Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  WE ARE THE MASTERS, WE ARE THE SLAVES.

  WE ARE EVERYWHERE, WE ARE NOWHERE.

  WE ARE THE SURVEYORS.

  WE CONTROL THE BLOOD-RED RIVERS.

  The policeman leant against the wall, on the scraps of brown paper and shreds of glass wool. He turned off his torch, and a flash glowed in his mind. He had not found a link between Rémy Caillois and Philippe Sertys. He had found something better: a shadow, a secret at the heart of that young hospital worker's existence. What did those figures and strange sentences in that exercise book mean? What had Sertys been doing in his mysterious warehouse?

  Niémans briefly took stock of his investigations, as though bringing together the first smouldering twigs of a fire in a blizzard. Rémy Caillois was an acute schizophrenic, a violent man who had – perhaps – once committed some terrible crime. As for Philippe Sertys, he had indulged in some sort of undercover activity in this sinister workshop, then tried to remove all trace of it shortly before his death.

  The superintendent had no solid proof, no evidence, but it was certain that neither Caillois nor Sertys had been as straightforward as their public lives suggested.

  Neither the librarian nor the nursing auxiliary had been an innocent victim.

  PART VI

  CHAPTER 30

  Karim, his guts in a knot, had now been driving for almost two hours. He was thinking of that face. A child's face. Sometimes he imagined it as being that of a monster. Perfectly smooth, with neither a nose nor cheekbones, pierced by two shiny white eyeballs. Or then again, he pictured it as being that of a perfectly ordinary cute little boy. So ordinary, that it left no mark on people's memories. Or else, Karim saw a set of impossible features. Wavy, unstable, reflecting the face of the person examining them. A sparkling appearance which mirrored other people's looks, revealing the deepest secrets concealed beneath the hypocrisy of their smiles. The cop shivered. He was now sure about one thing: the key to this mystery lay in that face. And nowhere else.

  He had taken the autoroute from Agen to Toulouse and had then driven alongside the Canal du Midi, taking him past Carcassonne and Narbonne. His car was a terrible old jalopy. A sort of coughing fit made of cylinders and rattling parts. He could not get it to go over one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour, even with the wind behind him. He could not stop thinking over this enigma. He was now approaching Sète, along the coast road, and nearing the Convent of Saint-Jean-de-la-Croix. The gray, vague landscape by the sea had a calming effect on him. His foot hard down, he was now mulling over the rational information he had gathered.

  His visits to the photographer and the priest had cast new light on the case. Karim had suddenly realised that the documents missing from Jean-Jaurès School could well have been stolen long before last night's break-in. On the road, he phoned back the headmistress. When asked "is it possible that those documents have been missing since 1982 and that nobody noticed during all those years?" the headmistress had answered "yes" When asked "is it possible that their disappearance was only noticed today, thanks to the burglary?" she had answered "yes". When asked "have you ever heard of a nun who was trying to get hold of school photos from that period?" she had answered "no".

  And yet…Before setting out, Karim had conducted a final piece of research in Sarzac. Thanks to papers in the registry office – dates of birth and home addresses – he had contacted several former pupils of those two fateful classes: CM' and CM2, 1981 and 1982. Not one of them still had his old school photos. In certain cases, a fire had started in the room where the photos were kept. In others, there had been a burglary. The thieves had stolen nothing except for a few photographs. Or, yet again, though this was rare, people remembered a nun, who had called by to look for the pictures. It had been at night, and nobody was able to describe her. All of these events had occurred during the same short period: July 1982. One month before little Jude's death.

  At about half past six in the evening, as he was driving past the Bassin de Thau, Karim spotted a phone box and rang up Crozier. He was now outside his jurisdiction. And it was a feeling he liked. He was casting off. The superintendent yelled:

  "I hope you're on your way here, Karim. We did say six o'clock."

  "I have a lead, superintendent."

  "What lead?"

