Free The Frozen Dead by Bernard Minier Page A

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.
    â€˜Are you the one who’s been here the longest?’
    â€˜Yup,’ said the man.
    â€˜How long have you been working here?’
    â€˜Up there or down here?’
    â€˜Both.’
    â€˜Twenty-three years up there. Forty-two in all.’
    A flat voice, with no inflection. Smooth as a mountain lake.
    â€˜What is your name?’
    â€˜What’s it to you?’
    â€˜I’m the one asking the questions, right? So, what’s your name?’ said Servaz, equalling the man’s offhand manner.
    â€˜Tarrieu,’ barked the man, annoyed.
    â€˜You’re how old?’
    â€˜Sixty-three.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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? ’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜No,’ he said at last.
    â€˜Are any of you familiar with the riding academy?’
    The cook with the earrings raised his hand awkwardly.
    â€˜Your name?’
    â€˜Marousset.’
    â€˜You go horse-riding, Marousset?’
    Tarrieu spluttered with laughter; the others copied him. Servaz felt his anger welling up.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So had you already seen that horse?’
    â€˜I’m not interested in horses. Maybe … There are loads of horses over there…’
    â€˜And do you see Monsieur Lombard very often?’
    Marousset shook his head.
    â€˜I go there just once a year … maybe twice … and I hardly leave the kitchen…’
    â€˜But you’ve spotted him now and again, all the same, haven’t you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Does he come to the plant at all?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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