Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers Read online

  "What information do you have about the corpse? Is it a woman?"

  "No, a man. A young guy. The university librarian, apparently. The body was naked. It bears marks of having been tortured: gashes, lacerations, burns…He seems also to have been strangled."

  Niémans placed his elbow down on the desk. He fiddled with the ashtray.

  "Why are you telling me all this?"

  "Because I'm planning on sending you down there."

  "What? Because of a murder? The boys in the local Grenoble brigade will rumble this killer within a week and…"

  "Don't mess with me, Pierre. You know only too well that things are never as straightforward as they look. I've spoken to the magistrate. And he wants a specialist brought in."

  "A specialist in what?"

  "In murders. And in vice. He suspects a sexual motive. Or something along those lines."

  Niémans stretched his neck toward the lamp and smelt the acrid burning of the halogen.

  "You're holding something back, Antoine."

  "The magistrate's Bernard Terpentes. An old buddy of mine. We're both from the Pyrenees. And, between you and me, he's in a total panic. Plus, he wants to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. Stop any rumors, the media, all that bullshit. The new academic year starts in a few weeks and we've got to wind things up before then. Get the picture?"

  The superintendent stood up and went back to the window. He stared down at the luminous pinpricks of the street-lights and the dark mounds of the park. The violence of the last few hours was still pounding in his temples: the hacking of the machete, the ring road, the chase across Roland-Garros. For the thousandth time, he thought how Rheims's phone call had certainly stopped him from killing someone. He thought about his uncontrollable fits of violence, which blinded his conscience, ripping apart time and space, causing him to commit outrageous acts.

  "Well?" Rheims asked.

  Niémans turned back and leant on the window frame.

  "I haven't been on a case like this for four years now. Why me?"

  "I need someone good. And you know that a central office can pick one of its own men and send him anywhere in France." His huge hands did five-finger exercises in the darkness. "I'm making the most of my little bit of power."

  The officer smiled behind his iron-rimmed glasses.

  "You're releasing the wolf from its cage?"

  "Put it that way, if you want. It'll be a breath of fresh air for you. And I'll be doing an old friend a good turn. And, in the meantime, it'll stop you from beating up on people…"

  Rheims picked up the gleaming pages of a fax that lay on his desk. "The gendarmes' first conclusions. So is it yes, or no?" Niémans went over to the desk and crumpled the roll of paper. "I'll phone you. To get the news from the hospital."

  The superintendent immediately left Rue des Trois-Fontanot and returned home to Rue La-Bruyère in the ninth arrondissement. A huge, almost empty flat, with an old lady's immaculate polished floor. He had a shower, dressed his – superficial – wounds and examined himself in the mirror. A bony, wrinkled face. A gleaming gray crew cut. Glasses ringed with metal. Niémans smiled at his appearance. He wouldn't have liked to bump into himself down a dark alley.

  He stuffed a few clothes into a sports bag, slid a 12-caliber Remington pump-action shotgun in between his shirts and socks, as well as some boxes of cartridges and speedloaders for his Manhurin. Finally, he grabbed his protective bag and folded two winter suits into it, along with a few brightly patterned ties.

  On the way to Porte de la Chapelle, Niémans stopped at the all-night McDonald's on Boulevard de Clichy where he rapidly swallowed two quarter pounders with cheese, without taking his eyes off his car, which was double-parked. Three in the morning. In the ghastly neon light a few familiar ghosts were wandering. Blacks in over-ample clothes. Prostitutes with long dreadlocks. Druggies, bums, drunks. All of them were a part of his previous existence, on the beat. That world which Niémans had had to leave for a well-paid, respectable desk job. For any other cop, a post in a central office was a promotion. For him, it was being put out to grass – plush grass, admittedly, but the move had still mortified him. He took another look at the night hawks that surrounded him. These creatures had been the trees of his personal woodland, where he once roamed, in the skin of a hunter.

  Niémans drove without stopping, headlights full on, ignoring speed traps and limits. At eight a.m., he took the Grenoble exit on the autoroute. He crossed Saint-Martin-d'Hères, Saint-Martin-d'Uriage and headed toward Guernon, at the foot of the Grand Pic de Belledonne. All along the winding road forests of conifers alternated with industrial zones. A slightly morbid atmosphere hung in the air, as always in the countryside when the beauty of the scenery is insufficient to hide its profound loneliness.

  The superintendent drove past the first road signs indicating the university. In the distance, the mountain peaks rose up in the misty light of a stormy morning. Coming out of a bend, he glimpsed the university at the bottom of the valley: its large modern buildings, its fluted blocks of concrete, all ringed off by long lawns. It made Niémans think of a sanatorium the size of a town hall.

  He turned off the main road and drove down into the valley. To the west, he could see vertical streams running into each other, their silvery current beating against the dark sides of the mountains. He slowed down, and shuddered at the sight of that icy water, plummeting down, obscured by clumps of brushwood, then reappearing again, white and dazzling, before vanishing once more…

  Niémans decided to take a short detour. He forked off, drove under a vaulted ceiling of larches and firs, moist from the morning dew, then came across a long plain bordered by lofty black cliffs.

  The officer stopped. He got out of his car and grabbed his binoculars. He took a long look at the scenery. The river had disappeared. Then he realised that when the torrent reached the bottom of the valley it ran on behind the rock face. Gaps in the rock even gave him occasional glimpses of it.

  Suddenly he noticed another detail and focused his binoculars on it. No, his eyes had not deceived him. He went back to his car and shot off toward the ravine. In one of the faults in the rock face he had just spotted a fluorescent yellow cordon, of the type used by the gendarmerie:

  NO ENTRY

  CHAPTER 3

  Niémans continued down the fault, which bordered a winding, narrow path. Soon, he had to stop, as it was no longer broad enough for his car. He got out, slipped under the yellow cordon and reached the river.

  The flow here came to a halt against a natural dam. The torrent, which Niémans was expecting to see boiling over with foam, had turned into a small, limpid lake. As calm as a face from which every sign of anger had just vanished. Farther on, to his right, it set off once more and presumably flowed through the grayish town which could be seen in the pit of the valley.

  But Niémans came to a sudden stop. To his left, a man was already there, crouched over the water. Instinctively, Niémans raised the velcro cover of his holster. This gesture made his handcuffs clink together slightly. The man turned round and his face broke into a smile immediately.

  "What do you think you're doing here?" Niémans asked him point-blank.

  Without answering, the stranger smiled again, got to his feet and dusted off his hands. He was young, with fragile features and fair, brush-like hair. A suede jacket and pleated trousers. In a clear voice, he riposted:

  "And you?"

  This insolence astonished Niémans. He gruffly declared:

  "Police. Didn't you see the cordon? I hope for your sake you've got a good reason to be here, because…"

  "Eric Joisneau, from the Grenoble brigade. I'm here as a scout. Three more officers will be arriving later today."

  Niémans joined him on the narrow bank.

  "Where are the orderlies?" he asked.

  "I told them to take a break. For breakfast." He shrugged carelessly. "I had work to do here. And I wanted some peace and quiet…Superintendent Niémans."


  The gray-haired officer twitched. The young man went on imperviously:

  "I recognised you at once. Pierre Niémans. The ex-star of the anti-terrorist squad. The ex-head of the vice squad. The ex-hunter of killers and dealers. The ex of a lot of things, in fact…"

  "Do inspectors always give so much lip these days?"

  Joisneau bowed ironically:

  "Sorry, superintendent. I was just trying to take the shine off the star. You know you're an idol, don't you? The 'supercop' all young inspectors dream of becoming. Are you here for the murder?"

  "What do you reckon?"

  The officer bowed once again.

  "It'll be an honor to work with you."

  Niémans looked down at the glittering surface of the smooth waters, which shimmered at his feet, as though crystallised in the morning light. A glow of jade seemed to rise up from the depths.

