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

"Did you ask his professional opinion?"

Champelaz wriggled strangely, as though his cardigan were irritating his skin.

"No. I…I didn't dare to. You don't know what this town is like. Chernecé belonged to the university elite, you understand? He was one of the region's most eminent ophthalmologists. A prestigious professor. As for me, I just look after this little place…"

"Do you think Chernecé might have examined the same records as you did – the official notifications of birth?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he might have looked at them even before you did?"

"That is possible, yes."

The director lowered his eyes. His face was scarlet, running with sweat.

Niémans pressed the point:

"Do you think that he also found out that the records had been falsified?"

"I…How do I know? What are you trying to suggest?"

Niémans let it drop. He had just understood another part of the story: Champelaz had not been back to examine the papers Caillois had stolen because he was afraid of discovering something about the university lecturers. Those lecturers who lorded it over the town, and who controlled the destiny of people like him.

The superintendent stood up.

"What else did you tell Joisneau?"

"Nothing. I told him exactly what I have just told you."

"Think about it."

"That's all. Honestly it is."

Niémans stood in front of the doctor. "Does the name Judith Hérault mean anything to you?"

"No."

"And Philippe Sertys?"

"The second victim?"

"You had never heard of him before?"

"No."

"Does the term 'blood-red rivers' ring any bells?"

"No, none. I…"

"Thank you, doctor."

Niémans saluted the terrified medic and turned on his heel. He was on his way through the door, when he looked back over his shoulder.

"One last thing, doctor. I have neither heard nor seen any dogs. Aren't there any in the home?"

Champelaz was wan.

"D…dogs?"

"Yes. Guide dogs for the blind." The penny dropped and he found the energy to reply:

"Dogs are of use to blind people who live on their own, and who do not have any other assistance. Our home is equipped with the latest technology. The patients are guided and warned of the slightest obstacle, there's no need for dogs."

Outside, Niémans turned back toward that bright building, which was glistening in the rain. Since yesterday morning, he had been avoiding this home because of some non-existent dogs. His phobia had made him send Joisneau there. Those phantoms baying in the darkness of his dreams. He opened his car door and spat on the ground.

His ghosts had cost that young lieutenant his life.

Niémans drove down the rolling slopes of Les Sept-Laux. The downpour doubled in intensity. Rising from the asphalt, a bright mist was shining in his headlamps. From time to time, a puddle of mud had formed which swished under his tires with the din of a waterfall. Niémans clutched his steering wheel and fought to control his car which was constantly skidding dangerously close to the edge of the precipice.

Suddenly, his pager rang in his pocket. With one hand, he flicked on the screen. A message from Antoine Rheims in Paris. With the same hand, he grabbed his cell phone and picked Rheims's number from its memory. As soon as he heard Niémans's voice, his superior said:

"The hooligan's dead, Pierre."

Totally submerged in his case, Niémans struggled to concentrate on the possible consequences of this news. But he could not. His boss went on:

"Where are you?"

"Near Guernon."

"You're under arrest. In theory, you should now give yourself up, hand over your gun and limit the damage."

"In theory?"

"I've spoken to Terpentes. He says that your enquiries haven't led anywhere and that things are starting to look nasty. The media have also turned up in the place. Tomorrow morning, Guernon's going to be the most famous town in France." Rheims paused. And everyone's looking for you."

Niémans did not respond. He was keeping his eyes on the road, which continued to corkscrew through the sheets of rain that seemed to be spiraling in a reverse motion. Rheims continued:

"Pierre, are you about to arrest the murderer?"

"I don't know. But, I'll say it again, I'm definitely on the right track."

"In that case, we'll sort the other business out later. I haven't spoken to you. No one can find you. No one can contact you. You've still got an hour or two left to stop this slaughter. After that, there's nothing more I can do for you. Except find you a good lawyer."

Niémans grunted something in reply and hung up.

At that moment, a car appeared in his headlamps and bounced toward his right. The superintendent reacted a second too late. The vehicle smashed straight into his right wing. The steering wheel flew out of his hands. His saloon hit the boulders at the foot of the rock face. He swore and tried to straighten up. In a flash, he was back in control and glancing in panic at the other car. A dark Range Rover, with its headlamps off, which was coming back for the kill.

Niémans reversed. The bulky vehicle rebounded slightly and swerved to the left, forcing him to brake suddenly. He then accelerated forward again. The Range Rover was now in front of him and driving flat out, systematically stopping him from overtaking. Its number plate was covered with lumps of mud. His mind empty, the superintendent put his foot down once more and tried to pass the Range Rover on the outside curve. In vain. That black mass was eating up the slightest gap, shoving into the saloon's left wing as it approached and pushing it toward the edge of the precipice.

What was this lunatic after? Niémans abruptly slowed down, giving the killer car a lead of a good fifty yards. The Range Rover immediately slowed down as well, closing the gap between them. The superintendent seized his chance. Slamming his foot right down, he managed to slip past it on the left. A close call.

The superintendent was now giving it all he could, foot flat on the floor. In his rear-view mirror, he saw the four-wheel drive slowly vanish into the darkness. Without a moment's thought, he drove on at the same speed for a couple of miles.

He was once again all alone on the road.

Following the dark twisting trace of the asphalt, he sped forward through the dense rain, between the conifers. What had happened? Who had attacked him? And why? What had he found out which would now cost him his life? It had all happened so quickly that he had not even had time to make out the figure behind the Range Rover's steering wheel.

As he came out of a bend, Niémans could see the Jasse suspension bridge: three and a half miles of concrete, balanced on steel towers that were over three hundred feet tall. This meant that he was now only six miles away from Guernon, and safety.

He accelerated once more.

He was starting to cross the bridge when a white light blinded him, suddenly engulfing his rear windscreen. Headlamps full on, the Range Rover was back against his bumper. Niémans lowered his gaze from the dazzling rear-view mirror and stared at the concrete strip, hanging in the darkness. He said to himself: "I can't die. Not like this." Then he slammed his foot down once more.

The headlamps were still behind him. Bent over his steering wheel, he kept his eyes on the safety railings, which glimmered in his own lights, surrounding the road in a sort of fiery embrace, a glittering halo, steaming as the rain poured down.

Yards snatched from time.

Seconds stolen from the earth.

A strange idea crossed Niémans's mind, a sort of inexplicable conviction: while he was still driving on this bridge, still heading through this storm, nothing could happen to him. He was alive. He was light. He was invulnerable.