Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

CHAPTER 41

The cemetery in Guernon was unlike the one in Sarzac. White tombstones jutted up like tiny symmetrical icebergs across the dark lawns. The crosses stood out as though they were strange figures, stretched up onto the tips of their toes. The only vague sign of disorder was the dead leaves – yellow blotches on the immaculate grass. With methodical patience, Karim Abdouf was making his way around each alley, reading the names and epitaphs that were engraved in the marble, stone or metal.

So far, he had not found Sylvain Hérault's tomb.

As he walked on, he thought over the case, and the extraordinary developments of the last few hours. He had rushed as quickly as he could to this town, and had had no qualms about "borrowing" a superb Audi for transport. He had imagined that he would then arrest a desecrator of graves and now he found himself after a serial killer. Now that he had read and memorised the entire file in Niémans's office, he was forcing himself to believe that it truly tied in with his own investigations. The burglary at the school and the violation of the tomb in Sarzac had revealed the tragic destiny of a family. And that destiny had now led to this series of murders in Guernon. Sertys was the link between the two cases and Karim had decided to follow his own nose until he had turned up other common points, other connections.

But it was not this terrible spiral which fascinated him most. It was the fact that he was now working alongside Pierre Niémans, the superintendent who had made such a strong impression on him during his time at the police academy. The cop with the reflecting mirrors and atomic theories. A violent, short-tempered, obstinate man of action. A brilliant detective, who had carved out a superb place for himself in the world of criminal investigation, but who had finally been put out to grass because of his uncontrollable temper and his fits of psychotic violence. Karim could not stop thinking about his new partner. Naturally, he felt proud. And thrilled. But also disturbed at the uncanny way he had been thinking of the man only that day, a few hours before meeting him.

Karim had just completed the last alleyway in the cemetery. No Sylvain Hérault. All he had to do now was to pay a call on a building which rather resembled a chapel, propped up by cracked columns: the crematorium. He rapidly strode over toward it. Explore every avenue. Always. A corridor opened out in front of him, dotted with small plaques bearing names and dates. He walked on into the mausoleum, glancing from left to right as he advanced. Little containers, like pigeon holes, were piled up covered with a variety of different lettering and designs. Sometimes, a wilting, multi-colored wreath lay at the bottom of a niche. Then the old monochrome dullness started all over again. At the end, a wall of sculpted marble bore the words of a prayer.

Karim walked on. A damp breeze, little more than a draught, whistled between the walls. Slender columns of plaster rose up from the floor, over a carpet of dried petals.

It was then that he found it.

The commemorative plaque. He went up to it and read: "Sylvain Hérault. Born February 1951. Died August 1980." Karim had not been expecting Judith's father to have been cremated. It just did not fit in with Fabienne's religious beliefs.

But it was not this which astonished him most. It was the fresh red flowers, dripping with sap and dew, that were lying just beneath the opening. He fingered the petals. The wreath was extremely recent. It must have been laid there that day. The policeman spun round, stopped and clicked his fingers.

The chase was still on.

Abdouf left the cemetery and walked all round its walls, looking for a house or building that might be occupied by a keeper. He discovered a grim, tiny dwelling which abutted the left side of the sanctuary. A pale light shone from one of its windows.

He silently opened the gate and entered a garden, which was roofed off by a sort of enormous cage. A sound of cooing could be heard. Where the hell had he ended up this time?

Karim took another few steps – the cooing grew louder and a flapping of wings broke through the silence. He screwed up his eyes and examined a wall of niches, rather reminiscent of the inside of the crematorium. Pigeons. Hundreds of gray pigeons were dozing in small dark green compartments. The policeman climbed up the three steps and rang the doorbell. It opened at once.

"What do you want, you bastard?"

The man was pointing a pump-action shotgun at him.

"I'm from the police," Karim calmly declared. "Just let me show you my card and…"

"Course you are, you fucking Arab. And I'm the Queen of fucking England. Don't move!"

The cop backed down the steps. The insult had electrified him. The murderous fury which had been lying dormant inside him woke up.

"I told you not to move!" the gravedigger yelled, aiming his gun at the cop's face.

Saliva foamed from the corners of his mouth.

Karim continued to back off slowly. The man was shaking. He, too, started coming down the steps. He was brandishing his weapon like a hardy peasant with a pitchfork confronting a vampire in a B-movie. Behind them, the pigeons were fluttering their wings, as though stricken with the tension.

"I'll blow your fucking brains out, I'll…"

"I don't think so, grandpa. Your piece's empty."

The man grinned.

"It is, is it? I loaded it last night, dick-head."

"Maybe you did. But you didn't put the bullet in the breech."

The man glanced down rapidly at his gun. And Karim was in. He leapt up the two steps, pushed the oily barrel away with his left hand, while drawing his Glock with his right hand. He threw the man back against the door frame and crushed his wrist against the corner.

The gravedigger screamed and dropped his gun. When he opened his eyes, it was to see the black orifice of the automatic, poised a few inches away from his forehead.

"Now you listen to me, fuck-face," Karim whispered. "I need some information. You answer my questions, then I go. Nice and easy. You fuck me about, and things will start getting nasty. Very nasty. Specially for you. Clear?"

The cemetery keeper nodded, his eyes bulging. All sign of aggression had vanished from his features, to be replaced by a fiery redness. It was the "red panic" that Karim knew so well. He gave the wrinkled throat another squeeze.

"Sylvain Hérault. August 1980. Cremated. I'm listening."

"Hérault?" the gravedigger stammered. "Never heard of him."

Karim dragged him forward then slammed him back against the wall. The man grimaced. Blood splattered the stone, just behind his neck. The panic had even infected the niches. The pigeons, imprisoned by the wire mesh, were now flapping around in every direction. The cop murmured:

"Sylvain Hérault. His wife's very tall. A brunette. Curly hair.

Glasses. And very beautiful. Just like his daughter. Think." The man's head started nodding up and down convulsively.

"All right, all right, I remember…It was a really strange funeral…There was nobody there…"

"Nobody there?"

"Just like I said, nobody, not even his missus. She paid me in advance for the cremation, and was never seen again in Guernon. I burnt the body. I. I was all on my own."

"So what did he die of?"

"An…an accident…A car accident."

The Arab remembered the autoroute and those awful photographs of the child's body. So tragic car accidents had now become another leitmotif, another recurring factor. Abdouf released his grip. The pigeons were now zooming around crazily, smashing themselves into the caged roof.

"Give me some details. What happened exactly?"

"He…he got himself run over by a hit-and-run driver on the road that goes to the Belledonne. He had a bike…He was going to work…The driver must have been blotto…I…"

"Was there an inquest?"

"I dunno…Anyway, they never found out who did it…They just found his body on the road…It was completely crushed." Karim shivered.

"You said he was going to work. What was his job?"

"He worked in the villages up the mountains. He was a crystaller."

"What's that?"

"Someone who goes up to the highest peaks and digs out precious stones…Apparently, he was the best of the bunch. But he used to take terrible risks…"

Karim changed the subject.

"Why didn't anyone in Guernon come to his funeral?"

The man was massaging his neck, which was burnt as if he had just been hanged. He peered round in terror at his wounded pigeons.

"They were newcomers…From another place…Taverlay…In the mountains…Nobody was interested in coming to the funeral. So there wasn't anyone, just like I told you."

Karim asked a final question:

"There's a wreath of flowers just by his urn. Who laid it there?"

The keeper rolled his eyes in panic. A dying bird flopped down onto his shoulders. He choked back a cry, then stammered: "There's always flowers by it…"

"So who puts them there?" Karim repeated. "Is it a tall woman? A woman with a flowing head of brown hair? Is it Fabienne Hérault?"

The old man shook his head vigorously.

"Who then?"

He hesitated, as though afraid to pronounce that name which was trembling on his lips in a foam of saliva. Feathers floated down like flocks of gray snow. At last, he whispered:

"It's…it's Sophie…Sophie Caillois."

Karim was dumbstruck. Suddenly, another link had been established between the two cases. A chain that was now encircling his neck. He pushed his face right up into the man's ear and barked:

"WHO?"

"It's…" he stuttered. "Rémy Caillois's wife. She comes here every week. And sometimes more often than that…When I heard about the murder on the radio, I meant to call the police…Really I did…I was going to tell them what I knew…It might be relevant. I…"

Karim threw the old man back against the dovecot. He pushed open the iron gate and ran to his car. His heart was beating fit to bust.

CHAPTER 42

Karim made his way to the university's main building. He immediately picked out the officer stationed at the front entrance; presumably the one whose job it was to keep an eye on Sophie Caillois. He casually continued on his way, drove round the block, and discovered a side door made of two dark panes of glass, under a cracked concrete porch, partly covered over with a plastic sheet. He parked his car one hundred yards away and looked at the map of the university, which he had collected from Niémans's HQ, and which indicated Sophie Caillois's flat: number 34.

He went out into the rain and strolled over to the door. He formed his hands into a telescope and placed them against the glass, in order to see what was inside. The two doors were bolted together with an ancient motorbike wheel lock, in the shape of a hoop. The rain began to pour down, beating against the plastic sheeting in a crazed techno rhythm. It was making a loud enough din to drown out any noise of a break-in. Karim stepped back and smashed the glass with one kick.

He dived down the narrow corridor, then found himself in a huge dark hall. A glance through the windows revealed that the shivering officer was still at his post. He took the staircase to his right, leaping up the steps four at a time. The lamps on the emergency exits allowed him to find his way without having to switch on the neon lighting. Karim did his best not to make the hanging staircase resonate under his steps, nor the vertical metal slats which rose up at the center.

The eighth floor, where the boarders lived, was plunged into silence. Still following Niémans's annotated map, he advanced down the corridor and examined the names written above the doorbells. Under his feet, he felt the cold cushioning of the linoleum.

Even at two o'clock in the morning, he had been expecting to hear some music, a radio, anything resembling the usual noises that went with student life. But here, there was no sound. Perhaps they were all barricaded into their rooms, terrified of having their eyes ripped out by the killer. Karim continued on his way and finally found the door he was looking for. He decided not to ring the bell and instead knocked lightly.

No answer.

He gave it another gentle knock. Still no answer. And no sound from inside. Not the slightest murmur. Odd. The presence of the sentry man downstairs meant that Sophie Caillois was at home.

Instinctively, Karim drew his gun and peered at the lock. The door was not bolted. He slipped on his latex gloves and took out a set of polymer rods. He slipped one of them under the latch and pushed against the door, heaving the rod upwards at the same time. It opened almost at once. Karim went in as noiselessly as a whisper.

He went through each room. Nobody. His sixth sense told him that she had taken off. For good. He started to search the place more thoroughly. He examined the strange pictures on the walls – black-and-white photos hung up on hooks depicting Nazi athletes running round a stadium. He went through the furniture, pulled out the drawers. Nothing. Sophie Caillois had left no message, no clear sign that she had gone – yet Karim sensed that she was gone for good. And also that he could not yet leave. Some mysterious detail was holding him back. He paced around, staring up and down in an attempt to identify what was bugging him.

At last, he found it.

There was a strong smell of glue in the air. Wallpaper paste, only just dry. Karim hurriedly examined each of the walls. Had both the Caillois simply been redecorating a few days before all this violence had broken out? Was this just a coincidence? Karim rejected that hypothesis. In this case, there were no coincidences. Every single element was a part of the overall nightmare.

Impulsively, he pushed aside some of the furniture and stripped away a section of the wallpaper. Nothing. He stopped for a moment. He was outside his jurisdiction. He had no search warrant. And here he was vandalising the flat of a woman who was about to become a prime suspect. He hesitated, swallowed hard, then ripped away a second section. Nothing. Karim spun round and attacked a different part of the wall. As he pulled, the paper peeled off easily, revealing a large area of the previous layer.

On the wall, he could make out the end of an inscription written in brown. The only word he could read was "RIVERS". He stripped away the section that lay to the left. Under the smeared paste, the message appeared in its entirety:

I SHALL REACH THE SOURCE

OF THE BLOOD-RED RIVERS

JUDITH

The handwriting belonged to a child, and it was written in blood. The inscription was engraved into the plaster, as if it had been dug out with a knife. Rémy Caillois's murder. The "blood-red rivers” Judith. It was no longer a matter of connections, of vague relationships, of echoes. The two cases had now become one.

Suddenly, he heard a slight shuffling behind him. In a reflex action, Karim wheeled round holding his Glock in both hands. He just had time to see a figure disappear through the half-open door. He cursed and dived after it.

The form had just vanished round a corner of the corridor. The sound of running had already roused the neighbors, as though they had been on the qui vive, ready for the slightest sign of danger. Doors were opening to reveal frightened faces.

The cop sped along to the first turning, then leapt forward, sprinting down the next straight. He could already hear footsteps echoing down the hanging staircase.

He, too, started down the well. The metal slats quivered as the shadow rapidly descended the granite steps. Karim was in full pursuit. His metal-studded shoes touched down only once per flight.

The floors shot by. Karim was gaining. He was now only a few paces from his prey. They were going down the same storey, on either side of the barrier of metal slats. In the darkness, the cop could just make out the gleaming black of an oil-skin jacket. He shot one of his hands in between the symmetrical iron blades and seized a shadowy sleeve, just under the shoulder. Not firmly enough. His arm was thrown away, becoming stuck in among the metal slats. The figure made off. Karim accelerated again. He had lost a few seconds.

He reached the massive hall. It was completely deserted. Utterly silent. Karim noticed the guard who was still outside. He sprinted toward the side entrance, through which he had come in. Nobody. A sheet of rain obscured the exterior scene.

Karim swore. He went out through the smashed pane and stared across the campus, hazed over by the gray glints of the downpour. Not a sign of life. No cars. Only the din from the plastic sheeting, which was making a furious slapping noise. Karim lowered his gun and turned back. There was now one hope left: the shadow might still be inside.

Suddenly, a tidal wave hit the glass panes of the door. In a moment of confusion, he dropped his weapon. An icy torrent had engulfed him. Crouching on the ground, Karim glanced upwards and realised that the plastic sheeting over the porch had just given way under the weight of the rain.

A simple accident.

But then, behind the plastic sheet, still suspended from the roof by two cords, he saw a gleaming dark shape. A black oilskin, poly-carbonate leggings,' a face masked by a balaclava and topped by a cyclist's helmet, gleaming like the head of a massive bumble bee, the shadow was holding Karim's Glock in both hands, and aiming it toward his face.

The cop opened his mouth, but not a word emerged.

The shadow abruptly pressed the trigger, emptying the magazine with a cascade of breaking glass. Karim curled into a ball, protecting his face with his hands. He screamed out in a cracked voice, as the din from the shots mingled with the smashing of glass and the thundering downpour. Karim mechanically counted the sixteen bullets and dared to look up only when the last cartridge cases had flopped out onto the ground. He just had time to see a naked hand drop the gun, before vanishing behind the curtain of rain. It was a dark hand, with knotted muscles, scratched and covered with plasters, and with short clipped nails.

A woman's hand.

The cop looked down for a few seconds at his Glock, which was still smoking through its breech. Then he stared at its grip, crisscrossed with tiny diamond shapes. His mind was still jolting in time with the gun blasts. His nostrils were full of the pungent smell of cordite. A few seconds later, the policeman who was guarding the main entrance arrived, gun in hand.

But Karim was oblivious to his warnings and panic-stricken yells.

Amid this apocalypse, he had acquired two vital pieces of evidence.

First: the murderer was a woman and she had spared his life.

Second: he had her fingerprints.

CHAPTER 43

"What were you doing in Sophie Caillois's flat? You're outside your jurisdiction, you've infringed the most basic rules, we could…"

Karim watched Captain Vermont as he worked himself up. Head bare, his face was going puce. Karim nodded and did his best to look contrite. He said:

"I've already explained everything to Captain Barnes. The Guernon murders are linked to a case I'm investigating…Crimes that were committed in my town, Sarzac, in the Lot."

"Very interesting. But it doesn't explain your presence in the flat belonging to one of our principal witnesses, nor the violation of property."

"I had an agreement with Superintendent Niémans to…"

"Forget Niémans. He's been taken off the case." Vermont flung the official mandate down onto the desk. "The boys from the Grenoble brigade have just arrived."

"Really?"

"Superintendent Niémans is in a lot of trouble. The other night, he beat up an English football hooligan after the match at the Parc des Princes. Things are starting to look nasty. He's been called back to Paris."

Karim now understood why Niémans was working in this little town. He must have been trying to lie low, after an umpteenth piece of brutality. One of his trademarks. But he could not imagine him going back to Paris that night. Not at all. And he could not imagine him dropping this case – and certainly not if it was to go and stand before a disciplinary board. Pierre Niémans would unmask the killer, having first uncovered a motive. And Karim would be there by his side. However, he played at following the gendarme's drift:

"So are the Grenoble boys on the case already?"

"Not yet," Vermont replied. "We'll have to give them the lowdown first."

"It doesn't sound as though you're going to miss Niémans."

"Oh yes I am. He might be a head case, but at least he knows the world of crime. It's his backyard. With the Grenoble brigade, we're going to have to start all over again from scratch. And where will that get us, I wonder?" Karim stuck his fists down onto the desk and leant across toward Vermont.

"Give Superintendent Henri Crozier a ring, at the Sarzac police station. He'll confirm my story. Jurisdiction, or no jurisdiction, my enquiries are linked to the Guernon murders. Philippe Sertys, one of the victims, desecrated a cemetery on my patch. Last night. Just before he was murdered."

Vermont pouted skeptically.

"Then write up a report. Victims desecrating a cemetery. Policemen cropping up from nowhere. Don't you reckon this story is already complicated enough as it is…"

"I uh,…"

"The murderer has struck again."

Karim turned round. Niémans was standing in the door frame. His face was livid and strained. It reminded the Arab of the graveyard sculptures he had encountered in the last few hours.

"Edmond Chernecé," Niémans went on. "An ophthalmologist in Annecy." He walked over to the desk, staring at Karim, then at Vermont. "Strangled with a cable. Eyes gone. Hands gone. The series has only just begun."

Vermont pushed his chair back against the wall. After a moment's pause, he murmured plaintively:

"I told you so…Everyone told you so…"

"What? What did you tell me?" Niémans yelled.

"That it's a serial killer. A psychopath. Like in the States! We'll have to use the same methods as they do. Call in some specialists. Draw up a psychological profile…That sort of thing…Even a provincial cop like me knows that…"

Niémans bellowed:

"This is a series, but not with a serial killer! Our murderer's no madman. This is revenge. He has a perfectly rational motive for killing his victims. There is a link between those three men, which explains their deaths. That's what we should be looking for, for fuck's sake!"

Vermont was silent. He gestured wearily. Karim butted in:

"Superintendent, may I…"

"Not now."

Niémans stretched and, with twitching hands, pressed out the creases in his coat. This concern for his appearance sat uneasily with the cop's inscrutable expression. Karim tried again:

"Sophie Caillois's taken off."

The metal-framed eyes turned round toward him.

"What? Wasn't someone watching her?"

"He didn't see anything. And, if you want my opinion, she's already long gone."

Niémans weighed up Karim, as though he was a strange, genetically improbable animal.

"What the fuck's all this about now?" he asked. "Why would she have run away?"

"Because you've been right all along." Karim was speaking to the superintendent, but staring at Vermont. "The victims share a secret. And this secret is linked to the murders. Sophie Caillois has split because she knows that secret. She might even be the murderer's next victim."

"Jesus Christ…"

Niémans readjusted his glasses. He stopped to think for a few seconds, then motioned with his chin, like a boxer, for Karim to go on.

"I've got something new, superintendent. In the Caillois's flat, I discovered an inscription scratched into one of the walls. It's signed `Judith' and mentions `the blood-red rivers'. You were looking for a common factor between the victims. I can at least suggest one between Caillois and Sertys: Judith. My little girl. My missing face. Sertys desecrated her tomb. And Caillois received a message signed with her name."

The superintendent headed for the door.

"Come with me." Vermont stood up in anger.

"That's right, get lost, both of you! You and your mysteries!" Niémans was already pushing Karim out into the corridor. The captain's voice roared on:

"You're off the case, Niémans! It's official! Don't you understand that? You're nothing any more…Nothing! You don't count for shit! So go and listen to your darky's ranting…A bent cop and a thug! The two of you are made for each other! I’ll…"

Niémans burst into an empty office, a few doors down the corridor. He shoved Karim inside, turned on the light and closed the door, cutting short the gendarme's speech. He grabbed a chair, handed it to the Arab, then whispered simply:

"I'm listening."

CHAPTER 44

Still standing, Karim launched into his explanations:

"The inscription on the wall reads: `I shall reach the source of the blood-red rivers. It's written in blood and was scratched into the plaster with a blade. It's enough to scare the shit right out of you. Specially since the message is signed `Judith, in other words, `Judith Hérault'. Who's dead, superintendent. She died in 1982."

"I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Karim sighed. "But I can imagine some of the events of that weekend."

Niémans, too, remained on his feet. He slowly nodded his head. The Arab went on:

"Right. So the killer starts by knocking off Rémy Caillois, probably some time on Saturday, then mutilates the body and wedges it up into that rock face. But Christ knows what lies behind all that elaborate staging. The next day, our murderer goes on the look-out somewhere on the campus so as to keep an eye on Sophie Caillois. At first, she stays put. But she finally makes a move, let's say around mid-morning. Perhaps she goes up into the mountains to look for her husband, for example. Meanwhile, the killer breaks into the flat and inscribes a signed confession into the wall: `I shall reach the source of the blood-red rivers'."

"Go on."

"Later, Sophie Caillois comes back home and finds the message. She immediately understands what it means. The past has come back to haunt them, and her husband has obviously been murdered. She panics, breaks the code of secrecy and phones up Philippe Sertys who is, or was, Rémy Caillois's accomplice."

"What's your evidence for all this?"

Karim leant over and whispered:

"My notion is that the Caillois couple and Sertys were childhood friends and that they committed some crime or other together when they were kids. A crime that is linked to the expression `blood-red rivers', and Judith's family."

"Karim, I've already told you that in the early 1980s, Caillois and Sertys were about ten, how can you imagine that they…?"

"Let me finish. Philippe Sertys arrives at the Caillois's flat. He, too, reads the inscription and understands the reference to "the blood-red rivers": It's now total panic stations. But the first thing to do is hide the inscription which refers to some secret that they absolutely have to conceal. That much I'm sure of – despite Caillois's death and the threat of a killer who's using the name `Judith, Sertys and Sophie Caillois's initial reaction is to cover up this message which reveals their own guilt. The auxiliary nurse then rushes off to get some wallpaper, which he pastes over the words. Which is why there's a strong smell of glue in the place."

Niémans's eyes were shining. Karim realised that the superintendent had obviously noticed that detail, too, presumably while questioning the woman. He went on:

"They spend all Sunday waiting, or perhaps search for Rémy again. I don't know. Finally, at the end of the afternoon, Sophie Caillois decides to inform the police. At that very moment, the body is discovered in the cliff."

"And then?"

"Then, that night, Philippe Sertys heads off for Sarzac."

"Why?"

"Because Rémy Caillois's murder was signed `Judith, and Sertys knows that Judith has been dead and buried in Sarzac for the last fifteen years."

"Sounds a bit far-fetched"

"Maybe it is. But Sertys was certainly in my town last night, with an accomplice who might well be our third victim, Edmond Chernecé. They searched through the archives of the primary school. They went to the cemetery and opened Judith's tomb. Where do you look for a dead person? In the grave."

"Go on"

"Now, I don't know what Sertys and his friend find out in Sarzac. I don't know if they open the coffin. I wasn't allowed to carry out a thorough search of the tomb. But I figure that they were not particularly reassured by their discoveries. So, with panic in their guts, they go back to Guernon. Jesus, can you just imagine it? A ghost is on the prowl, who's all set to wipe out the people who once harmed it…"

"You haven't got a shred of evidence for all this."

Karim ignored this remark.

"It's now dawn on Monday, Niémans. As he goes home, Sertys gets jumped by our ghost. No torture session, no third degree. The killer already knows the truth and is simply carrying out a program of revenge. So the phantom takes a cable car and places the body up in the mountains. Everything has been premeditated: a first clue was left on the first victim and a second one will be left on the second victim. And so on. Your vengeance hypothesis is starting to take off, Niémans."

The superintendent slumped down onto the chair. He was glistening with sweat.

"But vengeance for what? Who is the killer?"

"Judith Hérault. Or, rather, someone who's acting on her behalf."

Head down, the superintendent remained silent. Karim leant over further:

"I found Sylvain Hérault's memorial in the town crematorium, Niémans. There's nothing particularly suspicious about his death. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Though maybe that is worth looking into, I don't know…But it was the urn itself which taught me something of interest. There was a wreath of fresh flowers in front of it. So I asked who put them there. And who do you think has been bringing flowers for the last few years? Sophie Caillois."

Niémans was now shaking his head, as though in a fit of dizziness.

"And what's your theory about that?"

"I reckon it's because she feels guilty."

The superintendent did not bother to respond. Abdouf raised himself up and yelled:

"But it all fits, for Christ's sake! I can't imagine Sophie Caillois as a real criminal, but she shared her husband's secret and kept quiet about it, because she loved him, or was frightened of him, one or the other. Meanwhile, she discreetly carried on putting flowers in front of Sylvain Hérault's urn, out of respect for the family which her guy had persecuted."

Karim knelt down. His dreadlocks were almost brushing against the superintendent.

"Just think it through," he pleaded. "Her husband's body has just been discovered. The murder has been signed by `Judith, and so is clearly the vengeance of a little girl from the past. And even then, she goes and puts a fresh wreath on the father's tomb the next day. These murders have not provoked hatred in Sophie Caillois. They've revived her memories. And her regrets. Shit, Niémans, I'm sure I'm right. Before vanishing, she wanted to pay her last respects to the Hérault family."

The superintendent remained silent. His face had become so strained that its wrinkles were deepening out into dark crevices. Seconds ticked by. At last, Karim got to his feet and continued hoarsely:

"Niémans, I've carefully read through your findings. They contain other indications, more evidence which points toward Judith Hérault."

The old cop sighed.

"I'm listening. Christ knows why, but I'm still listening."

The lieutenant was now pacing up and down, like a caged lion.

"In the file, you say that the only sure thing about the killer is that he is an experienced mountain climber. And what was Sylvain Hérault's profession? A crystaller. Someone who climbs the highest peaks to dig the crystals out of the rock. He was a brilliant mountaineer. He spent all his life on rock faces and in glaciers. The very places where the first two bodies were found."

"Him and hundreds of other qualified climbers in the region. Is that all?"

"No. There's also fire."

"What fire?"

"I noticed a detail in the report of the first autopsy. And it's been bugging me ever since. Rémy Caillois's body had traces of burns. Costes says that the murderer sprayed gasoline over his victim's wounds. He mentions some sort of adapted aerosol."

"And?"

"And, there could be another explanation. The killer might have been a fire-eater, who spat flames out of her mouth."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's something you don't know: Judith Hérault once learnt to be a fire-eater. It sounds incredible, but it's true. I met the performer who taught her his technique, just a few weeks before she died. Apparently, it fascinated her. She told him that she wanted to use it as a weapon, to protect her `mum'."

Niémans was massaging the nape of his neck.

"For fuck's sake, Karim. Judith's dead!"

"There's one other thing, superintendent. It's just a vague indication, but it might fit into the overall scheme. In the report of the first autopsy, the forensic pathologist noted that the victim had been strangled with `a metal cord, perhaps a brake cable or a piano wire. Was Sertys killed the same way?"

The superintendent nodded. Karim went on:

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything, but Fabienne Hérault was a pianist. A virtuoso. If we suppose that it really was a piano wire which was used to kill the three victims, then this could be another symbolic link. A wire plugged into the past."

Pierre Niémans finally got to his feet and shouted:

"Where the hell are you headed, Karim? What are we supposed to be doing? Ghost hunting?"

Karim shuffled around nervously in his leather jacket, like a guilty child.

"I dunno."

It was Niémans's turn to start pacing up and down.

"What if it's the mother?"

"No," Karim replied. "It can't be her." He lowered his voice. "Keep listening, superintendent. I've kept the best bit for the end. When I was in the Caillois's flat, I caught a glimpse of the ghost. I ran after it, but it escaped."

"What?"

Karim grinned apologetically.

"Shame on me."

"What did he look like?" Niémans asked at once.

"What did she look like? A woman. I saw her hands. I heard her breathing. There's no doubt about it. She's about five feet nine inches tall. She looked pretty powerful, but she was not Judith's mother. The mother was a colossus, six feet tall and with the shoulders of a shot-putter. All the eye-witnesses agree on that point."

"So who was it?"

"I don't know. She was wearing a black oilskin, a cyclist's helmet and a balaclava. That's all I can tell you"

Niémans came to a stop.

"Let's put out her description."

Karim grabbed his arm.

"What description? A cyclist in the night?" Karim smiled. "But I might have something better than that."

From his pocket, he removed his Glock, which was wrapped up in a plastic bag.

"Her fingerprints are on it"

"She held your gun?"

"She even emptied it over my head. She's quite an original murderess, superintendent. She's carrying out a psychopathic vengeance, but I'm sure she doesn't mean any harm to the rest of humanity."

Niémans threw open the door.

"Go up to the first floor. The Grenoble brigade have brought round a fingerprint analyser. A brand new computer plugged straight into MORPHO. But they can't make it work. So Patrick Astier, one of our technical guys, is helping them. Go and see him – Marc Costes, the forensic pathologist, should be there with him. Take them to one side, tell them your story and ask them to compare the prints with the records on MORPHO."

"What if they don't tell us anything?"

"Then look for the mother. Her evidence is going to be vital."

"I've been looking for her for the last twenty hours, Niémans. She's well hidden somewhere."

"Start all over again. You might have missed something important." Karim bridled.

"I haven't missed anything at all."

"Yes you have. Didn't you say that the little girl's tomb, in your town, has been well looked after? So, someone must go there on a regular basis. Who? Surely not Sophie Caillois. Get an answer to that question, and you'll find the mother."

"I asked the cemetery keeper. He's never seen anybody…"

"Perhaps she doesn't go there herself. Maybe she pays a company of undertakers to do it, I don't know. Find who it is, Karim. Anyway, you're going back there to open the coffin." The Arab shuddered.

"Open the…"

"We have to know what the desecrators were looking for. Or what they found. In it, you'll also find the address of the funeral parlor." He winked in a sinister fashion. "Coffins are like pullovers. The label's on the inside."

Karim swallowed hard. The idea of returning to Sarzac cemetery, of plunging back into that darkness and of descending into that vault was turning his legs to jelly. But Niémans rounded off imperiously:

"First the fingerprints. Then the cemetery. We've got until dawn to find the answers, Karim. Just you and me. And no one else. Then we'll have to go back home and face the music."

The Arab raised his collar.

"What about you?"

"Me? I'm going to try to reach the source of the blood-red rivers. I'll follow up the lead young Eric Joisneau discovered. He found out part of the truth all on his own, before…"

"Before what?"

Niémans's face became ravaged.

"Before Chernecé killed him, just prior to being murdered himself. I found his body in a vat of chemicals in the doctor's cellar. Chernecé, Caillois and Sertys were pieces of shit, Karim. That much I'm sure of. And I reckon Joisneau found out something which pointed in that direction. And it cost him his life. Find the identity of the murderer, and we'll find the motive. You find out who's acting as Judith's ghost. And I'll find out the meaning of the blood-red rivers'."

Without a glance at the other gendarmes, the two men vanished down the corridor.

CHAPTER 45

"Nothing doing, guys, nothing doing…"

"Anyway, we haven't got any prints to go on, so why bother…?"

At the threshold of a tiny room on the first floor, a group of cops was staring in desperation at a computer, topped by a mobile magnifying glass, and connected to a scanner by a network of cables.

Inside the compartment, a tall fair-haired young man, his eyes like saucers, was struggling to fix the parameters of some software. Karim was told that this was Patrick Astier, in person. By his side stood Marc Costes – dark-haired, stooping, with large misted-up specs.

The cops bustled off down the narrow corridor, muttering an assortment of philosophical reflections concerning modern technology's lack of reliability. They paid no attention to Karim.

He went over and introduced himself to Costes and Astier. The three men immediately sensed that they were on the same wavelength. Young and keen, they were so absorbed in this investigation that they were suppressing their own fears. When the Arab had explained what he wanted, Astier could hardly restrain his excitement. He cried out:

"Shit! The killer's fingerprints? Really? We'll get them on the computer straight away."

Karim exclaimed:

"Does it work, then?"

The scientist grinned. A tiny crack in his china-white face.

"Course it does." He waved over at the cops, who were already otherwise occupied. "They're the ones that don't compute."

Astier rapidly opened one of the nickel-plated cases which Karim had noticed in a corner of the room. Kits for revealing latent fingerprints and taking moulds of their traces. The scientist removed a magnetic brush. He slipped on some latex gloves, then dipped the bristles into a box containing ferrous oxide powder. The tiny particles immediately grouped themselves together into a pink ball at the tip of the magnetic brush. Astier grabbed the Glock and ran the instrument over its grip. He then applied a strip of transparent adhesive across it, which was in turn glued onto a sheet of cardboard. The silvery whirls of the fingerprints promptly started to shine out below the translucent plastic.

"Brilliant," Astier exhaled.

He slipped the kit into the scanner, then sat down again in front of the screen. He pushed aside the rectangular magnifying glass and worked on the keyboard. Almost at once, the prints flashed up onto the screen. Astier observed:

"First-class quality prints. We can make a twenty-one point digital analysis. The highest one possible…"

Bright red dots, linked up by sloping lines, appeared above the hills and valleys. The apparatus bleeped like a hospital monitor. As though talking to himself, Astier went on:

"Now let's see what MORPHO comes up with."

It was the first time Karim had seen the system in operation. In professorial tones, Astier explained how MORPHO was a massive computer file containing the fingerprints of criminals from most of the countries of Europe. Via a modem, the software was able to compare any new set of prints with the records almost instantaneously. The hard disc was crackling with activity.

Finally, the computer delivered its answer: negative. The ghost's prints did not match any known delinquents. Karim stood up and sighed. It was what he had been expecting. The murderer was certainly no common criminal. Suddenly, he had another idea. His wild card. From his leather jacket, he produced the cardboard strip which bore the fingerprints of Judith Hérault, taken just after that fatal car accident fourteen years before. He asked Astier:

"Could you scan these prints, too, and make a comparison?"

Astier spun round on his chair and grabbed the card.

"No problem."

The scientist was now sitting bolt upright. He glanced briefly at the new set of prints. He stopped to think for a moment, then raised his hyacinth blue eyes to Karim.

"Where did you get this lot from?"

"From a autoroute station. They belong to a little girl, who was killed in a car accident back in 1982. Who knows? They might be similar, or…"

The scientist cut him off:

"She can't have been killed."

"What?"

Astier slid the card under the glass. The loops and whirls loomed up, glistening, hugely magnified.

"I don't even have to analyse these prints to be able to tell you that they're the same as the ones on the gun. Same transversal peaks, same whirls just below the peaks."

Karim was utterly amazed. Astier moved the magnifying glass on the computer over, so that the two sets of prints were now juxtaposed.

"They're the same," he repeated. "But at two different ages. The ones on your card belong to a child, the ones on the grip to an adult."

Karim stared at the two images and drank in the impossible. Judith Hérault had died in 1982, in the shattered wreck of a car. Judith Hérault, dressed in an oil-skin and a cyclist's helmet, had just emptied his Glock over his head.

Judith Hérault was both dead and alive.

CHAPTER 46

It was time to call up one of his former colleagues.

Fabrice Mosset, one of Paris's finest fingerprint experts, whom Karim had got to know while solving a particularly sordid crime during his training period in the fourteenth arrondissement police station on Avenue du Maine. A brilliant man, who claimed he could spot twins just by glancing at their prints. According to him, the method was as reliable as genetic sampling.

"Mosset? It's Abdouf. Karim Abdouf."

"How's it going? Still buried in your hole?"

A sing-song voice. Light years away from this nightmare. "Yup," Karim murmured. "Except that I've been traveling from one hole to another."

The scientist chuckled.

"Like a mole?"

"Like a mole. Mosset, I've got an apparently insoluble problem for you. Can you give me your opinion? Off the record, and straight away. OK?"

