Jean-Christophe Grangé: Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

Suddenly he noticed another detail and focused his binoculars on it. No, his eyes had not deceived him. He went back to his car and shot off toward the ravine. In one of the faults in the rock face he had just spotted a fluorescent yellow cordon, of the type used by the gendarmerie:

NO ENTRY

Niémans continued down the fault, which bordered a winding, narrow path. Soon, he had to stop, as it was no longer broad enough for his car. He got out, slipped under the yellow cordon and reached the river.

The flow here came to a halt against a natural dam. The torrent, which Niémans was expecting to see boiling over with foam, had turned into a small, limpid lake. As calm as a face from which every sign of anger had just vanished. Farther on, to his right, it set off once more and presumably flowed through the grayish town which could be seen in the pit of the valley.

But Niémans came to a sudden stop. To his left, a man was already there, crouched over the water. Instinctively, Niémans raised the velcro cover of his holster. This gesture made his handcuffs clink together slightly. The man turned round and his face broke into a smile immediately.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Niémans asked him point-blank.

Without answering, the stranger smiled again, got to his feet and dusted off his hands. He was young, with fragile features and fair, brush-like hair. A suede jacket and pleated trousers. In a clear voice, he riposted:

"And you?"

This insolence astonished Niémans. He gruffly declared:

"Police. Didn't you see the cordon? I hope for your sake you've got a good reason to be here, because…"

"Eric Joisneau, from the Grenoble brigade. I'm here as a scout. Three more officers will be arriving later today."

Niémans joined him on the narrow bank.

"Where are the orderlies?" he asked.

"I told them to take a break. For breakfast." He shrugged carelessly. "I had work to do here. And I wanted some peace and quiet…Superintendent Niémans."

The gray-haired officer twitched. The young man went on imperviously:

"I recognised you at once. Pierre Niémans. The ex-star of the anti-terrorist squad. The ex-head of the vice squad. The ex-hunter of killers and dealers. The ex of a lot of things, in fact…"

"Do inspectors always give so much lip these days?"

Joisneau bowed ironically:

"Sorry, superintendent. I was just trying to take the shine off the star. You know you're an idol, don't you? The 'supercop' all young inspectors dream of becoming. Are you here for the murder?"

"What do you reckon?"

The officer bowed once again.

"It'll be an honor to work with you."

Niémans looked down at the glittering surface of the smooth waters, which shimmered at his feet, as though crystallised in the morning light. A glow of jade seemed to rise up from the depths.

"So, tell me what you know about this business."

Joisneau glanced up toward the rock face.

"The body was wedged up there."

"Up there?" Niémans repeated, staring at the wall of rock, whose sharp contours cast jagged shadows.

"Yes, fifty feet up. The killer stuffed the body into one of the crevices in the rock face. Then maneuvered it into a weird position."

"What sort of position?"

Joisneau bent his legs, raised his knees and crossed his arms over his torso.

"The fetal position."

"Original."

"Everything's original about this case."

"I was told there were wounds and burns," Niémans went on. "I haven't seen the body yet. But I have heard that there are multiple traces of torture."

"Was the victim tortured to death?"

"Nothing is certain for the moment. There are also deep marks on his throat. Signs of strangulation."

Niémans turned back toward the little lake. In it, he clearly saw his own reflection – cropped head and blue coat.

"What about here? Have you found anything?"

"No. I've been hunting for a clue, a detail, for the last hour. Nothing doing. I reckon the victim wasn't killed here. The murderer just stuffed the body up there."

"Have you been up inside the crevice?"

"Yes. Nothing to report. The murderer must have climbed up onto the top of the rock face from the other side, then lowered the body down on a rope. He then went down on another rope and wedged his victim inside. It can't have been easy getting him into that dramatic posture. I can't figure it out."

Niémans looked once more at that ruggedly uneven cliff, stuck with ridges. From where he was standing, it was impossible to gauge the distances, but it looked as if the crevice where the body had been found was halfway up the face, as far from the ground as it was from the top. He spun round.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"The hospital. I want to see the body."

The naked man, uncovered only down to his shoulders, lay on his side on a gleaming table. He was huddled up, as though frightened of being struck in the face by lightning. Shoulders hunched, head down, the body still had its two fists clenched under its chin, between its bent knees. The skin was white, muscles protruding, the epidermis dug with wounds which gave the corpse an almost unbearable reality. The neck bore long lacerations, as though someone had tried to rip open its throat. Puffed up veins stood out in its temples, like swollen streams.

Niémans glanced up at the other men present in the morgue. Bernard Terpentes, the investigating magistrate, spindly with a pencil moustache; Captain Roger Barnes, a colossus, swaying like a merchant ship, who was in charge of the Guernon gendarmerie; René Vermont, another gendarme captain on special mission, a small balding man with a wine-red complexion and bright beady eyes. Joisneau, who was standing back from the rest, looked every inch the zealous student.

"Do we know his ID?" Niémans asked no one in particular.

Barnes took a soldierly step forward and cleared his throat.

"The victim's name is Rémy Caillois, superintendent. He was twenty-five years of age. He had been chief librarian at the University of Guernon for the last three years. The body was officially identified by his wife, Sophie Caillois, this morning."

"Had she reported him missing?"

"Yes, yesterday at the end of the afternoon. Her husband had set out the day before on a trek in the mountains, in the direction of the Pointe du Muret. Alone, as he did every weekend. He would sometimes sleep out in one of the refuges. That's why she wasn't worried. Until yesterday afternoon…"

Barnes fell silent. Niémans had just uncovered the corpse.

There was a sort of unspoken horror, a silent scream that stuck in their throats. The victim's abdomen and thorax were riddled with dark wounds of various shapes and depths. Incisions with violet edges, rainbow-colored burns, black clouds of soot. There were also shallower lesions on the arms and wrists, as though the man had been strapped up with a cable.

"Who found the body?"

"A young woman…" Barnes peered down at his papers, then proceeded. "Fanny Ferreira. A lecturer at the university."

"In what circumstances did she find it?"

Barnes cleared his throat once more.

"She's a sportswoman who goes white-water rafting. You know, you descend the rapids on a board, wearing a wetsuit and flippers. It's a highly dangerous sport and…"

"And?"

"She wound up just beyond the natural dam in the river, at the foot of the rock face that borders the campus. When she climbed up onto the parapet, she spotted the body wedged into the cliff."

"And that's what she told you?"

Barnes looked uncertainly around the room.

"Well, yes, I…"

The superintendent completely uncovered the body. He paced around that livid, hunched-up creature, whose closely cropped scalp stuck out like a stone arrow.