The Baron asked Luccioni gently if he knew who had been behind it. The old man shook his head.
“Jo, you didn’t get me here just to show me Franck’s watch, did you? If you know something, then tell me. I need to know. Otherwise there’ll be no investigation. You understand, don’t you?”
Luccioni did not react, but stared at De Palma for a long time.
“There is one thing I do know, Inspecteur. If I find the fucker who did it … follow me?”
Jo wanted his revenge and was ready to do anything to get it. But one thing was sure: his son’s murderer was not a mobster; if he had been, gangland justice would have been done by now. He had sent his daughter as a scout, to see if an official investigation could be opened. De Palma knew that he had to tread carefully. Police headquarters was full of leaks, and Jo must have a few close acquaintances among his more dodgy colleagues.
“Don’t even think about it, Jo. Don’t forget your daughter. And don’t try to tail me to get to him.”
“I was too strict with Franck. His poor mother did the best she could. But boys aren’t like girls. They want to have honor and be strong, they want to be like their father …”
Luccioni remained silent for some time, as though all his life’s failures were passing before his eyes.
“Do you know who he hung around with?”
“No idea. He never told me his business, if you see what I mean. He was too scared of me … and then there was that motorbike, the one my daughter told you about, and a so-called diving accident. A drowning. But my son had been diving ever since he could swim. Your dickhead of a forensic surgeon didn’t know that! And as he was old Jo’s son, no-one gives a damn if he snuffs it.”
Luccioni leaned over his kneading machine, picked up the heavy dough, put it on the marble worktop and separated it into small, regular spheres.
“Why did you seek me out? Why me, and not someone else?”
“Because I know you’re straight and a very good policeman. Those are two things I respect. Plus I reckon you’re the only person who’d agree to looking into my son’s death.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I know you like this kind of case.”
Jo picked up a ball of dough, shaped it in the palm of his hand and placed it on a tray. Then he took another one.
“Inspecteur, I’d rather you left that way,” he said pointing a floury finger at a door at the far end of the lab.
Luccioni turned his back, and de Palma walked out without a word.
Outside, the town was beginning to shift about like a reptile. He felt fatigue overwhelm him like a shock wave. He got into his car and drove home, his head vacant. He would see about all of this on Monday.
*
The answering machine showed that he had two messages: the first was from his mother, who was expecting him for their usual Sunday lunch; the second was from Maistre, who had called and not said much; for the past few years he had been convinced that his phone was bugged.
It was 9:00 a.m., time to have a shower and call Maistre. He placed his latest acquisition in the CD player: “Aida,” with Renata Tebaldi, Carlo Bergonzi and Giulietta Simionato. There was nothing new about it, it was simply a classic.
“Ritorna vincitor! … E dal mio labbro
Uscì l’empia parola! Vincitor
Del padre mio … di lui che impugna l’armi
Per me …”
The divine Tebaldi filled his four-room flat while he smothered his cheeks with shaving foam.
He thought about the negative hand. It did not mean much to him, but it brought back some vague memories from primary school: a lesson about prehistory learned by heart, which said that men at that time dressed in animal skins and lived by hunting and fishing. He remembered an image in a history book: a cave feebly lit with Cro-Magnon torches showing paintings of animals on its walls—like in Lascaux—and the prints of hands.
He went over to his coffee machine, put two measures of coffee into it and lined up two cups to collect the black liquid. As he watched the foam form, he realized that he had put two cups, just as he had every Sunday morning. But Marie was gone. It had been two months now. He had asked to see her at her parents’ place in the Alps, but she had refused. It was not yet the right time.
“Vincitor
De’ miei fratelli … ond’io lo vegga, tinto
Del sangue amato, trionfar nel plauso
Dell’Egizie coorti … E dietro il carro,
Un re … mio padre … di catene avvinto! …”
As he drank his coffee, he tried to make a connection between Luccioni and Christine Autran, but found nothing that could give him the slightest clue, or the beginnings of a lead.
“L’insana parola
O Numi, sperdete!”
Hunger tickled at his stomach. He opened the fridge and took out a slice of apple tart, which must have been three days old. As he bit into the soft pastry and the wrinkled apples, he racked his brains. Nothing. In fact, the only time he had had anything to do with prehistory was when Le Guen’s Cave was discovered. At the time, he had been put in charge of an investigation into the deaths of three divers found in the entry passage, a few meters away from the opening. This accident, which took place just two days before the official declaration of the discovery, had alerted journalists. Some sinister rumors had been doing the rounds.
Le Guen had been suspected of declaring his discovery only as a result of the deaths of the three men. De Palma had questioned him for a long time, and Le Guen had described the terrible dangers in the cave; he had made his discovery public so as to avoid any more such accidents.
Le Guen then told him that he had shared his discovery with a few friends, and had asked them to keep it secret. But the news had spread through the small world of diving like a trail of gunpowder, sparking fits of jealousy among the divers. Le Guen’s version checked out, so de Palma had not proceeded any further, but he had kept copies of statements from this unusual case in his personal records.
