Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

CHAPTER 11

"An examination of the anterior facet of the thorax revealed large longitudinal incisions, doubtlessly caused by a sharp instrument. Other lacerations made by the same instrument were also found on the shoulders, arms…"

The forensic pathologist was wearing a rumpled calico coat and small glasses. His name was Marc Costes. He was young, with sharp features and vague eyes. Niémans had taken a lilting to him at first sight, for he immediately saw that he was a dedicated investigator, lacking in experience perhaps, but certainly not in enthusiasm. He was reading out his report in a slow, methodical voice:

"…multiple burns: on the torso, shoulders, sides and arms. Approximately twenty-five such marks were located, many of which run into the incisions previously described…"

Niémans butted in:

"Which means?"

The doctor looked up timidly over his spectacles.

"I think the murderer cauterised the wounds with a flame. He seems to have sprinkled small amounts of gasoline over the incisions before setting fire to them. I would say that he must have adapted some sort of aerosol to do the job, perhaps a steam cleaner."

Once more, Niémans started pacing up and down the practical studies room, where he had set up his headquarters, on the first floor of the psychology/sociology building. He had decided to hear out the forensic pathologist in this his sanctuary. Captain Barnes and Lieutenant Joisneau were also present, sitting quietly on their school benches.

"Go on," he ordered.

"Numerous swellings, bruises and fractures were also detected. As many as eighteen bruises can be counted on the torso alone. There are four broken ribs. Both clavicles have been reduced to splinters. Three of the fingers on the left hand, and two on the right hand, have been crushed. The genitalia are blue subsequent to beating.

"The weapon used was undoubtedly an iron or lead bar, approximately three inches thick. It is, of course, vital to distinguish these wounds from those which were caused during the transportation of the body and its being `wedged' into the rock, but such post mortem bruising does not behave in the same way…"

Niémans glanced round at the others: eyes staring, foreheads glowing.

. To move on to the upper part of the body. The face is intact. No visible signs of bruising on the nape…"

The policeman asked:

"No trace of blows to the face?"

"None. It would even seem as though the killer had avoided touching it."

Costes looked down at his report and started reading again, but Niémans cut in:

"One moment. I suppose there's plenty more still to come." Fiddling with his report, the doctor blinked nervously. "Several pages…"

"Right. We can all go through it later on our own. Just tell us the cause of death. Did the wounds you mentioned kill him?"

"No. He was strangled to death. There can be no doubt about that. With a metal wire, of a diameter of about a tenth of an inch. A bicycle brake cable I would say, or a piano wire, a cord of that sort. The cable cut into the flesh over a length of six inches, crushed the glottis, sliced through the muscles of the larynx and cut open the carotid causing a hemorrhage."

"And the time of death?"

"Hard to say. Because of the crouched position of the victim. This piece of gymnastics upset the natural process of rigor mortis and…"

"Just give me an approximate time."

"I would say…after dusk on Saturday evening, between eight o'clock and midnight."

"So Caillois was jumped on the way home from his expedition?"

"Not necessarily. 'In my opinion, he was tortured for quite some time. I reckon that it is more likely that Caillois was captured during the morning. And that the torture session lasted all day."

"In your opinion, did the victim try to defend himself?"

"Impossible to say, because of the large number of wounds. But one thing is certain, he was not knocked out. He was tied up and conscious during the entire proceedings. There are clear marks of straps on his arms and wrists. What is more, given that there is no sign of the victim's being gagged, we can suppose that the torturer was sure that no one would hear what was going on."

Niémans sat down on a window sill.

"About the tortures, were they professional?"

"Professional?"

"Are they methods used in the army? Anything known?"

"I am no specialist, but I would say probably not. They look more to me like the actions of a…a madman. A lunatic who wanted the correct answers to his questions."

"Why do you say that?"

"The killer was trying to make Caillois talk. And Caillois did so."

"How do you know that?"

Costes modestly bowed his head. Despite the temperature in the room, he still had not taken off his parka.

"If the killer had been torturing Rémy Caillois just for sadistic pleasure, then he would have tortured him to death. But, as I have told you, he finished him off in a different way, with a metal wire."

"Any trace of sexual violence?"

"No. Nothing at all of that sort. It is clearly not his department."