  "So, tell me what you know about this business."

  Joisneau glanced up toward the rock face.

  "The body was wedged up there."

  "Up there?" Niémans repeated, staring at the wall of rock, whose sharp contours cast jagged shadows.

  "Yes, fifty feet up. The killer stuffed the body into one of the crevices in the rock face. Then maneuvered it into a weird position."

  "What sort of position?"

  Joisneau bent his legs, raised his knees and crossed his arms over his torso.

  "The fetal position."

  "Original."

  "Everything's original about this case."

  "I was told there were wounds and burns," Niémans went on. "I haven't seen the body yet. But I have heard that there are multiple traces of torture."

  "Was the victim tortured to death?"

  "Nothing is certain for the moment. There are also deep marks on his throat. Signs of strangulation."

  Niémans turned back toward the little lake. In it, he clearly saw his own reflection – cropped head and blue coat.

  "What about here? Have you found anything?"

  "No. I've been hunting for a clue, a detail, for the last hour. Nothing doing. I reckon the victim wasn't killed here. The murderer just stuffed the body up there."

  "Have you been up inside the crevice?"

  "Yes. Nothing to report. The murderer must have climbed up onto the top of the rock face from the other side, then lowered the body down on a rope. He then went down on another rope and wedged his victim inside. It can't have been easy getting him into that dramatic posture. I can't figure it out."

  Niémans looked once more at that ruggedly uneven cliff, stuck with ridges. From where he was standing, it was impossible to gauge the distances, but it looked as if the crevice where the body had been found was halfway up the face, as far from the ground as it was from the top. He spun round.

  "Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "The hospital. I want to see the body."

  The naked man, uncovered only down to his shoulders, lay on his side on a gleaming table. He was huddled up, as though frightened of being struck in the face by lightning. Shoulders hunched, head down, the body still had its two fists clenched under its chin, between its bent knees. The skin was white, muscles protruding, the epidermis dug with wounds which gave the corpse an almost unbearable reality. The neck bore long lacerations, as though someone had tried to rip open its throat. Puffed up veins stood out in its temples, like swollen streams.

  Niémans glanced up at the other men present in the morgue. Bernard Terpentes, the investigating magistrate, spindly with a pencil moustache; Captain Roger Barnes, a colossus, swaying like a merchant ship, who was in charge of the Guernon gendarmerie; René Vermont, another gendarme captain on special mission, a small balding man with a wine-red complexion and bright beady eyes. Joisneau, who was standing back from the rest, looked every inch the zealous student.

  "Do we know his ID?" Niémans asked no one in particular.

  Barnes took a soldierly step forward and cleared his throat.

  "The victim's name is Rémy Caillois, superintendent. He was twenty-five years of age. He had been chief librarian at the University of Guernon for the last three years. The body was officially identified by his wife, Sophie Caillois, this morning."

  "Had she reported him missing?"

  "Yes, yesterday at the end of the afternoon. Her husband had set out the day before on a trek in the mountains, in the direction of the Pointe du Muret. Alone, as he did every weekend. He would sometimes sleep out in one of the refuges. That's why she wasn't worried. Until yesterday afternoon…"

  Barnes fell silent. Niémans had just uncovered the corpse.

  There was a sort of unspoken horror, a silent scream that stuck in their throats. The victim's abdomen and thorax were riddled with dark wounds of various shapes and depths. Incisions with violet edges, rainbow-colored burns, black clouds of soot. There were also shallower lesions on the arms and wrists, as though the man had been strapped up with a cable.

  "Who found the body?"

  "A young woman…" Barnes peered down at his papers, then proceeded. "Fanny Ferreira. A lecturer at the university."

  "In what circumstances did she find it?"

  Barnes cleared his throat once more.

  "She's a sportswoman who goes white-water rafting. You know, you descend the rapids on a board, wearing a wetsuit and flippers. It's a highly dangerous sport and…"

  "And?"