De Palma mentally traced an initial line: Le Guen’s Cave—diving—Luccioni—Autran—prehistory—negative hand. Luccioni’s name alone did not fit into the scenario.
The telephone rang. It was Maistre.
“Baron, I have to see you …”
De Palma did not have time to respond before Jean-Louis hung up, which left him only a few minutes to get dressed and make more coffee.
“Al seno d’un padre
La figlia rendete
Struggete le squadre
Dei nostri oppressor!”
Ten minutes later, Maistre was ringing his doorbell like crazy.
“What’s up with you, Le Gros? Have you come to tell me more about the M.L.A.?”
“It’s no laughing matter … yesterday I got another message from that bunch of loonies.”
“What did they want this time?”
“The same thing.”
“And that’s why you’ve woken me up on a Sunday morning? Listen to what I bought yesterday.”
“Is it ‘Aida’?”
“With Tebaldi and Bergonzi.”
“The older you get, the newer the recordings!”
“Piss off, Le Gros.”
“Marie phoned me up yesterday.”
“And?”
“We spoke for two hours. You should go and see her. She misses you.”
“Not yet. And anyway, I’ve got one hell of a case on my plate. I tell you, I’m in for some sleepless nights.”
The Baron cut through the air with his right hand, then sat down and poured out some more coffee.
“I sacri nomi di padre … d’amante
Né profferir poss’io, né ricordar …
Per l’un … Per l’altro … confusa … tremante …”
“Tell me, Le Gros, do you remember Le Guen’s Cave?”
“What, that prehistoric site they found in the creeks? It’s at Sugiton, isn’t it? There were three deaths. Weren’t you on the case?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I was. I kept copies of the statements.”
“Why are you telling me about all this?”
De Palma told him about the death of Christine Autran, the search of her flat, and his meeting with old Luccioni. He then mentioned the strange death of Hélène Weill and the negative hand found by the gendarmes. A hand drawn using a stencil, as they did in prehistoric times, in Le Guen’s Cave for example.
Maistre looked at his old friend. He seemed tired, but the flame was still burning.
“I don’t trust these kinds of connections,” he said. “Beware, Baron, many mistakes have been made by working like that. You think it all fits together, then you end up in a terrible mess … Just because two corpses are found in the same place five months apart, it doesn’t mean there’s any criminal link between them. As for the woman in Cadenet, that might just be a coincidence. The modus operandi wasn’t the same. Not even similar. Neither Autran nor Luccioni were sliced up by a lunatic. You know how serial killers work: always the same method!”
De Palma disappeared into his bedroom without a word. Maistre heard him pull open a cupboard and rummage though his papers. Some time later, his friend returned holding a wad of documents as fine as cigarette papers. He passed half of them to Maistre, who cast an expert eye over the witness statements. They were carbon copies of the originals.
DEATH BY DROWNING
QUESTIONING OF MR AUDISIO Francis, aged 38,
French, residing 34000 MONTPELLIER
The report was dated September 1, 1991, and signed by Inspector Claude Duluc:
Statement by Monsieur Audisio Francis, born 14/11/53 in Montpellier, commercial engineer, residing Montpellier, tel: 76.35.25.78.12, who declared:
I am a member of the Grande Bleue Club, Port des Goudes, 13008 Marseille, and as such I led a group of divers from Montpellier. The course was to last for ten days, beginning on 31/08/91.
There were fifteen people in the group. Today we organized a dive for eight people. They left the port at about 9:45 in two groups, with two boats of four people, me included.
They went to Sugiton creek. At 11:00, the dive began, with four people going down 25 meters to reach the cave. Of these four people, one was inexperienced. I was one of this group. We went into the cave, a kind of underwater cavity, which we explored with our torches. We stayed for about eight or ten minutes before starting to go back up. I was leading, and when I looked down I could see the group of three people. I emerged from the hole. I waited for the others, in vain.
I resurfaced to call for the security group to help those three people.
We tried to go back into the cave. But there was a cloud of silt and opaque matter making this impossible. We tried everything, I did all I could to find them, and I ran out of air. A companion took me back up by sharing his air with me.
I can’t explain what happened because it was behind me. Did they panic? Couldn’t they find the way out?
In terms of equipment, everyone had a cylinder of compressed air with capacity for 40 minutes, a diving suit, flippers, a mask, a snorkel, a ballast belt and a torch. In the group were Patrick Granville, Gérard Sylvain and Christophe Pietri.
I declare the above to be true.
The witness signed the original document, which is appended.
Inspecteur de Police.
Maistre looked up at de Palma and waved the paper at him.
“There isn’t much of interest here. But I do remember that, at the time, they said on television that the entrance was thirty-eight meters down, and he says twenty-five.”
“At times like that, people often can’t remember the details.”
“If you say so …”
Maistre, doubtful as ever, continued to leaf through the pages. He came across a report by the Baron:
Observations on the body of PIETRI Christophe, born 11/10/60 in Montpellier. 6 rue Ampère, 34000 Montpellier.
The body of the third victim was brought up and taken in charge by the boat “La Bonne Mère,” from the Marseille coastguards.