Niéman paced along beside the workbench. He was trying to imagine the monster capable of inflicting such torments. He visualised the scene from the outside. He saw nothing. No face, no figure. He then thought of what the tortured man would have seen, when in the throes of suffering and death. He saw savage movements, brown, ochre and red tints. An unbearable storm of blows, fire and blood. What could Caillois's last thoughts have been? He said aloud:

"Tell us about his eyes."

"His eyes?"

The question came from Barnes. His voice had shot up a tone in astonishment. Niémans was good enough to reply:

"Yes, his eyes. Earlier, in the hospital, I noticed that the killer had stolen his victim's eyes. The sockets even seemed to be full of water…"

"Precisely," Costes intervened.

"Tell us everything from the beginning," Niémans ordered.

"The killer operated beneath the eyelids. He slipped a cutting instrument under them, severed the oculomotor muscles and the optical nerve. He then extracted the eyes. After that, he then carefully scratched clean the interior of the two sockets."

"Was the victim dead by then?"

"Impossible to say. But I did notice evidence of hemorrhaging in that region, which could indicate that Caillois was still very much alive."

Silence closed over his words. Barnes was ghostly white; Joisneau as though crystallised by terror.

And then?" Niémans asked to break that feeling of panic, which was rising ever higher.

"Later, when the victim was dead, the killer filled up the sockets with water. From the river, I suppose. Then he carefully closed the eyelids again. Which explains why the eyes were shut and protruding, as though they had not been mutilated in any way."

"Let's get back to the excision. In your opinion, does the killer know about surgery?"

"No. Or, at best, only vaguely. I would say that, as for the torturing, he knows how to apply himself."

"What instruments did he use? The same as for the lacerations?"

"The same sort, in any case."

"What sort?"

"Industrial tools. Carpet cutters."

Niémans stood in front of the doctor.

"Is that all you can tell us? No clues? No obvious lead that arises from your report?"

"No, unfortunately not. The body was thoroughly washed before being wedged into the cliff. It can tell us nothing about the scene of the crime. And even less about the identity of the killer. All we can suppose is that he is strong and dexterous. That is all."

"Which isn't much," Niémans grumbled.

Costes paused for a moment, then went back to his report. "There is just a further detail which hasn't been discussed yet…A detail which has no direct bearing on the crime itself."

The superintendent's ears pricked up.

"Which is?"

"Rémy Caillois had no fingerprints."

"Meaning?"

"That his hands were corroded, worn away to such a point that not a trace of a print was left on his fingertips. Maybe he was burnt in an accident. But the accident must have occurred a long time ago."

Niémans looked questioningly at Barnes, who raised his eyebrows in ignorance.

"We'll check that out," the superintendent said gruffly.

Then he went over to the doctor, so close to him that he brushed against his parka.

"And what is your personal opinion about this murder? What's your feeling? What's your intuition as a medic as regards the torture?"

Costes took off his glasses and rubbed his eyelids. When he put his spectacles back on, his gaze seemed clearer, as though polished bright.

"The murderer carried out some obscure ritual. A ritual which had to finish up with this fetal position in a hollow in a rock. The whole thing seems to have been well worked out, perfectly planned. And so the mutilation of the eyes must be an integral part of it. Then there is the water. The water replacing the eyes under the lids. As though the killer wanted to cleanse and purify the sockets. I am having tests made on that water. Who knows? They might provide us with a clue…some chemical lead."

Niémans brushed these words away with a vague gesture. Costes had spoken of a rite of purification. Since visiting that little lake, the superintendent, too, had had an act of catharsis in mind. They were both thinking along the same lines. Above that lake, the killer had tried to purify that defilement – or perhaps wash away his crime?

Several minutes ticked by. Nobody dared to move. In the end, Niémans opened the door of the room and murmured:

"Back to work. We don't have much time. I don't know what Rémy Caillois was forced to admit. I only hope that it won't lead to any more murders."

CHAPTER 12

Niémans and Joisneau went back to the library. Before going in, the superintendent glanced at the lieutenant. His face was haggard. So, blowing out like an athlete, he slapped him on the back. Young Eric replied with an unconvincing smile.

The two of them entered the main room. An unexpected sight was in store for them. Two regional crime squad officers, as well as a horde of uniformed men in shirt sleeves, had invaded the library and were giving it a thorough search. Hundreds of books were piled up in front of them in columns. Joisneau asked, in astonishment:

"What the hell's going on here?"

