clear his mind? He could not have said.
When he stood up again, he felt much better. The effects of the drug were beginning to wear off. Above all, he felt an urgency throbbing through his blood, fighting his torpor. They had to act. Quickly.
‘Where are … Cath—’
‘They’re waiting for us. At the gendarmerie.’
Ziegler looked at him.
‘OK. Let’s get going,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t lose any time.’
* * *
Lisa Ferney closed her phone. In her other hand she held a gun. Diane didn’t know anything about weapons, but she’d seen enough films to know that the cylinder at the end of the barrel was a silencer.
‘I’m afraid no one will help you, Diane,’ said the head nurse. ‘In less than half an hour, that policeman you spoke to will be dead. It’s just your luck that my evening out got cancelled because of that cop.’
‘Do you know how to use that?’ asked Diane, pointing to the weapon.
Lisa Ferney gave a faint smile.
‘I’ve learned. I belong to a rifle club. Éric introduced me to the sport. Éric Lombard.’
‘Your lover,’ commented Diane. ‘And your accomplice.’
‘It’s not nice to go digging into other people’s lives,’ said the head nurse. ‘I know you might find it difficult to believe, Diane, but Wargnier had a choice between several candidates when he got it into his head that he needed an assistant – I might sa
y I was very offended when he implied I wasn’t up to the job – and I’m the one who chose you. I put pressure on him to give you the position.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re Swiss.’
‘What?’
Lisa Ferney opened the door and glanced out into the silent corridor, her gun still aimed at Diane.
‘Swiss, like Julian. When I saw your application in the pile, I knew at once that it was a good omen.’
Diane was beginning to see what the explanation might be. And it sent a chill down her spine.
‘What plans?’
‘To kill those bastards,’ answered Lisa.
‘Who?’
‘Grimm, Perrault and Chaperon.’
‘Because of what they did at the holiday camp,’ said Diane, remembering the Post-it in Xavier’s office.
‘Exactly. At the holiday camp and elsewhere. This valley was their hunting ground.’
‘I saw someone at the camp. A man, sobbing and shouting. Was he one of their victims?’
Lisa gave her a penetrating look, perhaps wondering how much Diane knew.
‘Yes, Mathias. The poor boy never recovered. He went mad. But he’s harmless.’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Lisa Ferney. ‘You have come from Switzerland to help Hirtmann escape, Diane. And you are about to set fire to the Institute and lead him to safety. Bad luck that once you get out, that ungrateful Julian won’t be able to resist his impulses, and will succumb to the temptation to kill his accomplice: you. End of story.’
Diane couldn’t move, overcome by a terror as pure as water.
‘In the beginning, we came up with several ways to cloud the issue. But I immediately thought of Julian. In the end, it was a mistake. Someone like him always wants something in return. In exchange for his saliva and his blood, he wanted to know why we needed them. But his demands did not stop there. I had to promise him something else. And that’s where you come in, Diane.’
‘This is absurd. People know me back home. No one will believe a story like this.’
‘But it’s not the Swiss police who’ll be leading the investigation. Besides, everyone knows that this place can have a very disturbing effect on a fragile psyche. Dr Wargnier did have his doubts about you. In your conversations and emails he detected a certain “vulnerability”. I will be sure to point that out to the police, when the time comes – and they in turn will be sure to question Wargnier. And Xavier, who didn’t want you here in the first place, is not about to contradict me. So you see: there will be a great many witnesses against you, in the end. You shouldn’t have got in my way, Diane. I had decided to spare your life. You would have spent a few years in prison, that’s all.’
‘But you can’t pin the DNA on me,’ ventured Diane in desperation.
‘True. That’s why we found another candidate for that. For several months now we’ve been giving money to Mr Atlas. In exchange, he turns a blind eye to my visits to Unit A and my little schemes with Hirtmann. But that will turn against him when the police find out that the payments were made from Switzerland and they find a syringe at his house with traces of Julian’s blood.’
‘So you’re going to kill him, too?’ asked Diane, feeling dizzy, as if she were falling into a bottomless pit.
‘What do you think? Do you suppose I want to spend the rest of my days in prison? Let’s go,’ added Lisa. ‘We’ve wasted enough time.’
27
‘Were you waiting for me?’
Cathy d’Humières jumped when she heard his voice. She turned to the door and stared at Servaz for a long time before turning to Ziegler and Maillard, then back to Servaz.
‘Good heavens! What happened?’
There was a photo in a frame by the door. Servaz was surprised by his own reflection in the glass: the black shadows under his hollow, bloodshot eyes.
‘Tell them,’ he said to Ziegler as he collapsed into a chair; the ground was still moving.
Irène Ziegler filled them in. D’Humières, Confiant and the two wax dummies from the gendarmerie listened in silence. It was the prosecutor who had decided to release Ziegler right after Espérandieu’s phone call. And it was Ziegler’s idea that Servaz must be with his mentor that had saved him. That, and the fact that it took only five minutes to get from the gendarmerie to the mill by car.
