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registration card and the booklet that goes with it.’
    Ziegler looked through the documents. Over her shoulder Servaz could see a multitude of columns, boxes and slots filled in with a tight, precise handwriting. And sketches of horses, face on and in profile.
    â€˜Monsieur Lombard adored this horse,’ said Marchand. ‘He was his favourite. He was born at the academy. A magnificent yearling.’
    His voice was filled with rage and sorrow.
    â€˜ Yearling? ’ whispered Servaz to Ziegler.
    â€˜A thoroughbred no older than a year.’
    While she was going through the documents, he could not help but admire her profile. She was attractive, with an aura of authority and competence. He thought she must be in her thirties. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Servaz wondered whether she had a boyfriend or was single. Unless she was divorced, like him.
    â€˜Apparently you found the stall empty this morning,’ he said to the breeder.
    Marchand gave him another sharp look that reflected all the disdain an expert feels towards a philistine.
    â€˜Most certainly not. None of our horses sleep in a stall,’ he sniffed. ‘They all have loose boxes. Or free stabling, or daytime paddocks with shelters, so they can be together. I did find his box empty, that is true. And signs that the stable had been broken into.’
    Servaz didn’t know the difference between a stall and a box, but it seemed fairly important to Marchand.
    â€˜I hope you’re going to find the bastards who did this,’ said Marchand.
    â€˜Why did you use the plural?’
    â€˜For heaven’s sake, do you think a man on his own could carry a horse up there? I thought there was supposed to be security round the power plant.’
    No one seemed prepared to answer that question. Cathy d’Humières, who had been standing to one side until now, walked up to the steward.
    â€˜Please tell Monsieur Lombard that we will do everything in our power to find the perpetrator. He can call me at any time. Tell him that.’
    Marchand studied the high-ranking official standing there before him as if he were an ethnologist and she the representative of some utterly bizarre Amazon tribe.
    â€˜I will tell him,’ he said. ‘I would also like to recover the body after the autopsy. Monsieur Lombard will probably want to bury it on his land.’
    â€˜ Tarde venientibus ossa, ’ declared Servaz.
    He thought he could detect a hint of astonishment in Captain Ziegler’s eyes.
    â€˜That’s Latin,’ she said. ‘And it means?’
    â€˜â€œThose who come late to dine will find only bones.” I’d like to go up there.’
    She looked deep into his eyes. She was almost as tall as he was. Servaz could tell that the body beneath her uniform was firm, supple, muscular. A beautiful, healthy, uncomplicated girl. He was reminded of his wife, Alexandra, when she was young.
    â€˜Before or after you question the watchmen?’
    â€˜Before.’
    â€˜I’ll take you there.’
    â€˜I can go on my own,’ he said, pointing to the cable car station.
    She gave a vague wave of her hand.
    â€˜This is the first time I’ve ever met a cop who speaks Latin,’ she said with a smile. ‘The cable car has been cordoned off. We’ll take the chopper.’
    Servaz went pale.
    â€˜Are you the pilot?’
    â€˜Surprised?’

3
    The helicopter aimed for the side of the mountain like a mosquito buzzing over an elephant. The huge slate roof of the power plant, the car park full of vehicles were both abruptly left behind – too suddenly for Servaz’s taste, as his stomach lurched.
    Below them, their white boiler suits barely visible against the whiteness of snow, the investigators went to and fro from the cable car station to the mobile lab, carrying the small cases with the samples they’d taken. Viewed from on high, their scurrying seemed ridiculous: the