One of the officers replied:

"We're only following orders…We're looking out all the books about evil and religious rituals and…"

Joisneau looked across at Niémans. He seemed horrified by this disorderly operation. He yelled at the crime squad:

"But I told you to go through the computer! Not get all the books down from the shelves!"

"We did a computer search, according to title and subject matter. And now we're going through the books looking for clues, or points of similarity with the murder…"

Niémans butted in:

"Did you ask the boarders for advice?"

The officer pulled a face.

"They're all philosophers. They just started bullshitting. The first one told us that the notion of evil was a bourgeois concept, and that we'd have to adopt a more social, or even Marxist approach. So we dropped him. The second one went on about frontiers and transgression. But according to him, the frontier was inside us…our consciences were in constant negotiation with a higher censor and…Well, anyway, it didn't mean much to me. The third one got us going with the Absolute and the quest for the impossible…He told us about mystical experiences, which could take place with either good or evil as the goal. So…I…Well, in fact, we're a bit up to our ears in it, lieutenant."

Niémans burst out laughing.

"Told you so," he whispered to Joisneau. "Never trust an intellectual."

He turned to the confused cop:

"Keep looking. To the key words `evil, `violence, `torture' and `ritual' you can now add `water, `eyes' and `purity. Go through the computer. Above all, dig out the names of the students who consulted this sort of book, or who were working on this sort of subject matter, for their PhDs for example. Who's working on the main computer?"

A broad-backed young man, who was shifting his shoulders about inside his jacket replied:

"I am, superintendent."

"What have you found in Caillois's files?"

"There are lists of damaged books, books to be ordered etc. Then lists of students who use the library and the places where they sit."

"Where they sit?"

"Yup. Caillois's job was to place them all…" He nodded toward the glass carrels. "…in those little boxes over there. He put each seat into his computer's memory."

"You haven't found the thesis he was working on?"

"Yes, I have. A thousand pages about the ancient world and…" He looked at a sheet of paper he had scribbled on. "…Olympia. It's about the first Olympic games and the religious ceremonies that went on around them…Pretty heavy going, I can tell you."

"Print it out and read it."

"Eh?"

Niémans added, ironically:

"Speed-read it, I mean."

The man looked crestfallen. The superintendent immediately went on:

"Nothing else in his machine? No video games? No e-mail?"

The officer shook his head. This came as no surprise to Niémans. He had guessed that Caillois's entire life had been in books. A strict librarian, who allowed just one thing to impinge on his professional responsibilities: the writing of his thesis. What could have been tortured out of such a hermit?

Pierre Niémans turned round to Joisneau:

"Come with me. I want to know where your investigations stand."

They took shelter between two rows of shelving. At the end of the alleyway, an officer in a cap was grappling with a book. Faced with such a sight, the superintendent found it difficult to remain serious. The lieutenant opened his notebook.

"I've questioned several of the boarders and Caillois's two colleagues in the library. Rémy was not very well liked. But he was respected."

"Why was he unpopular?"

"No particular reason. I get the impression that he made people feel uneasy. He was a close, secretive type. He made no effort to communicate with others. And, in a way, it went with the job." Joisneau stared around, almost in fear. "Just imagine it…Spending all day in this library, staying quiet."

"Did anyone mention his father?"

"You know that he was the previous librarian? Yeah, some mention was made of him. Same sort of guy. Silent, impenetrable. It's like a confessional in here, I suppose it must get to you in the end."

Niémans leant back against the books.

"Did anyone say that he died in the mountains?"

"Of course. But there's nothing suspicious about that. The poor guy was swept away by an avalanche and…"

"I know. Do you think anybody could have had it in for the Caillois family, father and son?"

"Superintendent, the victim fetched books from the reserve, filled out slips and gave the students the numbers of their reading desks. Who would want to avenge that? A student who hadn't been given the right edition?"

"OK. What about his climbing?"

Joisneau flicked back through his notebook.

"Caillois was both an excellent climber and a highly experienced hiker. Last Saturday, according to the witnesses who saw him leave, he probably set out for a hike, at about six thousand feet, without any equipment."

"Any hiking friends?"

"None. Even his wife never went with him. Caillois was a loner. Practically autistic."

Niémans then relayed what he had learnt:

"I've been back to the river. And I discovered traces of spits in the rock. I think the killer used a climbing technique to winch up the body."

Joisneau's face went tense.