‘Saint-Cyr!’ exclaimed d’Humières, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe it!’
Servaz dissolved an aspirin in a glass of water. The mist in his brain lifted almost immediately and he could picture the entire scene at the mill again. He opened his red eyes wide and looked at the others.
‘Damn!’ he roared. ‘When I was starting to get woozy, Saint-Cyr called that … Lisa, at the Institute … to tell her that the psychologist hadn’t spoken to anyone but me, that he had the situation under control … just before he tried to—’
The prosecutor went pale.
‘This means the girl is in danger. Maillard, do we still have a team up at the Institute? Tell your men to move in right away!’
Cathy d’Humières took out her phone, called a number, then put it down after a few seconds.
‘Dr Xavier isn’t answering.’
‘We have to question Lombard,’ said Servaz with difficulty. ‘And take him into custody. But how should we go about it? He could be anywhere: Paris, New York, on some island that belongs to him somewhere, or here – but I doubt they’ll volunteer the information.’
‘He’s here,’ said Confiant.
Everyone turned to look at him.
‘Before I came I went to the chateau, at his request, to bring him up to speed. Just before your assistant called,’ he said to Servaz. ‘I didn’t get around, um, to telling anyone. There was too much going on after that…’
Servaz wondered how many times the young judge had gone to the chateau.
‘We’ll deal with that later,’ said d’Humières in a stern voice. ‘Have all the roads to the valley been blocked off? Good. We’ll get in touch with the national HQ. I want a search of Lombard’s residence in Paris at the same time as the chateau. The operation must be perfectly coordinated. And discreet. Only the people we absolutely need will be let in on it. He was wrong to go after one of my men,’ she added, looking at Servaz. ‘His name might be Lombard, but he has overstepped the mark. And anyone who does that has to deal with me.’ She stood up. ‘I have to ring the Justice Ministry. We don’t have much time to get the operation set up. Then we’ll act. There’s not a minute to lose.’
Everyone round the table started talking at once. Not everyone agreed with the prosecutor. Lombard was a big deal. There were careers at stake, issues of hierarchy, risks of collateral damage.
‘How did Vincent find out that Lombard wasn’t in the US?’ asked Servaz.
Ziegler explained. They’d been lucky. There’d been an anonymous denunciation, and the financial crime unit in Paris were auditing the books of a certain number of the group’s subsidiaries. Apparently they were on the verge of uncovering a major scandal. A few days earlier, when they’d been going through the books of Lombard Media, they’d found a new irregularity: a transfer of $135,000 to a production company that made television documentaries, along with some invoices from the same company. After the usual crosscheck with the production company, it turned out that the work had never been done and the invoices were bogus. The financial unit then began to ask what the money might have been for and above all, why someone was trying to hide it. Was it a bribe? Misappropriation of funds? They obtained a new warrant, this time for the bank that had arranged the transfer, and demanded the identity of the true beneficiary. Unfortunately, those behind the transaction had taken every precaution: in the space of a few hours the money had been wired to an account in London, from there to another account in the Bahamas, and then to a third one in the Caribbean. After that they lost all trace. But why? One hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars was both a nice
round sum and a drop in the ocean as far as the Lombard empire was concerned. They summoned the CEO of Lombard Media and threatened to charge him. The man finally came out with it: he’d made the false entry at the request of Éric Lombard himself, as a matter of urgency. He also swore that he had no idea what the money was for. As Vincent had asked the financial unit to let him know of any irregularities, his contact there had passed on the information, although at first glance it had nothing to do with the death of a horse.
‘What does it have to do with anything?’ asked one of the bigwigs from the gendarmerie.
‘Well,’ said Ziegler, ‘Lieutenant Espérandieu had another idea. He rang an airline company that charters jets for wealthy businessmen, and it turned out that this was exactly what a return transatlantic flight on a private jet would cost.’
‘Éric Lombard has his own planes and pilots,’ objected the officer. ‘Why would he go and use another company?’
‘So that there would be no trace of the flight,’ replied Ziegler. ‘All they had to do was hide the expense itself.’
‘Which explains the bogus documentary,’ interjected d’Humières.
‘Exactly.’
‘Interesting,’ said the officer. ‘But it’s all supposition.’
‘Not really. Lieutenant Espérandieu figured that if Éric Lombard returned in secret from the States on the night the horse died, he must have landed not far away. So he called all the local airports: Tarbes, Pau, Biarritz … By the third one, bingo: an American private jet did indeed land at Biarritz-Bayonne on the night of Tuesday, 9 December. Judging from the information we have, Éric Lombard came in under a false name and using false papers. No one saw him. The plane stayed for twelve hours or so and left again early in the morning. More than enough time to make it from Bayonne to Saint-Martin by car, go to the riding academy, kill Freedom, hang him up at the top of the cable car and leave again.’
The Frozen Dead Page 50