  "Let me follow it up. Every step I take confirms what I suspected. Do you have anything new concerning the cemetery?"

  "You're playing at being the lone ranger, and now you expect me to…"

  "Just answer. Have you found the car?"

  Crozier sighed.

  "We have come up with seven owners of Ladas, two of Trabants and one of a Skoda in the départements of the Lot, Lot-et-Garonne, Dordogne, Aveyron and Vaucluse. And not one of them is our car."

  "You've already checked the owners' alibis?"

  "No, but we found some scraps from the tires near the cemetery. They're extremely low-grade carbon jobs. The owner of our car still uses the original tires and all the ones we've located run on Michelin or Goodyear. It's the first thing people change on that sort of motor. We're still looking. In other regions?"

  "Is that all?"

  "That's all for now. What about you?"

  "I'm advancing backward"

  "Backward?"

  "The less I find, the more sure I am that I'm on the right track. Last night's break-ins are linked to a much more serious business, superintendent."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know. Something to do with a boy. With his kidnapping or murder. I don't know. I'll call you back."

  Without giving the superintendent time to ask another question, Karim hung up.

  On the outskirts of Sète, he drove through a small village by the sea. Here, the waters of the Golfe du Lion mingled with the earth in a huge area of marshland, bordered with reeds. The policeman slowed down as he passed a strange port, apparently without any boats, but with long, dark fishing nets suspended between the houses with their shuttered windows.

  Everything was deserted.

  A pungent smell filled the atmosphere, not of the sea, but rather of some sort of fertiliser, laden with acid and excrement.

  Karim Abdouf was nearing his destination. The direction of the convent was now indicated. The setting sun lit up the sharply glinting saline pools on the surface of the marshes. Eight miles further on, he noticed another road sign, indicating a tarmac lane leading up to the right. He drove on, taking the winding bends which were bordered by a confusion of reeds and furze.

  At last, the buildings of the cloister emerged. Karim was astonished.

  Between these dark sand dunes and rampant weeds stood two massive churches. One of them had finely sculpted towers topped by fluted domes, like monumental cream-cakes. The other was large and red, made of a multitude of small stones, culminating in a wide tower with a flat roof. Two cathedrals which, in that salty sea air, made him think of pieces of flotsam. The Arab just could not understand what they were doing in such a lonely, desperate place.

  As he approached, he saw that a third building stretched out between them. A one-storey construction with a rank of narrow, over-ornate windows. Presumably it was the convent itself, which was seemingly drawing in its bricks so as to avoid any contact with the two churches.

  Karim parked. He thought how he had never before been so closely confronted by religion – at least, not so often in such a short period of time. This reminded him of a piece of reasoning he had once heard. At the Cannes-Ecluse police academy, senior officers sometimes came to lecture about their experiences. One of them had made a deep impression on Karim. He was tall, with a crew cut, and small iron-rimmed spectacles. His talk had been fascinating. The officer had explained how a crime is always reflected in the minds of the witnesses or loved ones. That they should be seen as mirrors, with the murderer hiding in one of the dead angles.

  The officer had sounded crazy, but the students had all been riveted. He had also spoken about atomic structures. According to him, when even apparently tr
ivial details or elements regularly reappeared during the course of an enquiry, then it was necessary to pay attention to them, for they certainly concealed a deeper meaning. Each crime was an atomic nucleus and the recurrent elements were its electrons, revolving around it and drawing out a subliminal truth. Karim smiled. That cop with metal spectacles had been right. It was a good description of this present investigation. And religion had now become a recurring element. It no doubt contained some part of the truth which he was going to have to dig out.

  He walked over to a small stone porch and rang the bell. A few seconds later, a smile appeared in the doorway. It was an ancient smile, framed in black and white. Before Karim even opened his mouth, the nun drew back and said:

  "Come in, my son."