"Shit, I went up there, too, and I didn't…"

"The holes are inside the cavity. The killer fixed pulleys into the niche, then lowered himself down to act as a counterweight for the body."

"Shit."

On his face was a mixture of bitterness and admiration. Niémans smiled.

"I don't deserve any praise for that. I was helped by a witness. Fanny Ferreira. She's a real pro." He winked. "And a hot number. I want you to investigate further in that direction. Get a complete list of all the experienced climbers and everyone who has access to that sort of equipment."

"We're talking about thousands of people!"

"Get your team mates to help. Ask Barnes. Who knows? Something might turn up. I also want you to deal with the eyes."

"The eyes?"

"You heard forensics, didn't you? The killer made off with his eyes, and was extremely careful about it. I have no idea why he did that. Fetishism, maybe. Or a particular form of purification. Maybe those eyes reminded the killer of something the victim witnessed. Or the weight of a stare which the murderer had become obsessed with. I don't know. It's all a bit vague and I don't like this sort of psychological bullshit. But I want you to shake up the town and pick up anything that may have something to do with those eyes."

"For instance?"

"For instance, find out if, in the town or university, there have been any accidents involving that part of the anatomy. Go through the statements taken by the local brigade over the last few years, and news stories in the local press. Any fights where someone might have got injured. Or else, animals being mutilated. I don't know, just look. And find out if there are any big eye problems, or cases of blindness in this region."

"You really think I'll be able to…"

"I don't think anything," Niémans sighed. "Just do it."

At the end of the row, the uniformed officer was still staring sideways. At last, he dropped his books and made off. Niémans went on in a whisper:

"I also want all of Caillois's comings and goings over the last few weeks. I want to know who he saw, and who he spoke to. I want a list of the phone calls he made, both at home and at work. I want a list of the letters he received. Maybe Caillois knew his murderer. Maybe they even arranged to meet up there."

"What about his wife? Anything interesting?"

Niémans did not' answer. Joisneau added:

"I've heard she's a bit of a handful."

Joisneau put his notebook away. His face had gone back to its usual color.

"I don't know if I should tell you this…what with that mutilated body…and that crazy killer on the loose…"

"But?"

"But, I really feel like I'm learning things working with you."

Niémans was flicking through a book: The Topography and Reliefs of the Isère. He chucked the volume to the lieutenant and concluded:

"Then just pray we learn as much about the killer."

CHAPTER 13

The curled-up profile of the victim. Muscles as tense as ropes under the skin. Blue and black wounds intermittently slicing into the pallid skin.

Back in his office, Niémans was examining the Polaroid photographs of Rémy Caillois.

The face front on. Eyelids open on the black holes of the sockets.

Still in his coat, he thought of what that man had suffered. Of the violent panic that had suddenly arisen in that innocent region.

Without even admitting it to himself, the policeman now feared the worst. Another murder, perhaps. Or, rather, an unpunished crime, swept aside by time and fear, which would help everyone to forget. Rather than to remember.

The victim's hands. Photographed from above, then from below Beautiful delicate hands, opening out onto their anonymous tips. Not the slightest fingerprint. Traces of cuts into the wrists. Granular. Dark. Stony.

Niémans tipped back his chair and leant against the wall. He folded his hands behind his neck and thought over his own words: "Each element in an investigation is a mirror. And the killer is hiding in one of the dead angles." There was one idea that he could not get out of his mind: Caillois had not been chosen by chance. His death was connected to his past. To someone he had once known. To something he had once done. Or to some secret he had learnt.

What?

Since his childhood, Caillois had spent his life in the university library. Then, every weekend, he used to disappear into the airy heights which overlooked the valley. What could he have done or found out to deserve such punishment?

Niémans decided to make a rapid investigation of the victim's past. Instinctively, or by personal predilection, he chose to begin with a detail which had struck him during his questioning of Sophie Caillois.

After a few phone calls, he managed to get through to the 14th Infantry Regiment, which was stationed near Lyons and which was the place where all the young men from that region went for their three days' national service induction. When he had given his name and explained the reason for his call, he was transferred to archives and got them to dig out the file of Rémy Caillois, who had been declared unfit for service during the 1990s. Niémans could make out the furtive tapping of the keyboard, the distant footfalls in the room, then the shuffling of pieces of paper. He asked the clerk:

"Read me the conclusions in his file."

