"Yes, I have. A thousand pages about the ancient world and…" He looked at a sheet of paper he had scribbled on. "…Olympia. It's about the first Olympic games and the religious ceremonies that went on around them…Pretty heavy going, I can tell you."
"Print it out and read it."
"Eh?"
Niémans added, ironically:
"Speed-read it, I mean."
The man looked crestfallen. The superintendent immediately went on:
"Nothing else in his machine? No video games? No e-mail?"
The officer shook his head. This came as no surprise to Niémans. He had guessed that Caillois's entire life had been in books. A strict librarian, who allowed just one thing to impinge on his professional responsibilities: the writing of his thesis. What could have been tortured out of such a hermit?
Pierre Niémans turned round to Joisneau:
"Come with me. I want to know where your investigations stand."
They took shelter between two rows of shelving. At the end of the alleyway, an officer in a cap was grappling with a book. Faced with such a sight, the superintendent found it difficult to remain serious. The lieutenant opened his notebook.
"I've questioned several of the boarders and Caillois's two colleagues in the library. Rémy was not very well liked. But he was respected."
"Why was he unpopular?"
"No particular reason. I get the impression that he made people feel uneasy. He was a close, secretive type. He made no effort to communicate with others. And, in a way, it went with the job." Joisneau stared around, almost in fear. "Just imagine it…Spending all day in this library, staying quiet."
"Did anyone mention his father?"
"You know that he was the previous librarian? Yeah, some mention was made of him. Same sort of guy. Silent, impenetrable. It's like a confessional in here, I suppose it must get to you in the end."
Niémans leant back against the books.
"Did anyone say that he died in the mountains?"
"Of course. But there's nothing suspicious about that. The poor guy was swept away by an avalanche and…"
"I know. Do you think anybody could have had it in for the Caillois family, father and son?"
"Superintendent, the victim fetched books from the reserve, filled out slips and gave the students the numbers of their reading desks. Who would want to avenge that? A student who hadn't been given the right edition?"
"OK. What about his climbing?"
Joisneau flicked back through his notebook.
"Caillois was both an excellent climber and a highly experienced hiker. Last Saturday, according to the witnesses who saw him leave, he probably set out for a hike, at about six thousand feet, without any equipment."
"Any hiking friends?"
"None. Even his wife never went with him. Caillois was a loner. Practically autistic."
Niémans then relayed what he had learnt:
"I've been back to the river. And I discovered traces of spits in the rock. I think the killer used a climbing technique to winch up the body."
Joisneau's face went tense.
"Shit, I went up there, too, and I didn't…"
"The holes are inside the cavity. The killer fixed pulleys into the niche, then lowered himself down to act as a counterweight for the body."
"Shit."
On his face was a mixture of bitterness and admiration. Niémans smiled.
"I don't deserve any praise for that. I was helped by a witness. Fanny Ferreira. She's a real pro." He winked. "And a hot number. I want you to investigate further in that direction. Get a complete list of all the experienced climbers and everyone who has access to that sort of equipment."
"We're talking about thousands of people!"
"Get your team mates to help. Ask Barnes. Who knows? Something might turn up. I also want you to deal with the eyes."
"The eyes?"
"You heard forensics, didn't you? The killer made off with his eyes, and was extremely careful about it. I have no idea why he did that. Fetishism, maybe. Or a particular form of purification. Maybe those eyes reminded the killer of something the victim witnessed. Or the weight of a stare which the murderer had become obsessed with. I don't know. It's all a bit vague and I don't like this sort of psychological bullshit. But I want you to shake up the town and pick up anything that may have something to do with those eyes."
"For instance?"
"For instance, find out if, in the town or university, there have been any accidents involving that part of the anatomy. Go through the statements taken by the local brigade over the last few years, and news stories in the local press. Any fights where someone might have got injured. Or else, animals being mutilated. I don't know, just look. And find out if there are any big eye problems, or cases of blindness in this region."
"You really think I'll be able to…"
"I don't think anything," Niémans sighed. "Just do it."
At the end of the row, the uniformed officer was still staring sideways. At last, he dropped his books and made off. Niémans went on in a whisper:
"I also want all of Caillois's comings and goings over the last few weeks. I want to know who he saw, and who he spoke to. I want a list of the phone calls he made, both at home and at work. I want a list of the letters he received. Maybe Caillois knew his murderer. Maybe they even arranged to meet up there."
"What about his wife? Anything interesting?"
Niémans did not' answer. Joisneau added:
"I've heard she's a bit of a handful."
Joisneau put his notebook away. His face had gone back to its usual color.
"I don't know if I should tell you this…what with that mutilated body…and that crazy killer on the loose…"
"But?"
"But, I really feel like I'm learning things working with you."
Niémans was flicking through a book: The Topography and Reliefs of the Isère. He chucked the volume to the lieutenant and concluded:
"Then just pray we learn as much about the killer."
CHAPTER 13
The curled-up profile of the victim. Muscles as tense as ropes under the skin. Blue and black wounds intermittently slicing into the pallid skin.
Back in his office, Niémans was examining the Polaroid photographs of Rémy Caillois.
The face front on. Eyelids open on the black holes of the sockets.
Still in his coat, he thought of what that man had suffered. Of the violent panic that had suddenly arisen in that innocent region.
Without even admitting it to himself, the policeman now feared the worst. Another murder, perhaps. Or, rather, an unpunished crime, swept aside by time and fear, which would help everyone to forget. Rather than to remember.
The victim's hands. Photographed from above, then from below Beautiful delicate hands, opening out onto their anonymous tips. Not the slightest fingerprint. Traces of cuts into the wrists. Granular. Dark. Stony.
Niémans tipped back his chair and leant against the wall. He folded his hands behind his neck and thought over his own words: "Each element in an investigation is a mirror. And the killer is hiding in one of the dead angles." There was one idea that he could not get out of his mind: Caillois had not been chosen by chance. His death was connected to his past. To someone he had once known. To something he had once done. Or to some secret he had learnt.
What?
Since his childhood, Caillois had spent his life in the university library. Then, every weekend, he used to disappear into the airy heights which overlooked the valley. What could he have done or found out to deserve such punishment?
Niémans decided to make a rapid investigation of the victim's past. Instinctively, or by personal predilection, he chose to begin with a detail which had struck him during his questioning of Sophie Caillois.
After a few phone calls, he managed to get through to the 14th Infantry Regiment, which was stationed near Lyons and which was the place where all the young men from that region went for their three days' national service induction. When he had given his name and explained the reason for his call, he was transferred to archives and got them to dig out the file of Rémy Caillois, who had been declared unfit for service during the 1990s. Niémans could make out the furtive tapping of the keyboard, the distant footfalls in the room, then the shuffling of pieces of paper. He asked the clerk: