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is. Two watchmen, with an office at the end of this building. They say they didn’t see or hear anything.’
    Servaz hesitated, frowning.
    â€˜Yet you can’t just move a horse like that, can you? Even dead. You need something to tow it with at the very least. A van. There were no visitors, no cars? Nothing at all? Maybe they were asleep and they don’t dare say as much? Or maybe they were watching a match on the telly. Or a film. And how are you supposed to load the carcass onto the cable car, get it up there, string it up, get back down – that all takes time. How many people would it take to carry a horse, anyway? Does the cable car make a noise when it’s operating?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Captain Ziegler, intervening for the first time. ‘You can’t help but hear it.’
    Servaz turned his head. Captain Ziegler was wondering the same thing as he was. Something wasn’t right.
    â€˜Do you have an explanation?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜We’ll have to interrogate the watchmen separately,’ he said. ‘That means today, before we let them go.’
    â€˜We’ve already separated them,’ answered Ziegler calmly, with authority. ‘They’re in two different rooms; we’ve got an eye on them. They … were waiting for you.’
    Servaz noticed the icy glance Ziegler gave d’Humières. Suddenly the ground began to vibrate. It was as if the vibration were spreading through the entire building. For a moment, his mind completely elsewhere, he thought it might be an avalanche or an earthquake, and then he understood: it was the cable car. Ziegler was right: you could not help but hear it. The door to the cubicle opened.
    â€˜They’re on their way down,’ announced a subordinate.
    â€˜Who is?’
    â€˜The body,’ explained Ziegler. ‘With the cable car. And the investigators. They’ve finished their work up there.’
    The crime scene investigators: the mobile laboratory belonged to them. In it would be photographic equipment, cases for storing biological swabs and sealed items to be sent for analysis to the IRCGN – the central Institute for Criminal Research of the Gendarmerie Nationale, in Rosny-sous-Bois, in the Paris region. There was bound to be a refrigerator, too, for the most perishable samples. All this fuss over a horse.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I want to see the star of the day, the winner of the Grand Prix de Saint-Martin.’
    As they went back out, Servaz was astonished to see how many reporters there were. He could have understood if they’d been there for a murder – but for a horse! It looked as if the private little worries of a billionaire like Éric Lombard were a newsworthy topic for the celebrity press.
    He tried as best he could to avoid getting his shoes wet as he walked along, and he sensed that Captain Ziegler was still watching him attentively.
    Then all of a sudden he saw it.
    A vision from hell … If hell could be made of ice.
    He forced himself to look, despite his disgust. The horse’s remains were held in place by wide straps looped round the carcass and attached to a big forklift truck equipped with a little motor and pneumatic jacks. Servaz knew that this same type of forklift might have been used by whoever hung the horse up there … They were taking it out of the cable car. Servaz saw that the cabin was very big. He recalled the vibrations a few moments ago. How could the watchmen have failed to notice anything?
    Reluctantly, he turned to focus his attention on the animal. He didn’t know anything about horses, but it seemed to him that this one must have been a fine specimen. His long tail was a brush of black, shining strands darker than the hair on his coat, which was the colour of roasted coffee, with cherry-red glints. The splendid beast seemed to have been sculpted from a smooth, polished exotic wood. His legs