4

‘Mademoiselle Berg, I will not hide the fact that I am puzzled as to why Dr Wargnier insisted on hiring you. What I mean is, clinical psychology, genetic psychology, Freudian theory – all this … hotchpotch. On balance, I would have preferred even the Anglo-Saxon clinical method.’

Dr Francis Xavier was sitting behind a big desk. He was a small man, still young, very well groomed; his hair was dyed, and he wore extravagant red glasses; beneath his lab coat was a tie with an exuberant floral pattern. He spoke with a slight Quebecois accent.

Diane let her gaze wander over to the DSM-IV, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published by the American Psychiatric Association, the only book on his desk. She frowned slightly. She did not like the way the discussion was going, but she waited for the little man to finish showing his hand.

‘Please understand, I am a psychiatrist. And – how to put it? – I cannot see what purpose you might serve for our establishment … No offence intended…’

‘I … I am here in order to perfect my knowledge and training, Dr Xavier. Dr Wargnier must have explained this to you. Moreover, before he left, your predecessor hired me as his assistant and gave his approval to my absence – sorry, my presence here. He made a commitment to the University of Geneva on behalf of this establishment. If you were against my coming, you might have let us know before—’

‘In order to perfect your knowledge and training?’ Xavier pinched his lips slightly. ‘Where do you think you are? Some university department? The murderers who are waiting for you at the end of these corridors,’ he said, pointing to the door of his office, ‘are even more horrific than the worst creatures ever to haunt your nightmares, Mademoiselle Berg. They are our nemesis. Our punishment for having killed God, for having created societies where evil has become the norm.’

This last sentence seemed a touch grandiloquent to her. As did everything else about Dr Xavier. But the way in which he had said it – with a curious mixture of fear and delight – made her shudder. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. He’s afraid of them. They come to haunt him at night when he’s asleep, or perhaps he can hear them screaming from his room.

She stared at the unnatural colour of his hair and was reminded of the character Gustav von Aschenbach in Death in Venice, who dyes his hair, eyebrows and moustache for the sake of a beautiful young man he has seen on a beach and to delude himself about the approach of death. And never realises how desperate and pathetic his efforts really are.

‘I am an experienced forensic psychologist. I have seen over a hundred sex offenders in three years.’

‘And how many murderers?’

‘One.’

He flashed her a mean little smile, then looked again at her file.

‘Degree in psychology, master of advanced studies in clinical psychology from the University of Geneva,’ he recited, his red glasses sliding down his nose.

‘I worked for four years for a private psychotherapy and forensic psychology practice. I was entrusted with civil and criminal evaluations for the judicial authorities. It’s there on my CV.’

‘Any internships in penal institutions?’

‘An internship with the medical services at Champ-Dollon Prison, as a joint expert for forensic examinations, and the supervision of sex offenders.’

‘International Academy of Law and Mental Health, Geneva Association of Psychologists-Psychotherapists, Swiss Society of Forensic Psychology … Good, good, good…’

He let his gaze settle upon her again. She had the unpleasant impression she was facing a jury.

‘There is just one thing … You absolutely do not have the experience required for this type of patient: you are young; you still have a great deal to learn; you could – completely unintentionally, of course, through your inexperience – ruin everything we have been trying to accomplish. Which could turn out to be an additional source of distress for our clientele.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am sorry, but I must ask you to refrain from any contact with our seven most dangerous residents, the ones in Unit A. And I do not need an assistant; I already have the head nurse to assist me.’

She was silent for so long that he eventually raised an eyebrow. When she spoke, her voice was calm but firm.

‘Dr Xavier, the reason I am here is those men in Unit A. Dr Wargnier must have told you that. You must have our correspondence in your files. The terms of our agreement are perfectly clear: not only did Dr Wargnier authorise me to see the seven inmates in Unit A, he also asked me to compile a report once my interviews were completed, particularly in the case of Julian Hirtmann.’

She could see him bristle. His smile vanished.

‘Mademoiselle Berg, Dr Wargnier is no longer in charge of this establishment. I am.’

‘In that case, I have no business here. I will have to refer the matter to your regulatory authority, and to the University of Geneva. And Dr Spitzner. I have come a long way, Doctor. You might have spared me this useless journey.’

She stood up.

‘Mademoiselle Berg, now, please!’ said Xavier, sitting up and spreading his hands. ‘Don’t get carried away! Sit down, sit down, please! You are welcome here. Do not misunderstand me: I have nothing against you. I am sure you will do your best. And who knows? Perhaps … perhaps another point of view, a – shall we say – “interdisciplinary” approach could contribute to our understanding of these monsters. Yes, yes – why not? All that I ask of you is not to have any more contact than is absolutely necessary, and to adhere strictly to the internal regulations. The tranquillity of our institute depends upon a fragile equilibrium. The security measures here may be ten times more stringent than in any other psychiatric institution, but any breach of protocol could have incalculable consequences.’

Francis Xavier got up and walked round the desk.

He was even shorter than she had thought. Diane was five foot five and Xavier was clearly the same height – allowing for his heel-pieces. The immaculate white lab coat floated on him.

‘Come with me. I will show you around.’

He opened a cupboard. Lab coats hanging all in a row. He took one and handed it to Diane. She caught a whiff of washing powder, and something musty.

He brushed against her. He laid his hand on Diane’s arm; his nails were, she saw, very well groomed, perhaps too well groomed.

‘They are truly terrifying individuals,’ he said smoothly, looking her in the eyes. ‘Forget what they are, forget what they have done. Concentrate on your work.’

She remembered Wargnier’s words on the telephone: he had said virtually the same thing.

‘I’ve already dealt with sociopaths,’ she objected, but her voice lacked confidence, for once.

A strange look flashed briefly through his red glasses.

‘None like these ones, mademoiselle. None like these ones.’

*   *   *

White walls, white floor, white neon lights … Like most people in the West, Diane associated the colour with innocence, candour and virginity. And yet there were vile murderers living in the midst of all this whiteness.

‘Originally, white was the colour of death and mourning,’ said Xavier, as if reading her thoughts. ‘This is still the case in the East. White is also a limit value – like black. Finally, it is the colour which is associated with rites of passage. This is a rite of passage for you at this moment, wouldn’t you say? But I am not the one who chose the décor – I’ve only been here for a few months.’

Steel gates slid open and closed as they passed through; electronic locks clunked in the thickness of the walls. Xavier’s short figure strode ahead.

‘Where are we?’ she asked, counting the closed-circuit cameras, the doors, the emergency exits.

‘We are leaving the administration offices to enter the actual psychiatric unit. This is the first security barrier.’

Diane watched as he inserted a magnetic card into a box fitted on the wall, which read the card and spat it back out. The metal gate opened. On the far side was a glass cubicle, where two guards in orange boiler suits sat under the electronic surveillance screens.

‘At present we have eighty-eight patients who are considered dangerous, capable of committing acts of violence. Our clientele have been sent here from penal institutions and other psychiatric establishments in France, but also from Germany, Switzerland, Spain … These individuals have mental health issues, compounded with delinquency, violence and criminality. Patients who turned out to be too violent to stay in the hospitals that had initially taken them in, detainees whose psychosis is too severe to be treated in prison, or murderers who have been ruled irresponsible by the courts. Our clientele requires a highly qualified staff, and an infrastructure that will guarantee both their security and that of the staff and visitors. We are in Ward C at the moment. There are three levels of security: low, medium and high. This is a low-level area.’

Diane raised an eyebrow every time Xavier talked about the clientele.

‘The Wargnier Institute has shown itself to be uniquely competent in the treatment of aggressive, dangerous, violent patients. Our practice is founded on the highest, most modern standards. In the initial stages we carry out a psychiatric and criminological evaluation, which includes, in particular, fantasy analysis and plethysmography.’

She started. Plethysmography consisted of measuring a patient’s reactions to audio and video stimuli showing a variety of scenarios and partners, such as the sight of a naked woman or child.

‘You are using aversion therapy with subjects who are shown to have deviant profiles when they are subjected to the plethysmographic test?’

‘Precisely.’

‘It’s not as if aversive plethysmography has received unanimous approval,’ she said.

‘Here it works,’ answered Xavier firmly.

She felt him stiffen. Whenever anyone spoke of aversion therapy, Diane thought of A Clockwork Orange. Aversion therapy meant associating a recording of a deviant fantasy – visions of rape, naked children and so on – with very unpleasant or even painful sensations: electric shock or inhaling ammonia, for example, instead of the pleasant sensations the patient usually associated with the fantasy. Systematic repetition of the experience was supposed to produce a lasting change in the subject’s behaviour. A sort of Pavlovian conditioning, in other words, as tested on sex abusers and paedophiles in certain countries, like Canada.

Xavier was playing with the button of the pen sticking out of his chest pocket.

‘I know that many practitioners in this country are sceptical about the behaviour therapy approach. It is a practice that has its roots in the Anglo-Saxon countries and the Pinel Insitute in Montreal, which is where I came from. We have obtained remarkable results. But obviously your French colleagues find it difficult to acknowledge such an empirical method, particularly one from the other side of the Atlantic. They fault it for overlooking such fundamental notions as the unconscious, the superego and the implementation of impulses in repression strategies…’

Behind his glasses his eyes were gazing at Diane with an exasperating indulgence.

‘Many people in this country still favour an approach that takes the findings of psychoanalysis into greater consideration, which involves reshaping the deepest layers of a personality. In so doing they overlook the fact that the total absence of guilt or emotion displayed by major psychopathic perverts will always cause their efforts to fail. With this type of patient, only one thing works: reconditioning.’ His voice flowed over the word like a stream of icy water. ‘One must make the subject responsible for his treatment, thanks to an entire range of rewards and punishments, and thus create conditioned behaviour. We also conduct risk assessments at the request of the judicial or medical authorities,’ he continued, stopping outside yet another door made of Securit glass.

‘Haven’t the majority of studies shown that most of these assessments do not serve much purpose?’ asked Diane. ‘Some of them maintain that, half the time, psychiatric risk assessments are wrong.’

‘So they say,’ conceded Xavier. ‘But more often than not it turns out the risk has been overevaluated. If there is any doubt, in our evaluation report we systematically advise continuing detention or prolonging hospitalisation. And then,’ he added, with a smile of absolute fatuousness, ‘these evaluations correspond to a deeply rooted need in our societies, Mademoiselle Berg. The courts ask us to resolve a moral dilemma in their place, a dilemma which in all truth no one is capable of resolving: how can one be sure that the measures taken with regard to a particular dangerous individual will meet the needs required for the protection of society, and yet not infringe upon the basic rights of that individual? No one has an answer to this question. Therefore the courts pretend to believe that psychiatric evaluations are reliable. No one is fooled, of course. But it allows the judicial machine, which is constantly threatened with obstruction, to go on turning, while maintaining the illusion that judges are wise people and that they make informed decisions – something which, I might add in passing, is the greatest lie of all the lies on which our democratic societies are founded.’

A new black box was fitted into the wall, much more sophisticated than the previous one. It contained a little screen and sixteen buttons for typing a code, as well as a large red sensor where Xavier now placed his right index finger.

‘Obviously, we don’t have this type of problem with our residents. They have given ample proof of their dangerousness. This is the second security barrier.’

There was a little glassed-in office on the right. Once again Diane saw two figures behind the glass; she was sorry to see Xavier walk right by them without stopping. She would have liked him to introduce her to the rest of the staff. But she was already convinced he would do nothing of the sort. The two men watched through the glass as she went by. Diane suddenly wondered what sort of welcome she would have. Had Xavier spoken about her to anyone? Was he insidiously planning to make life difficult for her?

For a fraction of a second she indulged in a nostalgic memory of her student room, her friends at the university, her office in the department … Then she thought of someone. She felt a flush come to her cheeks, and hastened to consign the image of Pierre Spitzner to the deepest recesses of her mind.

