Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

While planting some minuscule branches in one of his jars, Derteaux shook his head.

  "No. There's no lignite in this region, thank heavens. That industry has been declining rapidly both in France and in our neighboring countries since the 1970s. It causes far too much pollution. Acidic fumes which go straight up into the atmosphere and turn every cloud into a chemical bomb…"

  Niémans searched through his pocket, then handed him Marc Costes's fax.

  "Would you mind taking a look at these chemical components? It's the analysis of some water found near here."

  While Derteaux was carefully reading it through, the policeman gazed round the vast greenhouse; its panes of glass were misty, cracked, stained with long black streams. Leaves as big as the windows, tentative shoots, as tiny as rebuses, languid creepers, gnarled and interlaced. They seemed to be struggling to acquire the slightest patch of ground. Derteaux lifted his head and looked puzzled.

  "You say that this sample comes from this region?"

  "Exactly."

  Derteaux readjusted his glasses.

  "May I ask where? I mean, precisely where?"

  "It was found on a corpse. A murdered man."

  "Oh, of course…How silly of me…You are a policeman." He thought it over, looking increasingly skeptical. "A corpse, here, in Guernon?"

  The superintendent ignored the question.

  "Can you confirm that the composition comes from pollution caused by the burning of lignite?"

  "It is certainly a highly acidic form of pollution, in any case. I've attended some seminars on the subject." He read the report once more. "The levels of H2SO4 and HNO3 are…exceptional. But, I'll say it again, there are no more power stations of that sort in the region. Not here, nor in France, nor even in Western Europe."

  "Could this contamination come from another sort of industry?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Then where could we find an industrial activity that does cause this sort of pollution?"

  "More than five hundred miles away. In Eastern Europe." Niémans clenched his teeth. His first lead was surely not going to come to nothing like this.

  "There could be another explanation," Derteaux mumbled. "Which is?"

  "Perhaps this water does come from somewhere else. It might have traveled here from the Czech Republic, or Slovakia, Rumania, Bulgaria…" He whispered in a confidential tone. "They're a bunch of barbarians when it comes to the environment."

  "You mean in a container? A lorry passing this way, and…" Derteaux burst out laughing, but without the slightest hint of joviality.

  "I was thinking of a simpler form of transport. This water could have come our way in a cloud."

  "Can you explain yourself?" Niémans asked.

  Alain Derteaux opened his arms and raised them toward the ceiling.

  "Imagine a power station somewhere in Eastern Europe. Imagine its huge chimneys spouting sulphur dioxide and nitrogen dioxide day in, day out…These chimneys are sometimes over three hundred feet tall. The thick masses of smoke go up, up, then mix with the clouds…If there is no wind, then the poison stays where it is. But when the wind rises, to the west for example, then the dioxides travel in the clouds which burst on our mountains and empty themselves. It's what is known as acid rain. It's destroying our forests. As though we weren't producing enough poison ourselves, our trees are being killed off by other people's poison! But, I assure you, we put plenty of toxic substances in our own clouds, too…"

  A clear simple picture engraved itself in Niémans's mind. The killer was sacrificing his victim in the open air, somewhere on the mountains. He was torturing, mutilating, murdering him while a shower of rain fell down on the carnage. The empty eye-sockets, turned up toward the sky, filled with water. With poisonous rain. The killer closed up the eyelids, sealing his macabre operation on those tiny reservoirs of acidic water. It was the only explanation.

  It had rained while the monster was carrying out his murder.

  "What was the weather like on Saturday?" Niémans asked abruptly.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Do you remember if it rained here on Saturday, toward dusk, or during the night?"

  "No, I don't think so. It was a beautiful day. Perfect summer sunshine and…

  A one-in-a-thousand chance. If the weather had been dry when the murder was probably being committed, then Niémans might be able to locate one single area where there had been a downpour. A shower of acid rain which would point precisely to the scene of the crime, as clearly as a chalk circle. The officer suddenly realised that to find where the murder had taken place, then he would have to, follow the clouds.

