The Frozen Dead by Bernard Minier Page A

leaned over the railing. Ziegler was waiting for him downstairs, lounging against her squad car. She’d swapped her uniform for a rollneck jumper and leather jacket. She was smoking, a bag slung over her shoulder.
    Servaz went down to join her and invited her for a coffee. He was hungry and he wanted something to eat before they set off. She checked her watch, made a face, then finally stepped away from the car to follow him back inside. The Russell was a hotel from the 1930s; the rooms were poorly heated; the corridors, with high moulded ceilings, were endless and gloomy. But the dining room, a vast veranda with vases of flowers on the tables, offered a breathtaking view. Servaz sat down at a table near the picture window and ordered a black coffee and a buttered slice of bread, and Ziegler asked for a fresh orange juice. At the next table were some Spanish tourists – the first of the season – speaking loudly, punctuating their sentences with lusty-sounding words.
    When he turned his head, a detail caught his attention and left him puzzled: not only was Irène Ziegler not in uniform, that morning she had also clipped a fine silver ring to her left nostril, and it shone in the light from the window. It was the sort of jewellery he expected to see on his daughter, not on an officer of the gendarmerie. Times have changed, he thought.
    â€˜Sleep all right?’ he asked.
    â€˜No. I ended up having to take half a sleeping tablet. And you?’
    â€˜I didn’t hear the alarm. At least the hotel is quiet; most of the tourists haven’t arrived yet.’
    â€˜They won’t be here for another two weeks. It’s always quiet this time of year.’
    â€˜Up above those cable cars,’ said Servaz, pointing to the double line of support towers on the mountain opposite, ‘is there a ski resort?’
    â€˜Yes, Saint-Martin 2000. Forty kilometres and twenty-eight downhill runs, including six black, four chair lifts, ten tow lifts. But there’s also a resort at Peyragudes, fifteen kilometres from here. Do you ski?’
    A joking rabbit-like smile appeared on Servaz’s face.
    â€˜The last time I put on a pair of skis, I was fourteen years old. It didn’t make for a very good memory. I’m not exactly … sporty. ’
    â€˜Yet you look fit,’ said Ziegler with a smile.
    â€˜As do you.’
    Oddly enough, it made her blush. The conversation was hesitant. Last night they were two police officers deep in the same investigation, exchanging professional observations. This morning they were awkwardly trying to get acquainted.
    â€˜May I ask you a question?’
    He nodded.
    â€˜Yesterday you asked for a further inquiry into three of the workers. Why?’
    The waiter brought their order. He looked as old and sad as the hotel itself. Servaz waited until he had left to tell her about his interview with the five men.
    â€˜That guy Tarrieu,’ she said, ‘what sort of impression did he make on you?’
    Servaz pictured the man’s flat, massive face, his cold stare.
    â€˜An intelligent man, but full of anger.’
    â€˜Intelligent. That’s interesting.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜All the dramatic staging … this madness  … I think whoever did it is not only mad but also intelligent. Highly intelligent.’
    â€˜In that case, we can rule out the watchmen,’ he said.
    â€˜Perhaps. Unless one of them is faking.’
    She took her laptop from her bag and opened it on the table, between her orange juice and Servaz’s coffee. He had the same thought he’d had earlier: times were changing; a new generation of investigators was taking over. She might lack experience but she was also more in sync with her era – and the experience would come in any case.
    She typed something and he took a moment to look at her. She was very different from the day before, when he’d seen her in her uniform. He stared at the