It was transported to the port of Pointe-Rouge for examination.
On board “La Bonne Mère” with coastguards, we registered the presence of a man’s corpse in a bodybag.
He was already dead. Caucasian type. Dark brown hair. Dressed in a blue diving suit. The coastguards gave us the objects found on the victim: diving cylinders, almost empty. The first one registered 0302685, the second 0304726. The coastguards indicated that when he was found, the tanks’ valves were set in the parachute position. Two flippers, a snorkel, a mask, a knife and an ascension parachute.
All of these objects were taken in charge by the team of the 8th Arrondissement, before being deposited at the headquarters of the 9th Arrondissement of Marseille.
A requisition was made and the body transferred to Saint Pierre morgue at 19:40.
Inspecteur Divisionnaire.
Further on, Maistre found another report drawn up by the Baron. It was briefer than the others:
DE PALMA Michel
Inspecteur Divisionnaire.
I declare that Doctor Claude MARCELLIN, of the coastguards, examined the three bodies, and for each delivered a descriptive certificate in which he indicated that death occurred by drowning during a scuba–diving expedition, and that examination of the bodies revealed nothing to contradict this fact.
Examination of the faces of Gérard SYLVAIN and Christophe PIETRI showed that each of them was covered with saliva, mucus coming from their orifices, their eyes and mucous membranes swollen.
“Hey, Michel, do we have to read all this stuff? It happened ten years ago.”
De Palma rapidly flicked through the pages.
“You never know, Le Gros. I do remember that at the time there was something which surprised me. That’s why I kept copies. Here, this is it. Listen, this is one of the coastguards talking:
The cave’s entrance is approximately 1 meter wide by 1.50 meters high.
We found one of the bodies about 13 meters down the tunnel of the cave. I must point out that inside the cave there is zero visibility.
The body was floating about 50 cm above the bottom, its head turned toward the far end of the cave, its feet toward the entrance, facing the ground.
The diver no longer had the mouthpiece of his regulator in his mouth. His lead belt had slipped down and was around his knees.
He had no BC vest.
I confirm that when I found the diver’s body, visibility was about 5 to 10 cm and there were no jutting rocks on which he might have become stuck.
I found no torch on the body.
“What do you find surprising in all that?” Maistre asked.
“I don’t know. But it did make me wonder. Why didn’t he have a torch? Why was his lead belt around his knees?”
“You’re right, it is a bit odd. But still, nothing to get into a fix about. Maybe his belt was around his knees because one of his companions tried to pull him backward … And maybe he lost his torch earlier. The coastguard says you couldn’t see further than 10 cm. How could he find his torch in such a soup? So what are you trying to prove, Baron? That these diving accidents are linked to today’s murders. You’re losing the plot. It was all ten years ago.”
“You never know!”
“There’s one thing I do know. You need some rest and relaxation. Go and see your wife. Tell her you love her, and that’s all there is to it.”
“A serial killer, Jean-Louis …”
“In that case, it’s a job for the gendarmerie. I know how you feel. You’re a hunter. A big-game hunter! An obsessive investigator. It’s all you have in your life. But Jesus, just for once, slow down a bit! You’re forty-seven, for crying out loud! In ten years’ time you’ll retire and it will all be over. So concentrate on your prehistory lecturer and tell the rest to fuck off.”
Maistre leaped up like a wild cat and went over to his friend.
“As a matter of fact, I know why you want to join up all these cases!”
�
�Why’s that?” de Palma mumbled.
“Because you want to nobble some psychopath. You’ve often talked to me about good and evil and all that claptrap. I know your theory: the bad side of human nature; we’re all monsters deep down, and the only difference between the nutters and us is a padlock in our heads, locking the door on our impulses. I know you want to nail the loony, like you nailed Ferracci. And I know why! It’s personal business, let’s put it that way … What you’re thinking is: ‘At last, someone worthy of my abilities!’ But you’re barking up the wrong tree. I repeat, the modus operandi isn’t the same! He can’t have drowned those divers ten years back, killed your lady and massacred the other two, whose names now escape me. There are no recurring behavioral patterns. But you reckon that at last you’re on to the master of murder! You’re proud as hell and all you’re thinking about is finding someone who’s up to your own megalomania. Even if you have to bend the evidence!”
Maistre fell silent for a while.
“Just you watch it, Baron. I might not be around to cover for you! In fact, I won’t be! I know you blew away that faggot Ferracci, like the piece of shit that he was! I’m not as thick as I look.”
De Palma looked up. His friend was staring at him harshly, as his father had when he had behaved particularly badly. Maistre was right. To achieve serenity and harmony, he would have to abandon a part of himself. But that was impossible. Either you were born a big-game hunter, or you weren’t.
“In notte cupa la mente è perduta …
E nell’ansia crudel vorrei morir”
“Come on, Jean-Louis. Let’s go for lunch at my mother’s. She’ll be pleased to see you.”
10.
At 2:00 a.m. on the morning of January 10, he slipped between the graves in Saint-Julien cemetery and reached the far wall. No-one could have seen him.
The First Fingerprint Page 8
