Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers Read online

  His blood froze in his veins. In the panes, splattered with rain, could be seen the reflection of Chernecé's body, rippling in the sculpted glass. Arms open, feet together, he had been crucified. A martyr reflected in a lake of greenish waters.

  Swallowing back a scream of rage, Niémans looked again at this mirror image and worked out the exact position of the real body. He pushed the window fully open and leant out, gazing up at the top of the facade. The body was suspended just above his head.

  In the blustering rain, Edmond Chernecé had been fixed up against the outer wall, like a ghastly figurehead.

  The superintendent pulled himself back inside, rushed out of that tiny office and leapt up a second staircase of narrow wooden steps, stumbling as he went, until he had reached the attic.

  Another window, another sill, and he was now perched on the gutter, with the closest possible view of the corpse of Dr Edmond Chernecé, deceased. The eyes had gone from the face. The empty sockets were exposed to the rain and the wind. Both arms were wide open and finished in bloody stumps. The body was being maintained in this position by a network of gleaming, twisted wires, which sliced into the chubby sunburned flesh. Beaten by the deluge, Niémans took stock.

  Rémy Caillois.

  Philippe Sertys.

  Edmond Chernecé.

  All the things he was certain about ran through his mind. No: the murders had not been committed by a sexual pervert attracted to some particular type Of face, or anatomy. No: this was not a serial killer, massacring innocent victims according to his crazy whims. This was a rational murderer, someone who stole his victim's biological identity, and who had a precise motive: revenge.

  Niémans let himself drop back down into the attic. The only sound in that house of death was the beating of his heart. He knew that his mission was not over. He realised what the last episode of this nightmare would be. Eric Joisneau's body was somewhere, hidden in that building.

  A few hours before being a victim, Chernecé had been a killer.

  Niémans went through each room, each piece of furniture, each recess. He tore apart the kitchen, the living-room, the bedrooms. He dug up the garden, emptied out a shed that stood under the trees. Then, on the ground floor, he discovered a door that had been covered over with wallpaper. He frantically yanked.it off its hinges. The cellar.

  As he rushed down the stairs, he thought over the sequence of events. If, at eleven o'clock, he had found the doctor in a tee-shirt and shorts, then he must just have finished his ghastly operation – Joisneau's murder. That was why he had unplugged his phone. That was why he had so neatly tidied up his surgery, after having stabbed the young lieutenant, probably with one of those chrome-plated probes which Niémans had spotted in the Chinese pencil-case. That was also why he had put on a clean suit and packed his bags.

  Stupidly, blindly, Niémans had questioned a murderer who was just fresh from his bloody crime.

  In the cellar, the superintendent discovered a set of metal racks, swamped over with cobwebs, containing hundreds of bottles of wine. Dark glass, red wax, yellow labels. He examined every nook and cranny in the cellar, moving aside the barrels, pulling at the metal racks, and sending the bottles crashing onto the floor. The pools of wine started to give off a heady stench.

  Bathed in sweat, screaming and spitting, Niémans at last found a trench, concealed by two iron flaps. He broke open the lock.

  Under these trap doors lay the body of Eric Joisneau, half submerged in some dark corrosive liquid. Around him floated various bottles of acid for unblocking drains. The chemicals had already started their terrible work, soaking up the gases of the body, eating into its flesh, transforming it into flurries of steam, gradually annihilating the biological entity that had once been Eric Joisneau, a lieutenant with the Grenoble brigade. The kid's open eyes seemed to be staring up at the superintendent from the bottom of that terrifying grave.

  Niémans backed off and screamed crazily. He felt his ribs rising up, opening like the struts of an umbrella. He spewed up his guts, his fury, his remorse, grabbing hold of the bottle racks, in a shower of broken glass and rivers of wine.

  He did not know exactly how long he stayed like that. In the fumes of the alcohol. In the rising smoke from the acid bath. But, little by little, the last part of the truth began to form in his mind, like a dark stagnant pond. It had nothing to do with the death of Eric Joisneau. But it cast new light on the murders in Guernon.

  Marc Costes had mentioned the link between the substances associated with each murder: water, ice and glass. Niémans now realised that this was not relevant. What was relevant was how each body had been discovered.

  Rémy Caillois had been found thanks to a reflection in the river.

  Philippe Sertys to' a reflection in the glacier.

  Edmond Chernecé to a reflection in the glass roof.

  The killer had so arranged his victims that their mirror-images were discovered before the real bodies.

  What did that mean?

  Why did the killer put himself out so as to set up this multiplication of appearances?

  Niémans did not know what lay behind this strategy, but he sensed there was a connection between these reflections and the thefts of the eyes and hands, which robbed the bodies of their unique, biological identities. He sensed that all this was part of the same sentence, proclaimed by an implacable judge: the destruction of the entire BEING of the condemned. What, then, had these men done to deserve being reduced to mirror-images, to being deprived of their biological signatures?

  PART VIII

  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 ho
les, 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: n
umber 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.