"Why? "
"I dunno…for a bit of fun…we was looking for building site caravans…to beat up a few blacks…"
Karim shuddered.
"And then?"
"We went by the cemetery…and the fucking gate was open…we saw these shadows…some guys was coming out of one of the graves…"
"How many?"
"T…two, I reckon."
"Can you describe them?"
The skin sneered.
"We was out of it, man."
Karim gave him a clip round his shattered ear. He stifled a cry, which came out like the hissing of a snake.
"What did they look like?"
"I dunno…it was pitch dark!"
Karim thought it over. If there was one thing he was sure of, then it was that this had been a professional job.
"And then?"
"It fucking freaked us out…so we beat it…I just knew they'd fucking pin this one on us…'Cos of what happened in Carpentras…"
"Is that all? You didn't notice anything else? Any other details?"
"No…nothing…at two in the morning, that dump's totally fucking dead."
Karim imagined the loneliness on that little road, with its solitary streetlamp, a white gash in the night drawing moths. And the gang of skinheads, jostling along, glued out of their minds, singing Nazi songs. He repeated:
"Think again."
"It was…a bit later…I think we saw one of them East European motors, a Lada, or something like that, it was speeding down the road…from the cemetery…on the D143…"
"What color was it?"
"Wh…white."
"Nothing else?"
"It…it was covered in mud."
"Did you get the registration number?"
"What do you think we are? Fucking pigs, or something?"
Karim's heel shot into his guts. The man writhed, blood gurgling from his mouth. The lieutenant got to his feet and dusted off his jeans. There was nothing more to be learnt there. He heard the others groaning behind him. By then, they must have had third or fourth degree burns on their hands. Karim concluded:
"Do me a favor and go along to Sarzac police station later today and make a statement. Tell them I sent you and they'll roll out the red carpet for you."
The skin's panting head nodded; he had the eyes of a cowed animal.
"Why…why you doing this, man?"
"So as you'll remember. A cop is always a headache. And an Arab cop is a fucking migraine. Go out beating up on niggers again and your head will be splitting…" Karim gave him a last kick "…fit to bust"
The Arab backed off, picking up his Glock 21 as he went.
Karim drove off rapidly and then stopped in a small wood a few miles away to let the calm flow back into his veins and think things through. So, the profanation had happened before two o'clock. There were two grave robbers and they were driving – probably – an Eastern European car. He looked at his watch. There was just enough time to get all that down in writing. Enquiries could now get seriously under way. They would have to send out an APB, trace the car, talk to people who lived on the D143…
But his mind was already elsewhere. He had carried out his mission. And Crozier was going to have to give him a free hand. The enquiry could now be run his way. And the first step would be to find out what had happened to a little boy who had died in 1982.
PART III
CHAPTER 11
"An examination of the anterior facet of the thorax revealed large longitudinal incisions, doubtlessly caused by a sharp instrument. Other lacerations made by the same instrument were also found on the shoulders, arms…"
The forensic pathologist was wearing a rumpled calico coat and small glasses. His name was Marc Costes. He was young, with sharp features and vague eyes. Niémans had taken a lilting to him at first sight, for he immediately saw that he was a dedicated investigator, lacking in experience perhaps, but certainly not in enthusiasm. He was reading out his report in a slow, methodical voice:
"…multiple burns: on the torso, shoulders, sides and arms. Approximately twenty-five such marks were located, many of which run into the incisions previously described…"
Niémans butted in:
"Which means?"
The doctor looked up timidly over his spectacles.
"I think the murderer cauterised the wounds with a flame. He seems to have sprinkled small amounts of gasoline over the incisions before setting fire to them. I would say that he must have adapted some sort of aerosol to do the job, perhaps a steam cleaner."
Once more, Niémans started pacing up and down the practical studies room, where he had set up his headquarters, on the first floor of the psychology/sociology building. He had decided to hear out the forensic pathologist in this his sanctuary. Captain Barnes and Lieutenant Joisneau were also present, sitting quietly on their school benches.
"Go on," he ordered.
"Numerous swellings, bruises and fractures were also detected. As many as eighteen bruises can be counted on the torso alone. There are four broken ribs. Both clavicles have been reduced to splinters. Three of the fingers on the left hand, and two on the right hand, have been crushed. The genitalia are blue subsequent to beating.
"The weapon used was undoubtedly an iron or lead bar, approximately three inches thick. It is, of course, vital to distinguish these wounds from those which were caused during the transportation of the body and its being `wedged' into the rock, but such post mortem bruising does not behave in the same way…"
Niémans glanced round at the others: eyes staring, foreheads glowing.
. To move on to the upper part of the body. The face is intact. No visible signs of bruising on the nape…"
The policeman asked:
"No trace of blows to the face?"
"None. It would even seem as though the killer had avoided touching it."
Costes looked down at his report and started reading again, but Niémans cut in:
"One moment. I suppose there's plenty more still to come." Fiddling with his report, the doctor blinked nervously. "Several pages…"
"Right. We can all go through it later on our own. Just tell us the cause of death. Did the wounds you mentioned kill him?"
"No. He was strangled to death. There can be no doubt about that. With a metal wire, of a diameter of about a tenth of an inch. A bicycle brake cable I would say, or a piano wire, a cord of that sort. The cable cut into the flesh over a length of six inches, crushed the glottis, sliced through the muscles of the larynx and cut open the carotid causing a hemorrhage."
"And the time of death?"
"Hard to say. Because of the crouched position of the victim. This piece of gymnastics upset the natural process of rigor mortis and…"
"Just give me an approximate time."
"I would say…after dusk on Saturday evening, between eight o'clock and midnight."
"So Caillois was jumped on the way home from his expedition?"
"Not necessarily. 'In my opinion, he was tortured for quite some time. I reckon that it is more likely that Caillois was captured during the morning. And that the torture session lasted all day."
"In your opinion, did the victim try to defend himself?"
"Impossible to say, because of the large number of wounds. But one thing is certain, he was not knocked out. He was tied up and conscious during the entire proceedings. There are clear marks of straps on his arms and wrists. What is more, given that there is no sign of the victim's being gagged, we can suppose that the torturer was sure that no one would hear what was going on."
Niémans sat down on a window sill.
"About the tortures, were they professional?"
"Professional?"
"Are they methods used in the army? Anything known?"
"I am no specialist, but I would say probably not. They look more to me like the actions of a…a madman. A lunatic who wanted the correct answers to his questions."
"Why do you say that?"
"The killer was trying to make Caillois talk. And Caillois did so."
"How do you know that?"
Costes modestly bowed his head. Despite the temperature in the room, he still had not taken off his parka.