"I don't know if I can…What proof is there that you're really a superintendent?"

Niémans sighed.

"Call the gendarmerie in Guernon. Ask for Captain Barnes and…"

"OK, OK. Here we go, then." He flicked through the pages. "I won't go into any details, the answers to the tests, and all that. The conclusion is that your man was declared unfit, due to 'schizophrenia'. The psychiatrist added a handwritten note in the margin. It says: `Therapy requested', which is underlined. Then, after that: `Contact the Guernon University Hospital'. If you want my opinion, he must really have had a screw loose, because in general we just…"

"Do you have the doctor's name?"

"Of course, it's Dr Yvens."

"Does he still work in your unit?"

"Yes. He's upstairs."

"Put me through to him."

"I…OK. Hang on."

A synthetic fanfare burst from the receiver, then a basso profondo voice boomed out. Niémans introduced himself and explained what he wanted. Doctor Yvens sounded skeptical. He finally asked: "What was the recruit's name?"

"Caillois, Rémy. You discharged him five years ago. Acute schizophrenia. You wouldn't remember him by any chance? If you do, what I'd like to know is whether you think he was acting mad or not."

The voice objected:

"This information is strictly confidential."

"We've just found his body wedged into a rock face. Throat slit. Eyes ripped out. Multiple tortures. Bernard Terpentes, the investigating magistrate, has called me in from Paris to lead the enquiries. He could contact you himself, but I'd rather we didn't waste time. Do you remember…?"

"Yes, I remember," Yvens cut in. "He was sick. Crazy. No doubt about it."

This was, in fact, what Niémans had been expecting, but he was still taken aback by the reply. He repeated:

"So he wasn't putting it on?"

"No. I see play-actors all year. Healthy minds are far more imaginative than sick ones. They come up with the most incredible ideas. The truly sick are easy to spot. They are locked into their madness. Obsessed, consumed by it. Even insanity has its own…logic. Rémy Caillois was sick. A textbook case."

"What form did his madness take?"

"Ambivalent thought processes. Loss of contact with the outside world. Surly silences. The classic symptoms of schizophrenia."

"Doctor, that man was librarian at the University of Guernon. Every day, he was in contact with hundreds of students and…"

The doctor laughed sardonically.

"Madness is a cunning beast, superintendent. It can hide itself from others, slip away under a harmless-looking exterior. You should know that even better than I do."

"But you've just told me that you found him evidently insane?"

"I'm experienced. And, since then, Caillois perhaps learnt to control himself."

"Why did you note: `Therapy requested'?"

"I advised him to go and get help. That's all."

"And did you contact Guernon Hospital yourself?"

"To be honest, I can't remember. His case was an interesting one, but I don't think I told the hospital about him. You know, if the sufferer doesn't…"

"You said `interesting'?"

The doctor breathed deeply.

"He was living in an enclosed world of extreme strictness, in which his personality multiplied. Other people probably thought he was fairly laid back, but he was absolutely obsessed by order and precision. Each of his feelings crystallised into a concrete form, a separate personality. He was a one-man army. A fascinating case."

"Was he dangerous?"

"Definitely."

"And you just let him go."

There was a pause, then:

"Oh, you know, the number of madmen on the loose…"

"Doctor," Niémans went on in a hushed tone. "The man was married."

"Really? Then I pity his wife."

The policeman hung up. These revelations had opened new horizons. And deepened his anxiety.

Niémans decided to pay another little call.

"You lied to me!"

Sophie Caillois tried to push the door shut, but the superintendent's elbow was wedged in the jamb.

"Why didn't you tell me that your husband was sick?"

"Sick?"

"Schizophrenic. According to the specialists, he needed locking up."

"You bastard."

Her lips tight, the young woman tried once more to close the door, but Niémans had no difficulty staying where he was. Despite her lank hair, despite her unravelled pullover, he found that woman more beautiful than ever.

"Don't you understand?" he yelled. "We're looking for a killer. We're looking for a motive. Maybe Rémy Caillois did something or other which might explain his horrible death. Something he might not even have been able to remember. Please…you're the only one who can help me!"

Sophie Caillois opened her eyes wide. All the beauty of her face formed itself into subtle networks of lines and twitched nervously. Particularly her perfectly drawn eyebrows, which had frozen into a splendid, tragic expression.

"You're crazy."

"I have to know about his past…"

"You're crazy."

