Excerpt from The Frozen Dead by Bernard Minier, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'I've heard strange things about the Wargnier Institute,' Spitzner had said.

'I spoke to Dr Wargnier on the telephone. He made an excellent impression on me.'

'Wargnier is very good,' Spitzner conceded.

She knew, however, that Wargnier would not be there to welcome her, that it would be his successor as head of the Institute, Dr Xavier, a Quebecois from the Pinel Institute in Montreal. Wargnier had retired six months earlier. He was the one who had gone over her application and given it his approval, before leaving his post; he had also warned her in the course of their numerous telephone conversations how difficult her task would be.

'It's not an easy place for a young woman, Dr Berg. And I'm not just referring to the Institute; I mean the area around it. That valley . . . Saint-Martin . . . You're in the Pyrenees, the Comminges region. The winters are long, and there's not much to do. Unless you like winter sports, of course.'

'I am Swiss, don't forget,' she replied, a touch of humour in her voice.

'In that case, I have one piece of advice: don't let yourself get too absorbed in your work, keep some time for yourself – and spend your free hours outside. It's a place that can become . . . disturbing . . . after a while.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'And another thing: I won't be here to help you get settled. My successor, Dr Xavier from Montreal, will have that honour. He's a practitioner with a very good reputation, very enthusiastic. He's due to arrive here next week. As you know, they're ahead of us over there with regard to the treatment of aggressive patients. I think it will be very interesting for you to compare your points of view.'

'I agree.'

'In any case, we've needed an assistant to the director of the establishment for quite a while now. I didn't delegate enough.' Diane was once again driving under a canopy of trees. The road continued to climb until it reached a narrow wooded valley that seemed to be enveloped in a stifling, noxious intimacy. She cracked her window open and a penetrating fragrance of leaves, moss, needles and wet snow tickled her nostrils. The sound of a nearby torrent almost drowned the purr of the engine.

'A lonely place,' she said out loud, to give herself courage.

She drove cautiously through the gloom of the winter morning. Her headlights grazed the trunks of fir and beech trees. An electricity cable followed the road; branches leaned against it as if they no longer had the strength to support themselves. From time to time the forest opened out to reveal a barn with a moss-covered slate roof – closed, abandoned.

She glimpsed some buildings further along, past a bend in the road. They reappeared as she came out of the bend – several houses of concrete and wood with large picture windows, backed up against a forest. To reach them, a drive led down from the road, over a metal bridge above the water then across a snowy meadow. Obviously deserted, run down. She did not know why, but those empty buildings, lost deep in this valley, caused her to shiver.

Then a rusting sign at the entrance to the drive: 'LES ISARDS HOLIDAY CAMP.'

Still no hint of the Institute. Not even a signpost. It looked as if the Wargnier was not exactly looking for publicity. Diane began to wonder if she had taken the wrong road. The National Geographical Institute map, scale 1/25,000, lay open on the passenger seat next to her. One kilometre and a dozen bends further along she spotted a lay-by bordered by a stone parapet. She slowed down and turned the wheel. The Lancia bounced over the potholes, churning up splatters of mud. She grabbed the map and got out of the car. The damp air enveloped her like a clammy sheet.

Excerpted from The Frozen Dead by Bernard Minier. Copyright © 2014 by Bernard Minier. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Minotaur. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.