  "She wound up just beyond the natural dam in the river, at the foot of the rock face that borders the campus. When she climbed up onto the parapet, she spotted the body wedged into the cliff."

  "And that's what she told you?"

  Barnes looked uncertainly around the room.

  "Well, yes, I…"

  The superintendent completely uncovered the body. He paced around that livid, hunched-up creature, whose closely cropped scalp stuck out like a stone arrow.

  Niémans grabbed the death certificate, which Barnes had handed him. He glanced over the typed text. It had been written by the head of the hospital in person. The doctor made no pronouncement concerning the time of death. He simply described the visible wounds and concluded that death had been caused by strangulation. For further information, it would be necessary to unfold the body and perform an autopsy.

  "When will forensics be here?"

  "Any minute now."

  The superintendent approached the victim. He leant down and examined his facial features. He was young, rather handsome, his eyes closed and, most importantly, there was no sign of any blows to the face.

  "Has anyone touched his face?"

  "No one, superintendent."

  "So his eyes were closed?"

  Barnes nodded. With his thumb and index finger, Niémans gently opened one of the victim's eyelids. Then the impossible happened: a gleaming teardrop slowly fell from the right eye. The superintendent started up in disgust. The face was crying.

  Niémans scrutinised the others. No one else had noticed this extraordinary detail. He kept his calm and, still out of sight of the others, looked again. What he saw proved that he had not gone mad and that this murder was what every policeman dreads or longs for throughout his career, according to his character. He stood back up and swiftly covered the body once more. Then he whispered to the magistrate:

  "Tell us how the investigations are to proceed."

  Bernard Terpentes rose to his full height.

  "Well, gentlemen, you understand how this business may turn out to be difficult and…unusual. Which explains why the public prosecutor and I have decided to call in the local Grenoble brigade and also the gendarmerie rationale. I have also called in Superintendent Niémans, here present, from Paris. I am sure his name is not unknown to you. The superintendent is currently part of a high-ranking section of the Paris vice squad. For the moment, we know nothing about the motive for this murder, but it may well be a sexual one. And it is clearly the work of a maniac. Niémans's experience will be of great use to us. Which is why I should like him to lead this i
nvestigation…"

  Barnes agreed with a swift nod of his head, Vermont likewise, but less enthusiastically. As for Joisneau, he answered:

  "That's fine as far as I'm concerned. But my fellow officers will soon be here and…"

  "I'll put them right," Terpentes cut in. He turned toward Niémans.

  "Well, superintendent?"

  The whole business was starting to get on Niémans's nerves. He longed to be out of there, getting on with the investigation and, above all, alone.

  "How many men do you have, Captain Barnes?" he asked. "Eight. No…I mean, nine."

  "Are they used to questioning witnesses, collecting evidence, organising road-blocks?"

  "Um, well…that's not the sort of thing we…"

  "What about you, Captain Vermont? How many men do you have?"

  The gendarme's voice cracked out like a ten-gun salute: "Twenty. And experienced, all of them. They'll fine-toothcomb the area around where the body was found and…"

  "Fine. I suggest that they also question everybody who lives near the roads leading to the river, that they call into service stations, railway stations, houses beside bus stops…Young Caillois sometimes slept in refuges when out trekking. Find them and search them. Maybe he was kidnapped in one."

  Niémans turned toward Barnes.

  "Captain, I want you to put out a request for information across the entire region. By noon, I want a complete list of all the area's prowlers, petty crooks, tramps and what have you. I want you to check who's just been released from prison in a two-hundred-mile radius. Thefts of cars and thefts of any kind. I want you to ask questions in hotels and restaurants. Fax them a questionnaire. I want to know the slightest strange occurrence, the slightest suspect arrival, the slightest indication. I also want a list of all the events that have occurred here in Guernon over at least the last twenty years which may or may not have something to do with this business."

  Barnes noted each request on his pad. Niémans turned to Joisneau:

  "Get hold of the Special Branch. Ask them for a list of the cults, gurus and other similar nut cases in this region."