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for typing a code, as well as a large red sensor where Xavier now placed his right index finger.
    â€˜Obviously, we don’t have this type of problem with our residents. They have given ample proof of their dangerousness. This is the second security barrier.’
    There was a little glassed-in office on the right. Once again Diane saw two figures behind the glass; she was sorry to see Xavier walk right by them without stopping. She would have liked him to introduce her to the rest of the staff. But she was already convinced he would do nothing of the sort. The two men watched through the glass as she went by. Diane suddenly wondered what sort of welcome she would have. Had Xavier spoken about her to anyone? Was he insidiously planning to make life difficult for her?
    For a fraction of a second she indulged in a nostalgic memory of her student room, her friends at the university, her office in the department … Then she thought of someone. She felt a flush come to her cheeks, and hastened to consign the image of Pierre Spitzner to the deepest recesses of her mind.
    *   *   *
    Servaz looked at himself in the mirror in the flickering glow of the neon light. He was wan. He leaned with both hands on the chipped edge of the sink and tried to breathe calmly. Then he bent down and splattered cold water onto his face.
    His legs could hardly hold him; he had the strange sensation he was walking on soles filled with air. The return journey by helicopter had been a rough one. The weather had taken a definite turn for the worse and Captain Ziegler had to keep a tight grip on the controls. Battered by the gusting wind, the chopper had made its descent swaying from side to side like a life raft on a raging sea. The moment the skids touched the ground, Servaz rushed to the toilets to throw up.
    He turned round, his thighs pressed against the row of sinks. Graffiti profaned some of the stall doors: ‘Bib the King of the Mountain’ (the usual boasting). ‘Sofia is a bitch’ (followed by a mobile telephone number). ‘The manager is a filthy bastard’ (a lead?). Then a drawing of several small Keith Haring-like characters, buggering each other in single file.
    Servaz took out the small digital camera that Margot had given him for his most recent birthday, went over to the doors and photographed them one by one.
    Then he went back out and along the corridor to the foyer.
    Outside it had started snowing again.
    â€˜Feeling better?’
    He detected sincere indulgence in Irène Ziegler’s smile.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Why don’t we go and question the workers?’
    â€˜If you don’t mind, I’d rather interrogate them on my own.’
    He saw Captain Ziegler’s lovely face go blank. He could hear Cathy d’Humières speaking to the journalists outside: stereotypical fragments, the usual bureaucratic style.
    â€˜Have a look at the graffiti in the toilets and you’ll understand why,’ he said. ‘There are things they might be more likely to reveal in the presence of a man … things they’d keep silent about if a woman were present.’
    â€˜Fine. But don’t forget that there are two of us on this investigation, Commandant.’
    *   *   *
    The five men watched as he came in, their gazes filled with a mixture of anxiety, weariness and anger. Servaz remembered they’d been held in this room since morning. Clearly someone had brought them food and drink. Scattered over the large conference table were empty cups, full ashtrays and the remains of pizza and sandwiches. Their stubble had grown and they were as hairy as castaways on a desert island, except for the cook – a fellow with a shiny bald head and earlobes pierced with multiple rings.
    â€˜Hello,’ said Servaz.
    No answer. But they sat up imperceptibly. In their eyes he could see they were surprised by his appearance. They’d been told a