“Yes, I suppose so … Are you going?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I … I mustn’t see you like this! Goodbye, Sylvie.”
*
When he got home, he wanted to empty his mind. He went to his CD player, put on the last act of “Tristan” and scanned to the end—the death of Isolde. Birgit Nilsson’s sublime voice, smooth and deep, mingled with the obscure depths of the orchestral performance.
“How soft and gentle is his smile
how sweetly his eyes open, my friends, can you see?”
On his balcony, his eyes focused on the dark mass of the Saint-Loup hills, piercing the black sky. He let his memories gently envelop him: long winter walks to the conservatory on place Carli, hand in hand with his twin, his other half; Wednesday visits to the mother superior of the convent of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, who was a distant cousin; the nun’s marshmallows, the obligatory prayer in the chapel, bathed in the soft light filtering through the yellow and lazulite stained-glass windows.
“These sweet voices which surround me
are they the waves of soft breezes?”
With his brother, he would kneel before the altar of white marble, which was always decked with freshly cut flowers. A few meters away to the left lay the mummified body of the order’s founder, a semi-saint who had lived in the nineteenth century. As he mumbled a ‘Hail Mary,’ Michel would glance at her embalmed corpse. He was so fascinated by her death mask that, one day, he could no longer resist pressing his face against the glass. He had taken a long look at those features, their severity smoothed by death. Her mouth was still crimson, her eyes looked as though they might open again at any moment, and her aquiline nose rose up above her white cowl with her hands crossed on her stomach and a rosary in her fingers, the founder of the order of Saint Joseph of the Apparition seemed to be fast asleep; perhaps she was dreaming of the African savannahs, the ochre stretches of the Sahara, or the deep jungles of Vietnam which she had tried to evangelize during her life as a missionary.
“Are they billows of delicious perfumes?
How they swell, how heady they are,
Shall I breathe, shall I look?”
Death had always fascinated Commandant de Palma. Even though he had lost his faith, it remained the big mystery.
He was fascinated by the death of others, and by his own killer instinct, which surprised him from time to time when he felt unbalanced. He would have flashes of fury, and over-exposed sequences spun in his mind, with images of cold blades cutting into soft flesh, bodies pushed into the void, crushed skulls.
The great darkness.
The big sleep, as they say.
“In the mass of waves, in the thunder of noise,
in the breath of the world, the universe,
I shall drown, be engulfed,
lose consciousness—supreme rapture!”
20.
In the dark corridor on the third floor of the Marseille high court, secretaries were going in and out of the magistrates’ offices carrying huge folders. De Palma was waiting beside a plastic fig tree, his bum aching on the hard, varnished bench. He was trying to think of an operatic air to pass the time, but his brain was still half asleep.
That morning, Commissaire Paulin had informed him that the public prosecutor had taken away the investigation into the killing in Saint-Julien from the murder squad. De Palma was there to see his deputy, to try to make him change his mind.
He did not like the high court on Monday mornings. Having failed to find a tune to hum, he had only one solution: to kill time by admiring the legs of the petite brunette, as dry as a stick, who was doing the most toing and froing perched on the high heels of her blue shoes.
The door of office number 4 opened. Christophe Barbieri, deputy public prosecutor, poked out his round head and motioned to the Baron to come in.
One wall of the magistrate’s office was taken up by a huge poster for the film La Femme du Boulanger and above the desk was the Declaration of Human Rights. Barbieri sat down straight away with an exasperated look on his face.
“So, Michel, where are you at with the Autran case?”
“I’m making slow progress, but I am progressing. Why?”
“As Paulin will have told you, I’ve spoken to the gendarmerie. They take a very dim view of your insinuations about their work.”
Barbieri was all but bald. He was wearing a mauve shirt, from which hung an ageless tie decorated with horses. At times his eyes took on an expression of infinite sadness; at others they were lit by a strange fire. He always worked listening to music, except during hearings, and his favorite composers were Mozart and Debussy. There was a huge laserdisc player on the rickety shelf behind him, between the legal books and his magistrate’s hat.
“What did the gendarmes tell you?”
“They found out that your colleague … what’s his name?”
“Vidal.”
“Yes, Vidal; they found out that Vidal paid a little visit to the priest of Saint-Julien.”
“So what?”
“And they don’t like it.”
“I couldn’t care less, Christophe.”
“You might not, but I do. The gendarmerie has made far more progress than you. So I’m taking the Saint-Julien murder away from you. I don’t want to see you meddle again. Is that clear?”
De Palma did not reply. He was afraid of losing his temper, which would not help matters. Barbieri was a tough, but straight, magistrate; everyone respected him, even the roughest villains. He was a hard worker, capable of spending entire days looking for the tiniest details which would scupper even the finest barristers. He did not tolerate police officers who presumed to criticize his working methods. De Palma was one of his few friends on the force; a friendship which had formed around their shared passion for opera.
“I can’t drop it now,” he said softly.
“Why is that?”
“Because of Christine Autran.”
“Why, because of Christine Autran?”
“I have to find out who killed her.”
“That’s your job! But I want to know more!”