  "Where is the nearest meteorological station?" he asked hastily. Derteaux thought for a second.

  "Twenty miles from here, near the Mine-de-Fer. You want to check if it rained? The idea is an interesting one. I'd like to know myself if those barbarians are still sending us toxic bombs. This is out-and-out chemical warfare, superintendent, and nobody cares!"

  Derteaux stopped. Niémans was handing him a piece of paper. "The number of my mobile. If you have any other ideas on the subject, then call me."

  Niémans spun round and crossed the greenhouse, the leaves of the ebony trees scratching at his face.

  CHAPTER 16

  The superintendent drove with his foot down. Despite the menacing sky, the day seemed set to turn fair. A quicksilver light constantly flittered around the clouds. The branches of the fir trees, between black and green, were tipped with wild glimmers, shaken by the relentless wind. As he drove round the bends, Niémans enjoyed the deep, secret vibrancy of the forest, as though it were driven on, lifted up, illumined by that sunny wind.

  The superintendent thought of the clouds carrying a poison which was later to be found in a pair of empty eye-sockets. When he left Paris the previous night, he had not imagined being involved in such an investigation.

  Forty minutes later, the policeman arrived at Mine-de-Fer. He had no difficulty in locating the meteorological station, a dome jutting out from the side of the mountain. Niémans took the track which led to the scientific center, discovering a surprising sight as he went. About a hundred yards away from the laboratory, some men were struggling to inflate a massive balloon made of transparent plastic. He parked his car and clambered up the slope. Going over to the parka-clad men, with their reddened eyes, he presented his official police card. The meteorologists looked at him dumbly. The long crumpled sections of the balloon looked like streams of silver. Beneath them, a bluish flame was slowly inflating the fabric. The entire scene seemed enchanted, spell-like.

  "Superintendent Niémans," the officer bawled over the din from the burner. He pointed at the concrete dome. "I need one of you to come up to the laboratory with me."

  One man, obviously the boss, stepped forward.

  "What?"

  "I want to know if it rained last Saturday. It's part of a criminal investigation."

  The meteorologist just stood there, an irritated expression on his face. His hood was slapping against his cheeks. He pointed up at the huge form, which was gradually expanding. Niémans bowed slightly, making an apologetic gesture.

  "The balloon can wait."

  The scientist headed up toward the laboratory murmuring: "It didn't rain last Saturday."

  "We'll see about that."

  The man was right. Once inside, they consulted the central meteorological office, and could not find the slightest trace of turbulence, of precipitation or of a storm over Guernon during those hours in October. The satellite photographs which flickered across the screen were categorical: not a single drop of rain had fallen on the region during that day or during the night of Saturday to Sunday. Other data appeared in a corner of the screen: the level of humidity in the air, the atmospheric pressure, the temperature…The scientist grudgingly came up with a few explanations. An anti-cyclone had brought about a certain stability in the sky for a period of about forty-eight hours.

  So Niémans asked the engineer to ex
tend his search to Sunday morning, then to Sunday afternoon. No storms, no showers. He widened the investigation to a radius of sixty miles. Nothing. Then one hundred. Still nothing. The superintendent banged his fist down on the desk.

  "This just isn't possible," he groaned. "It rained somewhere. I have proof of that. In a valley. Or on the top of a hill. Somewhere around here there was a storm."

  The meteorologist shrugged and continued clicking his mouse, while shadowy gleams, wavy lines and slight spirals went on crossing the screen, above a map of the mountains, retracing the beginnings of a fine cloudless day in the heart of Isère.

  "There must be another explanation," Niémans murmured. "Jesus Christ, I…"

  His mobile phone started ringing.

  "Superintendent? Alain Derteaux speaking. I've been thinking over your lignite business and looking into it myself. I'm sorry, but I was mistaken."

