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

"Fabienne Hérault lied. I've read her statement. She just confirmed what the gendarmerie suspected, that the crystaller was going to work on the Belledonne. Which is totally untrue."

Karim clenched his teeth. Another lie. Another mystery. Astier went on:

"But that's not all. My experts also took a look at the tire-prints made by the car." Another pause, and then: "They go in both directions, Abdouf. The driver ran over the body once, then reversed over it a second time. It's a flicking murder. As cold-blooded as a snake in its egg."

Karim was no longer listening. His heart was now beating against his chest. This, then, was the motive for the Hérault family's vengeance. Apart from the escapades of the mother and daughter, that life spent in fear of pursuit, which had indirectly brought about Judith's death, there had first been a murder. Sylvain Hérault. The demons had begun by wiping out the "strong man" of the family, and had then pursued the women.

Fabienne Hérault. Judith Hérault. Abdouf's thoughts were sparking wildly.

"What about the hospital?" he asked.

"That's time bomb number two. I looked at the list of births for 1972. The page corresponding to 23 May has been torn out."

This story sounded rather too familiar to Karim – a déjà vu from another life that he had lived out in a mere few hours.

"But that's not the strangest part," Astier continued. "I also looked through the archives, in the section where children's medical records are kept. It's a real labyrinth and it's starting to get damp. This time, I found Judith's file easily enough. So you see what that means, don't you? Something else happened that night. Something which was noted down in the main register, but not in the child's personal records. That page has been torn out to hide this mysterious event, not to conceal the birth of your Judith. I asked a few nurses about it, but they were all dropping off to sleep: What's more they were too young to bother with Uncle Astier's stories…"

Karim realised that the chemist was playing the fool to chase away his own fears. He could sense it, despite the interference on the line. He thanked him and hung up.

He could already see the large, grassy Herzine hill jutting up four hundred yards away from him.

On those shadowy slopes, the truth was waiting for him.

Fabienne Hérault's house.

The top of a hill. Stone walls. Dark windows.

Pale clouds fluttered across the thick sky. The rain had stopped. Flurries of mist floated slowly along the emerald slopes. All around, the lonely horizon drew away. A heap of stones. Nothing and no one in a radius of twelve miles.

Karim parked his car and clambered up the grassy flank. The house reminded him of the place she had lived in near Sarzac – those fat stones gave it the look of a Celtic burial mound. Near the building, he spotted a huge white satellite dish. He drew his gun. And noticed that a bullet was already in its breech. He found that fact reassuring.

Before going up to the front door, he checked the garage, which contained a five-door Volvo under a pale tarpaulin. It was not locked. He opened the bonnet and, in a series of rapid gestures, demolished the fuse box. Now, whatever happened, if things went wrong, Fabienne Hérault was not going anywhere.

He strode up to the door and knocked lightly. Gun in hand, he stepped back from the threshold. A few seconds of silence, then the door opened. Noiselessly. Without any click of a lock. Fabienne Hérault evidently no longer felt in danger.

Karim stood in the light and concealed his weapon.

He was confronted with a figure as tall as he was, whose eyes were drilling into him. Shoulders like cliffs, a translucent perfectly-formed face, ringed by a brown head of curls, that were almost fuzzy. Glasses with frames as thick as walking sticks. Karim would have been incapable of describing that dreamy, almost absent face.

He controlled his voice:

"Police. Lieutenant Karim Abdouf."

No sign of astonishment from the woman. She was looking at Karim over her glasses, her head gently swaying. Then she lowered her gaze to the hand which was concealing the Glock. Through those lenses, Abdouf thought he detected a wicked gleam. "What can I do for you?" she asked warmly.

Karim remained motionless, petrified in the nocturnal silence of the countryside.

"Come in. For a start."

The shutters were down, most of the furniture was covered with striped cloths. A television screen gleamed darkly, and the lacquered notes of a piano glinted. Karim noticed the score which was open above the keyboard: Frederick Chopin's Sonata in B-flat minor. The whole room was plunged into the darkness of ten fluttering candles.

Following the lieutenant's eyes, Fabienne Hérault murmured:

"I have left behind the world and time. This house is in my image" It reminded Karim of Sister Andrée and her retreat into the shadows.

"What about the satellite dish?"

"I have to keep contact. I have to know when the truth will come out"

"It's on its way out right now, madame."

Without any change of expression, she nodded. The policeman had not been expecting this calm, smiling woman, with her comforting voice. He raised his gun and felt ashamed as he threatened her.

"Listen, lady," he panted. "I don't have much time. I need to see the photos of Judith, your daughter."

"The photos of…"

"Please. I've been looking for you for more than twenty hours. I've been reconstructing your story, and trying to understand. Why did you organise that scheme? Why did you obliterate the face of your child? For the moment, I'm sure of only two things. First, that Judith was no monster, as I first suspected. In fact, I reckon she was a real beauty. But the second fact is that her face somehow gave away the keys to a nightmare. A nightmare which, long ago, forced you to run away and which has just reawoken like a dormant volcano. So, show me the photos and tell me your story. I want dates, details, explanations, the lot! I want to know how and why a little girl who died fourteen years ago is now massacring people in a university town in the Alps!"

The woman remained motionless for a few seconds, then strode down a corridor with her giantess's gait. Clutching his gun, Karim followed her. Other rooms, other sheets, other colors. The house was a mixture of a morgue and a carnival.

At the far end of a small bedroom, Fabienne Hérault opened a wardrobe and removed a metal box. Karim stopped her hand, and opened it himself. Photographs. Just photographs.

The woman gave Karim a questioning look, then turned it over, making it shine in the light, as if she were plunging her hand into a stream of clear water. Finally, she lifted a photo up in front of him.

He could not help smiling.

A little girl was staring out at him, her dark face was oval, ringed with brown short-cropped curls. Bright blue eyes shone from beneath the shadows of her brows, emphasised by her long lashes, which were almost too luxuriant. That slightly masculine touch went with her slightly over-aggressive gaze.

Karim examined the picture. He felt as if he had known that face for a long time, a very long time, for ever.

But the miracle refused to happen. He had been hoping that her face would, somehow or other, reveal the path of truth to him. Fabienne whispered in her warm tones:

"It was taken a few days before she died. In Sarzac. She had short hair, we were…"

Karim looked up.

"That doesn't wash. This picture, her face, ought to tell me something. Act as a clue. All I can see is a pretty little girl."

"It's because this photograph is incomplete."

He started. The woman now handed him a second picture. "This is the last school photograph taken in Guernon, at Lamartine School, in CE2. Just before we left for Sarzac"