“Before long you will, I should think. The snag is, there’s the other one.”
“Which other one?”
“The Saint-Julien and Cadenet killer.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“For the past few days, I’ve been thinking that they’re all connected, in one way or another.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s just what I think.”
“Just what you think? I want certainties and proof. And there, old chap, you have a problem. The Cadenet killer has been put away. The case is as solid as concrete. Before long, he’ll confess to it, and the killing in Saint-Julien too.”
“It’s not him.”
“How would you know?”
“I just know. And I’ll prove it. For both Cadenet and Saint-Julien.”
“Michel, I know you’re a great policeman. I’ve never doubted your abilities, but you’re going to drop Saint-Julien. I’m the one who decides, O.K.?”
“O.K., but it’s not him.”
“Come on now, you’re as stubborn as a mule. Out with it!”
“What you don’t seem to realize, Christophe, is that a shrink of his abilities would never make those mistakes. What’s more, he’s got an alibi.”
“Some alibi! He was having dinner with friends in a restaurant. I could cook up alibis like that every two seconds. As for Saint-Julien, he has no alibi whatsoever, apart from his claim that he was at home. Highly original. So, Michel, open your eyes. We’re sure about him!”
“Has he confessed?”
“No.”
“You’ll end up looking stupid in court.”
Barbieri went purple.
“The court’s my problem, NOT YOURS!”
“In fact, you’re not sure of anything.”
“Watch your step, Michel. I don’t appreciate your manners. So, explain yourself, or get
out of here!”
“I’ll tell you where I’m at with the Christine Autran murder. Firstly, I’ve found out that Autran and Franck Luccioni—who was found dead in the same place as Autran last July—knew each other. They were childhood friends. They grew up in the same neighborhood, Mazargues. Luccioni was without doubt murdered in Sugiton. Secondly, someone has been to her flat on boulevard Chave on two occasions. I’m sure of it. I’ve checked everything out. And I have a suspect: Professor Palestro, a prehistorian like her. Her boss, in fact! We’ve found his fingerprints all over her flat. But I don’t think he killed her, although I can’t be sure. In any case, he seems to be the only other person to have the keys to her place. Thirdly, I have a witness, Sylvie Maurel, who worked with Autran and Palestro. It’s a small world …”
Barbieri interrupted him with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t know if you’re going crazy, or if you’ve been drinking this morning, anyway, what can I say? Go on, you’re amusing me.”
“Really?” the Baron replied edgily. “Well, I have an informer who drinks at the Bar des Sportifs in Endoume. He volunteered the information that Lolo asked him to follow a woman. And guess who this woman was?”
“I give up,” Barbieri murmured.
“Christine Autran, Sir. So far, nothing very exciting, but where things get complicated is that he saw a man hovering around Autran’s flat: forty-something, about a meter eighty tall, thick spectacles … There, you see, things aren’t as simple as all that …”
“What are you on about? I don’t get it. Autran, Luccioni, what’s his name … What’s all this got to do with Caillol?”
De Palma grinned.
“If you hadn’t interrupted, you’d already know. Caillol worked with Autran.”
“What?”
“I’m not trying to make war between the forces, Christophe, but I learned from Sylvie Maurel that Caillol is a specialist in neuro-psychology and that he used to work with Autran.”
“Neuropsychology and prehistory? Can you be a bit clearer? Because I’m having problems taking all this seriously.”
“Caillol studied shamanism and hallucinatory phenomena in primitive tribes. And it seems that certain practices haven’t evolved since the dawn of time … There you are.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“So, what’s your hypothesis?”
“I don’t think Caillol is the guilty party, but I think he has a connection.”
De Palma drew an imaginary line in front of him.
“Autran, Luccioni, Caillol, the two murders, and the guy who was spotted by two witnesses. And I think we should add the three divers found in the tunnel just before the discovery of Le Guen’s Cave was announced. At the time, no-one, least of all me, suspected it was a triple murder. When I think back over it now, we really should have looked into it.”
He fell silent for a few seconds and frowned.
“I think we’re up against a group of loonies who practiced, or still practice, magical rituals.”
“Come on, your story is a bit far-fetched.”
“I’m telling you, he’ll kill again. And the sooner the better, because it will clarify things. But he won’t strike yet. He’ll wait for the psychiatrist to go on trial, then he’ll kill again in a year or two. Unless he goes somewhere else, which would be the worst scenario.”
Barbieri leaned back in his chair and sighed. Even if he was not completely convinced, he sensed that he ought to listen to the Baron.
“Put like that, I understand better. Is that all?”
“No. Shortly before Franck’s death last July, a man came to Jo Luccioni’s bakery. The man with the red motorbike, remember?”
“Yes, vaguely, so what?”
De Palma pointed a finger at Barbieri.
“So I think this investigation is just beginning, and that the gendarmes wanted to pull a fast one. You’ve made a real balls-up of all this!”
“Calm down, Michel. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. Another word like that, and I’ll take you off the Autran case.”
“I haven’t forgotten!”
“That’s enough, Michel. Control yourself!”
“Sorry, Christophe … Can I … Can I ask you for a favor?”