  The cop found himself in a dark hall. On one of the white walls, a crucifix could be made out, over a somberly glinting painting. To his right, Abdouf could see gray light coming out of a few open doors down a corridor. And, through a nearby opening, he noticed lines of varnished chairs, a floor covered with linoleum – the impeccably harsh appearance of a place of prayer.

  "This way," the nun said. "We are having dinner."

  "At this time?"

  The nun stifled a slight laugh. She seemed as wicked as a little girl. "You don't know the Carmelites' daily routine? Every day, we go back to prayer at seven o'clock.”

  Karim followed her. Their shadows flitted across the linoleum, as though over the waters of a lake. They then reached a large room, where about thirty nuns were eating and chatting away in a brutally strong light. Their faces and veils had a slightly cardboard look about them, like communion wafers. Some of them glanced or smiled at the policeman, but none of them interrupted their conversations. Karim made out a number of different languages, French, English and a Slavic tongue too, perhaps Polish. Karim did as he was told and sat down at the end of the table, in front of a bowl full of lumpy yellow soup.

  "Eat, my son. A big boy like you needs feeding…"

  "My son", again…But Karim did not have the heart to snap at the nun.

  He looked down at his bowl and remembered that he had not eaten since yesterday. He swallowed the soup in no time, then devoured several pieces of bread and cheese. Each part of the meal had that particular taste of homemade food, concocted with whatever was to hand. He poured himself some water, from a stainless steel jug, then looked up. The nun was watching him, and exchanging a few observations with her neighbors. She murmured:

  "We were talking about your hair-do…"

  "And?"

  The nun giggled.

  "How do you go about making those plaits?"

  "They're natural," he replied. "Frizzy hair naturally goes into plaits like this. In Jamaica, they're called dreadlocks. The men never cut their hair and never shave. It's against their religion, just like with rabbis. When the locks are long enough, they fill them up with earth to make them heavier and…"

  Karim came to a sudden stop. The reason for his visit had just forced itself back into his mind. He opened his mouth to explain what he was investigating, but the nun got in first:

  "Why did you come here, my son? And why do you have a gun under your jacket?"

  "I'm a police officer. I need to talk to Sister Andrée. Badly."

  The nuns went on chatting, but the lieutenant saw that they had heard his request. The woman declared:

  "We'll go and call on her." She signaled discreetly to one of her neighbors, then turned back to Karim. "Follow me."

  The cop bowed to the table in a sign of farewell and gratitude. A highwayman thanking those who had offered him their hospitality. They went back down the bright corridor. Their footsteps made not a sound. Suddenly, the nun turned to him:

  "You have been told, I suppose?"

  "About what?"

  "You can speak to her, but you cannot see her. You can listen to her, but you cannot go near her."

  Karim examined the edges of the veil, arched up like a shadowy vault. It reminded him of a nave, an illuminated azure dome, the churches protruding on the Rome skyline, the sort of clichés which come into your mind when you try to put a face to the God of the Catholics.

  "Darkness," she whispered. "Sister Andrée has made a vow of darkness. We have not seen her now for the last fourteen years. She must be blind by now."

  Outside, the last rays of sunlight were disappearing behind the huge edifices. A wave of cold surged over the empty courtyard. They were walking toward the church with high towers. On its right-hand side, there was a small wooden door. The nun searched through the folds of her robe. Karim heard the clinking of keys, scratching against the stone.

  Then she left him in front of the half-open door.

  The darkness seemed inhabited, peopled by damp smells, fluttering candles, worn stones. Karim took a few steps inside then raised his eyes. He could not make out the top of the vault. The scattered gleams from the stained-glass windows were already being consumed by the dusk, the flames of the candles seemed to be prisoners of the cold, overwhelming immensity of the church.

  He walked past a font, shaped like a seashell, then the confessionals and alcoves, which seemed to be hiding secret religious artifacts. He noticed another dark candelabrum, supporting a large quantity of candles burning in pools of wax.