*   *   *

Servaz looked at himself in the mirror in the flickering glow of the neon light. He was wan. He leaned with both hands on the chipped edge of the sink and tried to breathe calmly. Then he bent down and splattered cold water onto his face.

His legs could hardly hold him; he had the strange sensation he was walking on soles filled with air. The return journey by helicopter had been a rough one. The weather had taken a definite turn for the worse and Captain Ziegler had to keep a tight grip on the controls. Battered by the gusting wind, the chopper had made its descent swaying from side to side like a life raft on a raging sea. The moment the skids touched the ground, Servaz rushed to the toilets to throw up.

He turned round, his thighs pressed against the row of sinks. Graffiti profaned some of the stall doors: ‘Bib the King of the Mountain’ (the usual boasting). ‘Sofia is a bitch’ (followed by a mobile telephone number). ‘The manager is a filthy bastard’ (a lead?). Then a drawing of several small Keith Haring-like characters, buggering each other in single file.

Servaz took out the small digital camera that Margot had given him for his most recent birthday, went over to the doors and photographed them one by one.

Then he went back out and along the corridor to the foyer.

Outside it had started snowing again.

‘Feeling better?’

He detected sincere indulgence in Irène Ziegler’s smile.

‘Yes.’

‘Why don’t we go and question the workers?’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather interrogate them on my own.’

He saw Captain Ziegler’s lovely face go blank. He could hear Cathy d’Humières speaking to the journalists outside: stereotypical fragments, the usual bureaucratic style.

‘Have a look at the graffiti in the toilets and you’ll understand why,’ he said. ‘There are things they might be more likely to reveal in the presence of a man … things they’d keep silent about if a woman were present.’

‘Fine. But don’t forget that there are two of us on this investigation, Commandant.’

*   *   *

The five men watched as he came in, their gazes filled with a mixture of anxiety, weariness and anger. Servaz remembered they’d been held in this room since morning. Clearly someone had brought them food and drink. Scattered over the large conference table were empty cups, full ashtrays and the remains of pizza and sandwiches. Their stubble had grown and they were as hairy as castaways on a desert island, except for the cook – a fellow with a shiny bald head and earlobes pierced with multiple rings.

‘Hello,’ said Servaz.

No answer. But they sat up imperceptibly. In their eyes he could see they were surprised by his appearance. They’d been told a commandant from the crime unit was coming, yet there before them was a man who could be a teacher or a journalist, a fit forty-something, his cheeks covered in stubble, wearing a velvet jacket and worn jeans. Servaz shoved to one side a pizza box smudged with grease and a plastic cup with cigarette butts floating in a puddle of coffee. Then he sat on the edge of the table, ran a hand through his brown hair and turned to them.

He inspected them closely. One by one. Lingering each time for a few tenths of a second. They all lowered their eyes – except for one.

‘Who saw it first?’

A man sitting in a corner of the room raised his hand. He was wearing a short-sleeved sweatshirt with the logo ‘University of New York’ over a checked shirt.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Huysmans.’

Servaz took his notebook from his jacket.

‘Tell me what you saw.’

Huysmans sighed. His patience had been sorely tested over recent hours, and he was not a particularly patient person by nature. He had already told his story at least half a dozen times, so this time his delivery was somewhat mechanical.

‘You came back down without setting foot on the platform. Why was that?’

Silence.

Finally the man who had just spoken confessed, ‘Fear. We were afraid the guy might still be somewhere nearby – or hiding in the tunnels.’

‘What makes you think it’s a man?’

‘Can you picture a woman doing something like that?’

‘Have there been any quarrels or disagreements among the workers?’

‘It’s like everywhere,’ said another man. ‘Drunken brawls, stuff about women, some guys just don’t get along. That’s all.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Servaz.

‘Gratien Etcheverry.’

‘Life up there must be pretty tough, no?’ said Servaz. ‘The danger, the isolation, living one on top of the other – it must create tension.’

‘The men who get sent up there have their heads screwed on, Commissaire. The manager must have told you. If they don’t, they stay down here.’

