replied that the office in Auch had only a very small investigation squad, and that not a single major criminal investigation had been assigned to it in recent years, but he refrained.
âYouâve come a long way to get here, Commandant,â said Castaing. âAnd I suppose, like all of us, you had to sacrifice the eveningâs television. So go on up and have a look, but I warn you: itâs not a pretty sight. Although itâs true that, unlike most of us, youâve seen worse.â
Servaz merely nodded. Suddenly he knew that he had to be on this case, no matter what.
The dolls were looking at the night sky. Servaz thought to himself that a corpse floating in the swimming pool would have more or less the same expression. They were rocking, their pale dresses undulating to the same rhythm, and sometimes they bumped together lightly. He was standing at the edge of the pool with Espérandieu. His assistant had opened an umbrella the size of a parasol over their heads. The rain was ricocheting off it, and off the flagstones and the toes of their shoes.
âFuck,â said Espérandieu, simply.
This was his favourite way of summing up a situation that, in his opinion, was incomprehensible.
âShe collected them,â he said. âI donât think whoever killed her brought them with him. He must have found them in the house.â
Servaz nodded. He counted.
Nineteen
⦠Another flash of lightning lit up their streaming faces. The most striking thing was all those staring expressions. He knew that a similar expressionwould be waiting for them upstairs, and he prepared himself mentally.
âLetâs go.â
Once they were indoors, they put on gloves, caps over their hair, and nylon overshoes. Darkness enveloped them; the generator wasnât working yet, apparently there was a technical problem. They prepared themselves in silence; neither Vincent nor Servaz felt like talking. Servaz took out his torch and switched it on. Espérandieu did the same. They began to climb the stairs.
4
Illumination
The lightning flashing through the skylights illuminated the steps as they creaked beneath their feet. The glow from the torches sculpted their faces from below, and Espérandieu could see his bossâs eyes shining like two black pebbles while he looked, head lowered, for traces of footprints on the stairway. As he climbed he placed his feet as close as possible to the skirting board on either side, spreading his legs like an All Blacks rugby player during the haka.
âLetâs just hope that our friend the prosecutor went up and down the same way,â he said.
Someone had left a storm lamp on the top landing. It cast an uncertain brilliance on the door.
Servaz paused on the threshold. He looked at his watch. 23.10. A particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the bathroom window as they went in. An ear-splitting clap of thunder immediately followed. They took another step and swept their torch beams over the space under the roof. They had to hurry. The crime scene officers would be here soon, but for the moment they were on their own. The attic room was completely dark, with the exception of the fireworks beyond the window ⦠and the bath, which formed a sort of light blue rectangle in the darkness at the far end of the room.
Like a swimming pool â¦
lit up from inside
â¦
Servaz could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. He moved the beam of his torch over the floor. Then he forced himself to go closer to the bath, hugging the walls. It wasnât easy: there were bottles and candles everywhere, small pieces of furniture and a basin, a towel rack, a mirror. A double curtain framed the bath. It had been pulled open and Servaz could now see water gleaming against the porcelain. And a shadow.
There was something in the bath
⦠Something, or rather, someone.
The bath was an old-fashioned clawfoot model in white cast iron. It was nearly two metres
âYouâve come a long way to get here, Commandant,â said Castaing. âAnd I suppose, like all of us, you had to sacrifice the eveningâs television. So go on up and have a look, but I warn you: itâs not a pretty sight. Although itâs true that, unlike most of us, youâve seen worse.â
Servaz merely nodded. Suddenly he knew that he had to be on this case, no matter what.
The dolls were looking at the night sky. Servaz thought to himself that a corpse floating in the swimming pool would have more or less the same expression. They were rocking, their pale dresses undulating to the same rhythm, and sometimes they bumped together lightly. He was standing at the edge of the pool with Espérandieu. His assistant had opened an umbrella the size of a parasol over their heads. The rain was ricocheting off it, and off the flagstones and the toes of their shoes.
âFuck,â said Espérandieu, simply.
This was his favourite way of summing up a situation that, in his opinion, was incomprehensible.
âShe collected them,â he said. âI donât think whoever killed her brought them with him. He must have found them in the house.â
Servaz nodded. He counted.
Nineteen
⦠Another flash of lightning lit up their streaming faces. The most striking thing was all those staring expressions. He knew that a similar expressionwould be waiting for them upstairs, and he prepared himself mentally.
âLetâs go.â
Once they were indoors, they put on gloves, caps over their hair, and nylon overshoes. Darkness enveloped them; the generator wasnât working yet, apparently there was a technical problem. They prepared themselves in silence; neither Vincent nor Servaz felt like talking. Servaz took out his torch and switched it on. Espérandieu did the same. They began to climb the stairs.
4
Illumination
The lightning flashing through the skylights illuminated the steps as they creaked beneath their feet. The glow from the torches sculpted their faces from below, and Espérandieu could see his bossâs eyes shining like two black pebbles while he looked, head lowered, for traces of footprints on the stairway. As he climbed he placed his feet as close as possible to the skirting board on either side, spreading his legs like an All Blacks rugby player during the haka.
âLetâs just hope that our friend the prosecutor went up and down the same way,â he said.
Someone had left a storm lamp on the top landing. It cast an uncertain brilliance on the door.
Servaz paused on the threshold. He looked at his watch. 23.10. A particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the bathroom window as they went in. An ear-splitting clap of thunder immediately followed. They took another step and swept their torch beams over the space under the roof. They had to hurry. The crime scene officers would be here soon, but for the moment they were on their own. The attic room was completely dark, with the exception of the fireworks beyond the window ⦠and the bath, which formed a sort of light blue rectangle in the darkness at the far end of the room.
Like a swimming pool â¦
lit up from inside
â¦
Servaz could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. He moved the beam of his torch over the floor. Then he forced himself to go closer to the bath, hugging the walls. It wasnât easy: there were bottles and candles everywhere, small pieces of furniture and a basin, a towel rack, a mirror. A double curtain framed the bath. It had been pulled open and Servaz could now see water gleaming against the porcelain. And a shadow.
There was something in the bath
⦠Something, or rather, someone.
The bath was an old-fashioned clawfoot model in white cast iron. It was nearly two metres
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