  "Mistaken?"

  "Yes. Such highly acidic rain cannot possibly have fallen last weekend. Nor indeed at any other moment"

  "Why not?"

  "I've obtained some information concerning the lignite industry. Even in Eastern Europe, the chimneys where such fuel is burnt now have special filters. Or else the sulphur is extracted from the minerals. In other words, this form of pollution has dropped considerably since the 1960s. Such heavily polluted rain has not fallen anywhere for about thirty-five years. And a good job too! So, I'm sorry. I misled you."

  Niémans remained silent. The ecologist went on, in an incredulous tone of voice:

  "You are sure that this water was found on a corpse?"

  "Certain," Niémans replied.

  "Then it sounds incredible, but your corpse comes from the past. It picked up some rainwater which fell over thirty years ago and…"

  The policeman muttered a vague "good-bye" and hung up.

  With slouching shoulders, he went back to his car. For a fleeting moment, he had thought that he had a lead. But it had dissolved away, like that acid-saturated water which had led to an utter absurdity.

  Niémans looked up once more at the heavens.

  The sun was now darting out transversal beams, making the cotton wool arabesques of the clouds turn golden. The brilliant light ricocheted off the Grand Pic de Belledonne, refracted on the eternal snows. How could he, a professional cop, a rational being, have thought for one moment that a few clouds were going to reveal the scene of the crime?

  How could he have imagined that?

  Suddenly, he opened his arms toward the gleaming landscape, just like Fanny Ferreira, the young climber. He had just understood where Rémy Caillois had been killed. He had just realised where thirty-five-year-old rainwater could be found.

  Not on the earth.

  Nor in the sky.

  In the ice.

  Rémy Caillois had been killed at an altitude of over six thousand feet. He had been executed in the glaciers, at a height of nine thousand feet. In a place where each year's rain is crystallised and remains in the eternal glassiness of the ice.

  That was the scene of the crime. And this was a solid lead.

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 17

  At one o'clock in the afternoon, Karim Abdouf entered Henri Crozier's office and placed his report in front of him. The Chief, who was concentrating on a letter he was writing, did not even glance at the papers and just asked:

  "Well?"

  "The skins didn't do it. But they saw two figures coming out of the vault. That very night"

  "Could they describe them?"

  "No. It was too dark."

  Crozier deigned to raise his eyes.

  "Maybe they're lying."

  "Oh no they're not. They did not desecrate that tomb."

  Karim paused. The silence between the two men lengthened. Then he went on:

  "You had a witness, superintendent." He aimed his index finger at the seated figure. "You had a witness and you didn't tell me. Somebody told you that the skinheads had been seen hanging round the cemetery that night, and you concluded that they had done it. But the truth of the matter is more complex. And if you'd let me question your witness, then I…"

  Crozier slowly lifted his hand in a sign of peace.

  "Calm down, kid. People round here talk to the old brigade. To locals like them. You wouldn't have got a tenth of what I was told without even having to ask. Is that all you learnt from the shaven heads?"

  Karim examined the posters to the glory of the "guardians of the peace." On one of the metal cabinets shone the cups which Crozier had won in various shooting competitions. He announced:

  "The skins also saw a white car drive off from the area at about two o'clock in the morning. It took the D143."

  "What sort of car?"

  "A Lada. Or some other East European make. We'll have to put somebody onto that. There can't be that many motors of that sort round here and…"

  "Why not you?"

  "You know what I want, superintendent. I questioned the skins. Now I want to make a thorough search of the vault."

  "The cemetery keeper told me that you'd already been inside." Karim let the remark pass.

  "How are investigations in the cemetery going?"

  "Zero. No fingerprints. Not the slightest piece of evidence. We're going to continue searching in a larger radius. If it was vandals, then they were extremely cautious ones."