The woman was trembling. Niémans lowered his eyes despite himself. He took in the shape of her shoulder blades, rising up under the wool of the pullover. Through it, he could make out a twisted, almost shrivelled, bra strap. Suddenly, an impulse led him to grab her wrist and pull up her sleeve. Blue marks covered her forearm. Niémans cried:

"He beat you!"

The superintendent looked away from the dark traces and stared into Sophie Caillois's eyes.

"He beat you! Your husband was sick. He liked hurting people. I'm sure of that. He'd done something wrong. I'm sure you have your suspicions. You haven't told me a tenth of what you know!"

The woman spat in his face. Staggering, Niémans pulled back.

She seized her chance and slammed the door. When Niémans's shoulder charged it once more, a sequence of bolts was clicking shut on the other side. In the corridor, the boarders were staring worriedly at him from their doors.

The policeman kicked the jamb.

"I'll be back!" he yelled.

Silence had descended.

Niémans punched the wood one last time, which gave off a hollow echo, then remained motionless for a few seconds.

The woman's voice, quivering with sobs, came from the other side of the door, as though from a deep pit.

"You're crazy."

CHAPTER 14

"I want a plain-clothes cop on her tail. Call the Grenoble crime squad."

"Sophie Caillois? Why?"

Niémans looked at Barnes. They were both in the main hall of the Guernon gendarmerie. The captain was wearing the standard royal blue sweater with its white lateral stripe. He looked like a sailor.

"That woman's hiding something," Niémans explained. "But you surely don't think that it was her who…"

"No, I don't. But she isn't telling us everything she knows."

Unconvinced, Barnes nodded, then he handed the superintendent a large cardboard box crammed with faxes, documents and rustling carbon paper.

"The first results of our general investigation," he declared. "For the moment, there's not much to write home about."

Oblivious to the surrounding din of bustling gendarmes, Niémans glanced through the files as he strolled back to his office. He inspected the thick wads of carbon copies summing up Barnes's and Vermont's enquiries. Despite the large number of reports and statements, not a single piece of solid evidence had emerged. The procedures, interrogations, searches, fieldwork…had produced nothing. As he entered his glass-walled office, Niémans grumbled to himself. Such a spectacular crime, in such a small town. The superintendent just could not believe that they still had not come up with a serious lead.

He grabbed a chair from behind his metal desk and started reading through it all thoroughly.

The idea of a prowler had led to nothing. The enquiries in prisons, police stations and law courts had all been inconclusive. As for thefts of cars during the previous forty-eight hours, not a single one could be directly associated with the killing. The hunt for murders and other crimes that had occurred during the last twenty years had also drawn a blank. Nobody could remember any other killing which had been so atrocious and so strange, or any other act similar to it. In the town itself, police records contained only a few mountain rescues, petty thefts, accidents, fires etc.

Niémans flicked through the next folder. The systematic questioning of all the hoteliers, via fax, had proved fruitless.

He went on to Vermont's contribution. His men were continuing their search along the banks of the river. For the moment, they had visited only five refuges and there were seventeen of them, according to the map, some of which were perched up on the mountain at an altitude of over nine thousand feet. Did it make any sense to kill someone at such a height? His men had also questioned the nearby country folk. Some of these interviews had already been typed up in the familiar jargon of the gendarmerie. Niémans glanced through them and smiled: if the spelling mistakes and turns of phrase were similar to those of policemen, other expressions were redolent of the army. The men had asked questions in service stations, railway stations and at bus stops. Nothing doing. But rumors were now starting to run rife in the streets and chalets. Why all these questions? Why all these gendarmes?

Niémans laid the file down on his desk. Through the window he saw a patrol that had just returned, their cheeks pink and their eyes glassy from the cold. He made a questioning gesture at Captain Vermont, who answered with a clear shake of his head. Nothing.

For a few seconds, the superintendent watched the uniforms as they went past, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. He was thinking about the two women. One of them was as tough as tree-bark. Her muscles must be full, her skin dark and velvety. A taste of resin and rubbed herbs. The other was frail and bitter. She oozed uneasiness, an aggressiveness mixed with fear, which Niémans found equally fascinating. What was the strange beauty of that bony face hiding? Had Rémy Caillois really beaten her? And how much grief did she really feel at the sight of her mutilated husband, whose body had such suffering written all over it?