"You're on a case? No problem. Fire away."

"I've got two sets of identical prints. One lot belong to a little girl who died fourteen years ago. The others come from an unknown suspect and were taken today. What do you reckon?"

"You're sure the little girl's dead?"

"Definitely. I questioned the man who held the corpse's arm over the inkpad."

"Then all I can say is that someone made a mistake. You or your colleagues must have slipped up when taking the prints on the scene of the crime. It's impossible for two different people to have the same fingerprints. Ab-so-lu-tely impossible."

"Can't they be members of the same family? Twins? I remember your program and…"

"Only prints belonging to homozygous twins have points in common. And the genetic laws are extremely complex. Millions of different parameters determine the final patterns of the dactylic spirals. It would require an incredible coincidence for two distinct sets to be that similar…"

Karim broke in.

"You got a fax in your place?"

"I haven't gone home yet. I'm still in the lab." He sighed. "There's no peace for the scientific."

"Can I send you my files?"

"Honestly, there's nothing more I can tell you."

The lieutenant remained silent. Mosset sighed again:

"OK. I'll go to the fax. Call me straight back afterward."

Karim left the tiny office where he had taken refuge, sent the two faxes, returned to his den and pressed redial on his phone. Gendarmes were toing and froing. In the general confusion, nobody paid any attention to him.

"Very impressive," Mosset mumbled. "And you're certain that the first card belongs to a dead girl?"

The black-and-white photographs of the accident flashed across Karim's mind. The child's frail limbs emerging from the crushed bodywork. Once again, he saw the face of the old officer who had kept the file.

"Definitely," he replied.

"Then there's been some mix up with the ID mentioned on the file. It happens, you know, we…"

"You don't seem to get it," Karim murmured. "Who cares about the ID? Who cares about the names and the spelling? What I'm telling you is that the hand of a dead child bore the same spirals as the hand that seized my gun tonight. That's all. I don't give a toss about the goddam identity. It's the same hand, I'm telling you!"

There was a pause. A moment of suspense in that electric night, then Mosset burst out laughing.

"Your story's impossible, bud. That's all I can say."

"You used to come up with better ideas than that. There must be an answer!"

"There always is. You know that as well as I do. And I'm sure you'll find out what it is. Ring me back when you do. I like stories with a happy ending. And a rational explanation."

Karim promised to do so, then hung up. Cogs were whirring crazily in his mind.

He bumped into Marc Costes and Patrick Astier again in the corridors of the police station. The forensic pathologist was carrying a leather bag, with diamond stitching, and was looking wan.

"I'm off to the Annecy University Hospital," he explained. He glanced round incredulously at his companion. "We… we've just heard that there are two bodies. Shit! That young cop… Eric Joisneau…he bought it as well. This isn't an investigation any more, it's a goddam massacre."

"I know. I've heard. How long will you need?"

"Till dawn, at the earliest. But another pathologist is already there. Things are heating up."

Karim stared at the doctor whose sharp features made him look both boyish and haughty. He looked frightened, but Abdouf sensed that his own presence reassured him.

"Costes, I've just thought of something…Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"In your first report you talk about the metal cord used by the killer and say it was perhaps a brake cable or a piano wire. Do you think Sertys was killed with the same one?"

"Yes, it was the same. The same texture. The same diameter."

"If it was a piano wire, could you work out which note it was?"

"Which note?"

"Yeah. The note. By measuring the diameter, could you decide which pitch it corresponded to in the musical scale?"

Costes smiled in astonishment.

"I see what you mean. I calculated the diameter. Do you want me to…?"

"You or your assistant. But the note interests me."

"You've got a lead?"

"I don't know."

The forensic pathologist fiddled with his glasses.

"Where can I contact you? Do you have a cell phone?"

"No."

"Now you do."

Astier had just thrust a tiny black, chrome-plated mobile into Karim's hand. The Arab blinked. The scientist smiled.

"I've got two. And I think you'll be needing one in the next few hours."

They exchanged numbers. Marc Costes hurried off. Karim turned toward Astier.

"And what are you going to do now?"

"Not a lot." He opened both of his large empty hands. "I've got nothing for my machines to work on any more."

Karim promptly asked the scientist to help in his own investigation and undertake two missions on his behalf.

"Two missions?" Astier repeated enthusiastically. "As many as you want!"

"First, go and check the list of births in the Guernon University Hospital."

"What are we after?"

"For 23 May 1972, you should find the name of Judith Hérault. See whether she didn't have a twin brother or sister."

"That's the girl with the fingerprints?"

Karim nodded. Astier went on:

"You're wondering if another kid might have exactly the same prints?"

The cop smiled in embarrassment.

"I know. It doesn't hold water. Just do it, anyway."

"And the second mission?"

"The girl's father was killed in a car accident."

"Him too?"

"Yeah, him too. Except that he was on a push-bike and he got run over. It was in August 1980. His name's Sylvain Hérault. Check it out, here in the police station. I'm sure there must be a record of it."

"What are you looking for?"

"The precise circumstances of the accident. He was knocked over by a hit-and-run driver. Go through every detail. There may be something odd about it."

"Meaning…he was killed accidentally on purpose?"

"Yeah, that sort of thing."

Karim turned on his heel. Astier called him back:

"And where are you going?"

He spun round nimbly, looking almost jovial in the face of the coming terror.

"I'm going back to square one."