  "They weren't vandals. They were professionals. Or, in any case, people who knew what they were looking for. That vault conceals a secret which they wanted to unravel. Have you told the family? What did the parents say? Do they agree to us…"

  Karim came to a halt. Crozier was looking decidedly uneasy. The lieutenant leant both of his hands on the desk and waited for the superintendent's answers. The man mumbled:

  "We haven't found the family. There's nobody by that name in the town. Nor in the rest of the département."

  "The funeral was in 1982, there must be some record of it somewhere"

  "So far, we've drawn a blank."

  "What about the death certificate?"

  "There's no death certificate. Not in Sarzac."

  Karim's face brightened up. He stood up and paced round the room.

  "There's something wrong about that grave and about that kid.

  I'm sure of it. And this something is linked to the burglary at the primary school."

  "You're letting your imagination run away with you, Karim. There are umpteen possible explanations for this mystery. Perhaps little Jude died in a car accident. Maybe he was hospitalised in a nearby town, then buried here, because that was the simplest solution. Perhaps his mother still lives here, but has a different surname. Maybe…"

  "I spoke to the cemetery keeper. The vault has been well looked after, but he's never seen anybody visit it."

  Crozier did not respond. He opened a metal drawer and pulled out a bottle of bronze-colored spirits. He rapidly poured himself a shot.

  "If we can't find the family," Karim went on, "Then maybe we can get permission to enter the vault?"

  "No."

  "So let me look for his parents."

  "What about the white car? And the search for clues around the cemetery?"

  "Reinforcements are on their way. The regional boys can take care of that. Give me a few hours, superintendent. To manage this part of the investigation. On my own."

  Crozier raised his glass in front of Karim.

  "You don't fancy a drop, I suppose?"

  Karim shook his head. Crozier downed his glass in one and clicked his tongue.

  "You've got until six this evening. Written report included." The Arab was gone with a rustling of leather.

  CHAPTER 18

  Karim phoned back the headmistress of Jean-Jaurès School to see if she had obtained any information about Jude Ithero from the education board. She had made a request, but received nothing.

  Not a single file. Not a single mention. Not a trace in any of the area's archives.

  "Perhaps you're barking up the wrong tree," sh
e volunteered. "The child you're looking for maybe didn't live in this region."

  Karim hung up and looked at his watch. Half past one. He allotted himself two hours to check the archives of the other schools and look through the composition of the classes which matched the boy's age.

  In less than an hour, he had completed his tour of the local educational establishments and had found no trace of Jude Ithero. He went back once more to Jean-Jaurès. An idea had occurred to him while rummaging through the other archives. The saucer-eyed woman welcomed him eagerly.

  "I've done some more work for you, lieutenant."

  "Oh yes?"

  "I looked out the names and addresses of the teachers who were working here at that time."

  "And?"

  "And bad luck. The previous headmistress is now retired."

  "Jude was nine in 1981 and ten in 1982. Could we find who his teachers were?"

  The woman looked through her notes.

  "Indeed. In fact chance would have it that the 1981 CM1 and the 1982 CM2 classes both had the same teacher. It is quite common for a teacher to 'jump' up a class, from one year to the next…"

  "Where is she now?"

  "I don't know. She left this school at the end of the 1981-1982 academic year."

  Karim groaned. The headmistress pulled a serious face.

  "I've been thinking about that, too. There is one thing we haven't looked at yet."

  "What's that?"

  "The school photographs. We keep one copy of each class portrait, you know."

  The lieutenant bit his lip. Why had he not thought of that?

  The headmistress went on:

  "I went through our photographic records. And the portraits of CM1 and CM2 that interest us have also vanished. It's quite incredible."

  This revelation filtered slowly into the policeman's mind, like a ray of light. He thought of the oval frame, stuck up on the plaque of the vault. He realised that someone had "obliterated" the little boy, taking away his name, his face. The woman interrupted his train of 'thought:

  "Why are you smiling?"

  Karim answered: