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

"You mean…It might be connected to the murders?" Niémans raised his head and hardened his tone of voice:

"Why didn't you tell me about that theft?"

Fanny replied with another slight shrug of her shoulders; she was still wrapping the bandage round Niémans's temples.

"There's no proof it was really a theft…Those archives are an absolute mess. Papers go missing here, then turn up there. Do you really think it matters?"

"Have you seen those papers yourself?"

"Yes, I went to the archives to have a look."

"And you didn't notice anything odd?"

"What, for example?"

"I don't know. You didn't compare them with the original files?"

Fanny pulled back. The dressing was finished. She declared: "They were just some loose leaves, with nurses' notes on them. Nothing very exciting."

"How many of them were there?"

"Several hundred. But I don't see what you…"

"Did you name any of the people concerned in your article?"

"I told you, I just wrote a couple of lines."

"Can I see your piece?"

"I never keep what I write."

She was standing stock upright, her arms crossed. Niémans went on:

"Do you think somebody else might have taken a look at those records? Somebody who might have found their name or their parents' names among them?"

"I've already told you, I didn't mention any names."

"Do you think it's possible that somebody else had a look?"

"No, I don't think so. They're all locked up now…Anyway, who cares? What's all that got to do with the case?"

Niémans took his time. Avoiding her eyes, he hit her with another question, like a punch in the guts.

"You went through those records in detail, didn't you?"

No reply. The policeman raised his eyes. Fanny had not moved, but suddenly she seemed far away from him. She finally answered:

"I've just told you that I did. What do you want to know?" A moment's hesitation, then Niémans asked:

"I want to know if you found your parents' names among those records. Or your grandparents'."

"No, not at all. Why?"

Without responding, the superintendent got to his feet. They were now both standing, two enemies, like opposite poles. Niémans noticed his bandaged head reflected in a mirror at the other end of the room. He turned toward the young woman and whispered apologetically:

"Thank you. And sorry about the questions."

He picked up his coat and said:

"I know it sounds incredible, but I think those records have already cost one of our officers his life. A young lieutenant, at the beginning of his career. He wanted to look through them. Which is why I think he was killed."

"But that's ridiculous."

"We'll see about that. I'm off to the archives now to compare those papers and the files they belong to."

He was slipping on his soaked rags, when the young woman stopped him.

"You're not going to put those tatters back on!"

Fanny dived off and returned a few seconds later with a tee-shirt, a pullover, a fur-lined jacket and waterproof leggings.

"They won't fit you," she explained. "But at least they're warm and dry. And this is essential…"

She smoothly slipped a polyester balaclava over his bandaged head, then folded it up over his ears. When he had recovered from his surprise, Niémans rolled his eyes comically behind his mask. Suddenly, they both burst out laughing.

Their complicity momentarily returned, as though blown back from the past. But the superintendent gravely announced:

"I really must get going. To the archives. To continue my enquiries."

Niémans did not have time to react. Fanny had already wrapped her arms round him and was kissing him. He stiffened. A new warmth flowed through him. He did not know if it was his fever coming back, or the sweetness of that little tongue which was working its way in between his lips, burning him up with its heat. He closed his eyes and mumbled:

"The case. I've got to get back onto the case."

But his shoulders were already pinned down against the floor.

Karim tore down the yellow no-entry cordon and knelt in front of the door of the tomb, which was still ajar. He slipped on his gloves, stuck his fingers into the gap and pulled violently. It gave way. Without a moment's hesitation, he switched on his torch and slid inside the vault. Bent double, he edged down the steps. The beam of light bounced back off a mass of dark water – a veritable underground lake. The rain had got in through the door and half filled the vault.

He said to himself: "There's no other choice." He held his breath and dropped into the water. Holding his torch in his left hand, he advanced, Indian-style, in a sort of breast-stroke. The ray of light cut through the darkness. As he entered further into the vault, the trickling of the rain rang deeper and the smell of mould and decay grew heavier. With his face turned up toward the ceiling, he spat out the water and paddled onwards, caught between the lake and the arched roof.

Suddenly, his head hit the coffin. In a panic, he screamed, span round and slowed his movements, in an attempt to calm himself down. He then looked at the little casket that was floating on the waters like a boat.

He repeated to himself: "There's no other choice." Then he swam round the coffin, examining each of its sides. The lid was still screwed down, but he noticed something which he had not had time to spot that morning, when the keeper had caught him trespassing. Around the screws, the pale wood was coming away in darker splinters. The paint had cracked. Someone had – perhaps – opened the coffin. "There's no other choice." From his jacket pocket, Karim produced a pair of folding pliers, the two ends of which formed the blade of a screwdriver, and tried to prise open the lid. Little by little, the wood started to give way. At last, the final screw loosened. Banging his head against the ceiling – the water was still rising and was now up to his shoulders – Karim managed to pull away the lid. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve then, telling himself to hold' his breath, he peered inside.

He need not have bothered. He felt as though he were already dead himself.

The coffin did not contain a child's skeleton. Nor had there been a hoax, or any sign of desecration. It was filled to the brim with tiny sharp white bones. A sort of rodents' burial ground. Thousands of dried out skeletons. Chalky snouts, as pointed as daggers. Ribcages, as vivid as claws. Countless scraps, as thin as matchsticks, coming from tiny femurs, tibias and humeruses.

Still leaning against the edge, Karim's muscles started to give way and he reached out a hand toward that charnel-house. Those myriads of skeletons, reflecting the beam of his torch, looked like a mass prehistoric grave. It was then that he heard a voice coming from behind him, breaking through the din of the rain.

"You shouldn't have come back, Karim."

He did not need to turn round to know who had spoken. He clenched his fists and lowered his head until it was resting on the bones, then murmured:

"Crozier, don't tell me you're involved in this business…" The voice answered:

"I should never have let you loose on this case."

Karim glanced rapidly at the doorway of the vault. Henri Crozier's figure was clearly outlined. He was holding an MR73 model. Manhurin – the same gun as Niémans used. Six bullets in the cylinder. Fast-loading magazines in his pocket. A few seconds to empty it, then reload it, without any risk of it jamming. A precision piece. The lieutenant asked:

"What the fucking hell's your role in all this?"

The man did not reply. Lifting up his soaked elbows, Karim tried again:

"Can I at least get out of this shit-hole?"

Crozier gestured briefly with his gun.