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were the same coal-black colour as the tail and what was left of the mane. A multitude of little icicles whitened the corpse. Servaz assumed that if the temperature down here was below zero, it must be several degrees colder up there. Perhaps the gendarmes had used a blowtorch or soldering iron to melt the ice around the attachments. Other than that, the animal was no more than a wound – with two huge flaps of skin pulled back from the body and hanging along its flanks like folded wings.
    A dizzying fear had overcome everyone gathered there.
    Where the skin had been peeled back, the flesh was bared, every muscle distinctly visible, as in an anatomy diagram. Servaz glanced around him: Ziegler and Cathy d’Humières were pale; the plant manager looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Servaz himself had rarely seen anything so unbearable. To his great dismay he realised that he was so used to the sight of human suffering that he was far more shocked and disturbed by the sight of an animal’s pain.
    Then there was the head. Or rather its absence; instead, a huge gaping wound just above the throat. This absence made the whole picture so strange that it was hard to stomach. Like artwork proclaiming the utter madness of the artist. And indeed, this vision was indisputable proof of insanity – and Servaz could not help but think again of the Wargnier Institute: it was hard not to see a connection, in spite of the director’s assertion that none of his inmates could have escaped.
    Instinctively he had to admit that Cathy d’Humières’s fears were well founded: this was not just some business about a horse. It gave you shivers down your spine, the way the animal had been killed.
    The sudden roar of an engine caused them to turn round.
    A big Japanese four-wheel drive tore up the road and came to a sudden halt a few metres away. The cameras instantly turned to focus on the vehicle. In all likelihood they were hoping for a glimpse of Éric Lombard, but they could have spared themselves the trouble: the man who stepped out of the car was in his sixties, with an iron-grey crew-cut. His height and build were those of a military man or a retired lumberjack. He was also wearing a lumberjack’s checked flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal powerful forearms, and he did not seem to feel the cold. Servaz saw that he did not take his eyes off the carcass. He did not even notice their presence; circling their little group, he strode quickly over to the horse. Then Servaz saw his broad shoulders sag.
    When the man turned to look at them, his bloodshot eyes were shining. With pain – but also anger.
    â€˜What bastard did this?’
    â€˜Are you André Marchand, Monsieur Lombard’s steward?’
    â€˜I am.’
    â€˜Do you recognise this animal?’
    â€˜Yes, it’s Freedom.’
    â€˜Are you sure of that?’ asked Servaz.
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Could you be more explicit? His head is missing.’
    The man glared at him. Then he shrugged and turned back to the animal’s remains.
    â€˜Do you think there are many bay yearlings like him in the region? He’s as recognisable to me as your brother or sister is to you. With or without his head.’ He pointed to the left foreleg. ‘He has this white stocking halfway up his pastern, for example.’
    â€˜His what?’ asked Servaz.
    â€˜The white stripe above the hoof,’ translated Ziegler. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Marchand. We’re going to have the carcass taken to the stud farm in Tarbes for an autopsy. Was Freedom receiving any kind of medical treatment?’
    Servaz could not believe his ears: they were going to perform a toxicology examination on a horse.
    â€˜He was in perfect health.’
    â€˜Did you bring his papers?’
    â€˜They’re in the 4x4.’
    The steward went to rummage in the glove compartment and came back with a pile of papers.
    â€˜Here is his