  The place reawoke vague memories in him. Despite his origins and the color of his skin, his subconscious was drenched in the Catholic faith. He remembered the chill Wednesdays in the children's home, where the afternoon TV session was always preceded by catechism. The suffering of the Way of the Cross. Christ's goodness. The feeding of the five thousand. All that bullshit…Karim felt a wave of nostalgia rise inside him and a strange sensation of tenderness for the staff at the home. He hated himself for such sentiments. The Arab wanted no memories or weaknesses from his past. He was a son of the present. A being of the here and now. Or, that was at least how he liked to imagine himself.

  He paced on under the vaults. Behind a wooden trellis, at the back of the alcoves, he could make out some dark rugs, white rubble, pictures woven in gold. A scent of dust enveloped him as he went. Suddenly, a low sound made him spin round. It took him a few seconds to distinguish the shadow from the surrounding darkness – and to release the grip of his Glock, which he had instinctively seized.

  In the hollow of an alcove, perfectly motionless, stood Sister Andrée.

  CHAPTER 31

  She lowered her head, and her veil completely obscured her features. Karim realised that he would never be able to see that face, and he had a flash of inspiration. Perhaps both the nun and the little boy bore a sign, a mark which revealed their kinship. The nun and the little boy were perhaps mother and son. That thought sank like a dagger into his mind, to such a point that he did not hear the woman's opening words:

  "What did you say?" he whispered.

  "I asked you what you wanted."

  Her voice was deep, but pleasant. The horsehair of a bow sweeping across the strings of a violin.

  "I am a police officer, sister. I want to talk to you about Jude." The dark veil did not move.

  "Fourteen years ago," Karim went on, "in a small town called Sarzac, you stole or destroyed all of the photographs featuring a little boy called Jude Ithero. In Cahors, you bribed a photographer. You tricked children. You created accidents, committed burglaries. And all with the intention of obliterating a face on a few photos. Why?"

  The nun remained motionless. Her veil formed an arc of nothingness.

  "I was obeying orders," she finally declared.

  "Orders? Who from?"

  "From the boy's mother?”

  Karim felt pinpricks all across his skin. He knew that she was telling the truth. At once, he gave up his sister/mother/son hypothesis.

  The nun opened the wooden gate which separated her from Karim. She walked in front of him then strode over toward some cane-bottomed chairs. She knelt beside a column on a prayer-stool, with her head bent down. Karim went along the next row and sat in front
of her. A smell of woven straw, of ashes and incense assailed him.

  "Go on," he said, while staring at that patch of darkness where her face should have been.

  "She came to see me one Sunday evening, in June 1982."

  "Did you know her?"

  "No. This is the very place where we met. I did not see her face. She did not tell me her name, nor give me any other information. She just told me that she needed me. For a particular task…She wanted me to destroy the school photographs of her son. She wanted to wipe out all trace of his face."

  "Why did she want to do that?"

  "She was mad."

  "Come on. You can do better than that.”

  "She said that her son was being pursued by demons."

  "By demons?"

  "Those were her very words. She said they were looking for his face…"

  "She didn't explain it more clearly?"

  "No. She said that her son was cursed. That his face was proof, a piece of evidence which reflected the evil of those demons. She also said that she and her son had gained two years' reprieve from the curse, but that the evil had caught up with them and now the demons were on their heels again. It made no sense at all. She was mad. Totally mad."

  Karim drank in every word. He did not understand what this business about "proof" meant, but one thing at least was clear: those two years' reprieve had been the ones spent in Sarzac, in the most absolute anonymity. So where had this mother and son come from?

  "If little Jude was really being pursued by dangerous people, then why give this secret mission to a nun who everybody would remember?"

  The woman did not reply.

  "Please, sister," Karim whispered.

  "She said that she had tried everything to hide her child, but the demons were far more powerful than she was. She said that the only thing left now was to exorcise his face."

  "What?"

  "According to her, I had to be the one who obtained the photographs then burnt them. It would be an exorcism. In that way, I would free her son's face."