‘It’s commandant, not commissaire. Still, when it’s stormy, with the bad weather and everything, you could easily blow a fuse, right?’ he insisted. ‘I’ve been told it’s really hard to get to sleep at that altitude.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Can you explain it to me?’

‘The first night you’re so knackered from the altitude and the work that you sleep like a log. But then you start sleeping less and less. The last nights maybe only two or three hours at the most. It’s the mountain that does it. We catch up at the weekend.’

Servaz looked at them again. Some of them were nodding in agreement.

He stared at these tough men, guys who’d never had any higher education and made no claims on genius; nor had they gone after easy money; no, they went about wordlessly carrying out a thankless task in the public interest. The men were roughly his age – between forty and fifty; the youngest might have been thirty. He was suddenly ashamed about what he was doing. Then he caught the cook’s fleeting gaze again.

‘Did this horse mean anything to any of you? Did you know it? Had you ever seen it?’

They stared back at him, astonished, then slowly shook their heads.

‘Have there already been accidents up there?’

‘Several,’ said Etcheverry. ‘The last one was two years ago: a guy lost his hand.’

‘What is he doing now?’

‘He works down here, in the office.’

‘His name?’

Etcheverry hesitated. He turned red. He looked at the others, embarrassed.

‘Schaab.’

Servaz figured he would have to find out more about this Schaab: a horse loses his head/a worker loses his hand …

‘Any fatal accidents?’

Etcheverry shook his head again.

Servaz turned to the eldest. A sturdy bloke in a short-sleeved T-shirt that enhanced his muscular arms. He was the only one, along with the cook, who hadn’t spoken yet – and the only one who hadn’t lowered his gaze when Servaz looked at them. Moreover, a gleam of defiance showed in his pale eyes. A flat, wide face. A cold gaze. Narrow-minded, incapable of nuance, won’t tolerate uncertainty, thought Servaz.

‘Are you the one who’s been here the longest?’

‘Yup,’ said the man.

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘Up there or down here?’

‘Both.’

‘Twenty-three years up there. Forty-two in all.’

A flat voice, with no inflection. Smooth as a mountain lake.

‘What is your name?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m the one asking the questions, right? So, what’s your name?’ said Servaz, equalling the man’s offhand manner.

‘Tarrieu,’ barked the man, annoyed.

‘You’re how old?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘How well do you all get along with management? You can speak openly: it will go no further than these walls. In the toilet just now I saw some graffiti saying, “The manager is a bastard.”’

Tarrieu made a face that was half scornful, half amused.

‘That’s true. But if this were some sort of revenge, he’s the one we would have found up there. Not that horse. Don’t you think, Officer?’

‘Who said anything about revenge?’ retorted Servaz in the same tone. ‘You want to conduct this investigation for me? You want to join the force?’

There was some sniggering. Servaz watched as Tarrieu’s face flushed bright red, like a cloud of ink spreading through water. Clearly the man was capable of violence. But to what degree? That was the eternal question. Tarrieu opened his mouth to reply, then at the last minute thought better of it.

‘No,’ he said at last.

‘Are any of you familiar with the riding academy?’

The cook with the earrings raised his hand awkwardly.

‘Your name?’

‘Marousset.’

‘You go horse-riding, Marousset?’

Tarrieu spluttered with laughter; the others copied him. Servaz felt his anger welling up.

‘No … I’m the cook … From time to time I go to lend a hand to Monsieur Lombard’s cook, at the chateau … when they have parties – birthdays, Bastille Day … The stables are just next door.’

Marousset had big, pale eyes with pupils no bigger than the head of a pin. And he was sweating profusely.

‘So had you already seen that horse?’

‘I’m not interested in horses. Maybe … There are loads of horses over there…’

‘And do you see Monsieur Lombard very often?’

Marousset shook his head.

‘I go there just once a year … maybe twice … and I hardly leave the kitchen…’

‘But you’ve spotted him now and again, all the same, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he come to the plant at all?’

‘Lombard, here?’ said Tarrieu sarcastically. ‘For Lombard this plant is a grain of sand. Do you look at every blade of grass when you mow the lawn?’