“What?”
“Let me see our psychiatrist friend.”
“There are times when I wonder why I don’t tell you to piss off, Commandant. Two things. Firstly, I don’t want you getting involved in the Saint-Julien case again. Secondly, I will let you see Caillol. But I’m warning you, you’ve got a fortnight to bring enough evidence to challenge the gendarmes’ case. I’m not doing anything without solid evidence. And I mean proof, not just your personal conviction that Caillol is innocent. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“You can see Caillol later this week, does that suit? But I’ll have to be there with you.”
Barbieri looked up at de Palma. This policeman did not want to lose the game of hide-and-seek which had now begun. He would make people talk, whatever the cost, pitilessly. He would devastate everything in his path, without leaving a single initiative to anyone else. Always on the offensive, even if that meant losing everything.
“This week, I’m going to Aix to question Professor Palestro.”
“O.K. Are you going to bring him in?”
“Maybe.”
21.
The 11.43 bullet which killed Jean-Marc Ferri had entered his left eye and come out through the back of his head. Bits of gray matter and scraps of skull were stuck to the headrest in the Fiat Uno. The blood was still fresh. But the most unusual thing about this gangland killing was that the hit-man had fired just once, from point-blank range.
De Palma walked round the car and examined the body of Véronique Ferri, Jean-Marc’s wife. At first glance, he could see three bullet holes, two in her back and one in her right temple. Véronique was lying on the ground, blood still flowing from her nostrils, her hand resting on the running board of the car. The door was open.
“I think she tried to run away, and he finished her off,” said Vidal.
“You’re right, Maxime.”
De Palma walked round the car again, then stood back to get an overview of the scene. A Megane pulled up, its siren blaring. Commissaire Paulin got out, crossed the security tape and strode toward de Palma without even looking at the carnage.
“Well?”
“Jean-Marc and Véronique Ferri, husband and wife. An 11.43 I’d say.”
“They’ve stepped up a gear,” Paulin murmured. “It’s the first time they’ve killed a woman.”
“And probably not the last …” remarked de Palma laconically.
“Any ideas?”
“None, except that for Ferri, it was inevitable. Just a matter of time. Everyone had it in for him. Especially the boys in Aix.”
Paulin approached the corpse. He looked at it for a few moments, his right hand on his tie, and then circled the Fiat. Beyond the yellow tape that closed off the scene of the crime, there was a growing crowd of onlookers: the old boys from the Le Globe bar, their racing predictions interrupted by the blasts, had crossed the road to join the schoolchildren on their way home for lunch.
“Have you picked up anything, Maxime?”
“I questioned the manager of the petrol station and his staff. They didn’t see anything.”
“And the passers-by?”
“I’ve spoken to four. Nothing doing, they each have their own version …”
“Who made the call?”
“The manager.”
“We’ll talk to him again, he must have seen something.”
“What do you reckon?”
“The wife was killed. There can be only two reasons for that: revenge, or else she recognized the guy.”
“I thought of that.”
“Go and fetch me the manager.”
Vidal returned with a short man aged about thirty. He had a dry face and greasy hair and was wearing
faded blue overalls with black oil stains on the elbows and knees.
“And you are …?”
“Patrick Fitoussi.”
“Well, Monsieur Fitoussi, where were you when you heard the gunshots?”
“I was at the till.”
“So, what did you see?”
“Nothing, I’ve already told your colleague …”
“You told my colleague a pack of bullshit,” de Palma yelled. “But things are different with me. With me, you’re going to talk. Was he alone?”
The mechanic looked at him fearfully.
“Yes.”
“On foot?”
“Yes.”
“So what did you see?”
“I …”
De Palma grabbed him by the overalls and pulled him close.
“DID YOU SEE ANYTHING OR NOT?”
Fitoussi began to shake all over.
“Yes, I did, but it was a way off …”
“I can understand why you’re scared … That’s normal. You’re coming along with us, Monsieur Fitoussi. We’re going to show you some photos. And you’re going to tell us if you recognize him, O.K.?”
“O.K., Sir.”
“Vidal, go with this gentleman and his employees and see what you can do.”
Paulin, who had been observing the scene, walked over to de Palma.
“Well done, de Palma, right in front of the journalists. I don’t know what gets into you sometimes.”
“If you don’t shake them up a bit, they don’t tell you anything. That’s how it goes in Marseille; people never see anything, hear anything or say anything, just like the three monkeys …”
“I don’t like that method, and you know it. I totally disapprove.”
De Palma almost jumped on him. He knew that Paulin had pulled strings to get him off the Saint-Julien case. He nodded toward the two bodies, which the forensics team had now removed from the Fiat.
“Look, Commissaire, he acted quite openly. They don’t even hide any more.”
“I know,” said Paulin, clenching his teeth.
They were now undressing the victims. Blood was still running from Véronique Ferri’s wounds. The smell of death mingled with the odor of benzene. Police officers were holding back journalists and onlookers, who were crowded at the edge of the cordon. The siren of a fire engine could be heard on boulevard des Dames. De Palma went back to the bodies.
The First Fingerprint Page 19