Niémans got up and looked through one of the windows. Behind the clouds, above the mountains, the sun was shedding yellow beams, which resembled clear gashes dug out in the dark, swollen flesh of the storm. Below, the superintendent gazed at Guernon's identical gray houses. The polygonal roofs to prevent the snow from piling up. The dark windows, small and square like paintings drowned in shadows. The river which crossed the town and ran alongside the detachment of gendarmes.

The image of the two women filled his mind once again. In each enquiry, the same sensation gripped him. The investigations heightened his senses, giving him a feeling of a thrilling, vibrant courtship. He fell in love only when pursuing criminals: with witnesses, suspects, whores, barmaids…

The brunette or the blonde?

His cell phone rang. It was Antoine Rheims.

"I've just come back from Hôtel-Dieu Hospital."

Niémans had let the morning pass by without even calling Paris. That business at the Parc des Princes was now going to shoot back toward him like an explosive boomerang. The Chief continued:

"The medics are attempting a fifth skin graft to save his face. Because of this, he now has practically no flesh left on his thighs. But that's not all. Three skull fractures. The loss of one eye. And seven facial fractures. Seven, Niémans. His lower jaw has been pushed back into his larynx. Shards of bone have severed his vocal cords. He's in a coma but, come what may, he'll never talk again. The medics say that even a car accident could not have caused so much damage. So what am I supposed to tell them now? And what about the British Embassy? And the media? The two of us have known each other for a long time. And I think we're friends. But I also think that you're a violent maniac."

Niémans's hands started to tremble.

"That hooligan was a murderer," he replied.

"And what does that make you then?"

The cop did not answer. He passed the phone, which was gleaming with sweat, into his left hand. Rheims went on:

"How are your enquiries progressing?"

"Slowly. No leads. No witnesses. It's going to be much harder than we first thought."

"I told you so! When the press catches on that you're in Guernon, they're going to start buzzing about you like flies round shit. Why the hell did I send you there?"

Rheims slammed the phone down. Niémans sat there for a few minutes, his eyes staring into nothingness, his mouth dry. In blinding flashes, his mind played back the violence of the previous night.

His nerves had cracked. He had beaten that murderer in a fit of rage, which had drowned him, had totally wiped out any other idea than the desire to crush, there and then, what he was holding in his hands.

Pierre Niémans had always lived in a world of violence, a universe of depravity, with cruel and savage borders, and he did not fear to walk where danger lurked. On the contrary, he had always sought it out, flattering it, the better to affront and control it. But he was no longer capable of keeping that control. That violence had now invaded him, had entered his very marrow. He was now weak and under its command. And he had not even managed to master his own fears. In some corner of his head, dogs were still howling.

He suddenly jumped. His mobile was ringing again. It was Marc Costes, the forensic pathologist, his voice triumphant:

"Some good news, superintendent. We have a solid piece of evidence. It's about the water we found under the eyelids. I've just received the laboratory report"

"_And?"

"And it doesn't come from the river. Incredible, isn't it? I'm working on the problem with Patrick Astier, a chemist from the specialist branch in Grenoble. He's a real whiz. According to him, the traces of pollution in the water found in the eye-sockets are not at all the same as those found in the river."

"Can you be more precise?"

"The liquid under the eyelids contains H2SO4 and HNO3, that is to say, sulphuric acid and nitric acid. It has a pH of 3. In other words, it's highly acidic. Almost like vinegar. Such a figure is a precious piece of information."

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"I don't want to get technical with you, but sulphuric acid and nitric acid are derivatives of S02, sulphur dioxide, and NO2, nitrogen dioxide. According to Astier, only one sort of industry produces such a mixture of dioxides: power stations which burn lignite. That is to say, an extremely old form of power station. Astier's conclusion is that the victim was killed or transported near just such a place. Find a lignite burner in the region, and you'll have located the scene of the crime."

Niémans stared up at the sky. Its dark scales were glittering in the persistent sunlight, like an immense silvery salmon. Maybe he was at last onto something. He ordered:

"Fax me the composition of that water on Barnes's number.". The superintendent was opening his office door when Eric Joisneau appeared.

"I've been looking for you everywhere. I think I've got some vital information."

Was the investigation at last beginning to take off? The two officers retreated into the room and Niémans closed the door. Joisneau was feverishly grasping his notebook.