Servaz turned to the others. They confirmed this with a slight nod.

‘Lombard doesn’t live round here,’ continued Tarrieu in the same provocative tone. ‘Paris, New York, the Caribbean, Corsica … He doesn’t give a damn about this plant. He only keeps it because it said in his old man’s will that he had to hang on to it. But he really doesn’t give a toss.’

Servaz nodded. He wanted to say something biting. But what would be the point? Perhaps Tarrieu had his reasons. Perhaps one day he’d had a run-in with some incompetent or bent copper. People are icebergs, he thought. Beneath the surface there’s this enormous mass of the things they don’t tell you, a mass of pain and secrets. No one is really what they seem.

‘Can I give you some advice?’ said Tarrieu suddenly.

Servaz froze, on the defensive. But his tone had changed: the hostility was gone, and along with it the wariness and sarcasm.

‘I’m listening.’

‘The watchmen,’ said the senior man. ‘Rather than wasting your time with us, you’d do better to question the watchmen. Shake them up a bit.’

Servaz gave him an intense look.

‘Why?’

Tarrieu shrugged.

‘You’re the cop here,’ he said.

*   *   *

Servaz went down the corridor and out through the swing doors, moving abruptly from an overheated atmosphere to the icy chill of the foyer. Flashbulbs were popping outside, flooding the foyer with their brief glow, casting large, menacing shadows. Servaz saw Cathy d’Humières climbing into her car. Night was falling.

‘Well?’ asked Ziegler.

‘They probably have nothing to do with it, but I want an additional background check on two of them. The first is Marousset, the cook. The other one is called Tarrieu. And then someone called Schaab: the guy who lost his hand in an accident last year.’

‘And why the other two?’

‘Just checking.’

He pictured Marousset’s gaze again.

‘I want to get in touch with the drug unit as well, see if they don’t have a file on the cook.’

Captain Ziegler gave him a close look, but she didn’t add anything.

‘How are we doing checking out the immediate vicinity?’

‘We’ve been questioning everyone who lives along the road to the power plant, in the event that someone might have seen a vehicle go by during the night. So far, nothing.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Graffiti on the outside walls of the plant. If there are any taggers lurking about the neighbourhood, they might have seen or heard something. With everything that went into this crime, there had to be a preparatory stage, researching the location. Which takes us back to the watchmen. Maybe they know who left the graffiti. And why didn’t they hear anything?’

Servaz thought back to what Tarrieu had said. Maillard came up to them. He was taking notes on a little pad.

‘And the Wargnier Institute?’ said Servaz. ‘On the one hand we have a crime that, clearly, has been committed by a lunatic; on the other a bunch of criminal madmen locked away only a few kilometres from here. Even if the director of the Institute swears that none of his residents got over the wall, we’ll have to look into it thoroughly.’ He glanced first at Ziegler then at Maillard. ‘Have you got a staff psychiatrist?’

Ziegler and Maillard looked at each other.

‘A profiler is supposed to get here in a day or two,’ replied Irène Ziegler.

Servaz frowned imperceptibly. A profiler for a horse … He knew that the gendarmerie were a few lengths ahead of the police in this respect, as in others, but he wondered if this wasn’t overdoing it a bit: even the gendarmerie ought not to be mobilising its specialists as easily as all that.

Éric Lombard really did have a long reach …

‘You’re lucky we’re here,’ said Ziegler ironically, rousing him from his thoughts. ‘Otherwise you would have had to call in an independent expert.’

He didn’t pick up on it. He knew what she was driving at: since they weren’t prepared to train their own profilers, the way the gendarmerie did, the cops often had to make do with outside experts – shrinks who were not always properly qualified for this type of work.

‘But it is only a horse, after all,’ he said, without conviction.

He looked at Irène Ziegler. She wasn’t smiling now. On the contrary, he could detect the tension and worry on her features. She gave him a searching look. She’s not taking this business at all lightly anymore, he thought. Like him, she must be beginning to think that something far more serious lay behind this macabre deed.