"I've discovered that there's a home for young blind kids near Les Sept-Laux. A lot of them apparently come from Guernon. They suffer from a variety of complaints. Cataracts, pigmentary retinitis, color blindness. The number of cases in Guernon is way over the national average."

"Go on. What's the reason for that?"

Joisneau cupped his hands together.

"The valley. The isolation. A medic explained that they are genetic problems. Handed down from one generation to the next, because of a certain amount of inbreeding. It's apparently quite common in isolated areas. A sort of genetic contamination."

The lieutenant tore a page off his pad.

"Look, here's the address of the home. The director, Doctor Champelaz, has made an in-depth study of the phenomenon. I thought that you'd…"

Niémans pointed a finger at Joisneau.

"You go"

The young officer's face brightened.

"You trust me?"

"Yes, I trust you. Now, split."

Joisneau spun round, then, knitting his brows, changed his mind.

"Superintendent, I…Sorry, but why don't you want to question the director yourself? It could be an important lead. Are you onto something better? Or do you think I'll ask more pertinent questions because I'm a local boy? I don't get it."

Niémans leant on the door jamb.

"You're right. I am onto something. But I'll give you a little extra lesson, Joisneau. In an enquiry, external motivations also have a part to play."

"What sort of motivations?"

"Personal ones. I'm not going to that home, because I suffer from a phobia."

"What? Of blind people?"

"No. Of dogs."

The lieutenant looked astonished.

"I don't get it."

"Think about it. Where there are blind folk, there are dogs." Niémans mimed the hunched figure of a blind man being led by an imaginary pooch. "Guide dogs for the blind, follow me? So there's no way I'm setting foot in that place."

With those words, the superintendent left his startled lieutenant.

He knocked on Captain Barnes's office door and opened it at once. The colossus was making separate piles of faxes: answers from hotels, restaurants and garages which were still flooding in. He looked like a grocer going through his stocks.

"Superintendent?" Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Here, I've just received…"

"I know."

Niémans grabbed Costes's fax and glanced through it. It was a list of figures and long words, the chemical composition of the water from the eye-sockets.

"Captain," the officer asked him, "Are there any power stations in the area? One that burns lignite?"

Barnes looked skeptical.

"None that I know of. Maybe to the west…There are several industrial areas in the direction of Grenoble."

"Where could I find out?"

"There is the Isere Industrial Board," Barnes answered. "But, hang on a second, I've got a better idea. This power station must cause a hell of a lot of pollution, I suppose?"

Niémans grinned and showed him the fax covered with figures. "An acid bath."

Barnes was jotting something down.

"Go and see this guy. Alain Derteaux. He's a gardener who owns the tropical greenhouses on the way out of Guernon. He's our pollution expert. A militant ecologist. He knows the origin, the composition and the environmental consequences of the slightest whiff of gas or smoke in the entire region."

Niémans was on his way out when the gendarme called him back. He was holding up his hands, palms turned toward the superintendent. Two massive mitts.

"I was forgetting…I found out about the fingerprint problem. You know, Caillois's hands. He had an accident when he was a kid. He was helping his father repair their little yacht on Lake Annecy and he burnt his hands with some highly corrosive detergent. I contacted the lake authority and they remember all about the accident. Ambulance, hospital, the whole works…We could check it out, but in my opinion we'd be wasting our time."

Niémans turned and grabbed the door handle.

"Thanks, captain." He pointed at the faxes. "Keep up the good work."

"You too," Barnes replied. "And good luck. That ecologist is a real pain in the ass."

CHAPTER 15

“…the entirety of our region has been poisoned and is now dying! Industrial zones have sprung up across the valleys, on the sides of the mountains, in the forests, contaminating the water table, infecting the soil, infiltrating the very air that we breathe…

That's the Isère: gases and poisons at every altitude!"

Alain Derteaux was a wizened man, with a narrow, wizened face. His beard and metallic glasses made him look like an escaped Mormon. Lurking in one of his greenhouses, he was fiddling with some jars which contained cotton wool and loose earth. Niémans butted into the speech, which had got under way as soon as he had introduced himself.

"I'm sorry, but I am in desperate need of some information."

"What? Oh yes, of course…" He looked condescending. "After all, you are a police officer…"

"Do you know of a power station in the area which burns lignite?"

"Lignite? Brown coal?…It's pure poison…"

"Do you know of a place like that?"

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 extend 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.