“It looks really bad, just a few meters away from the council building,” de Palma remarked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not like in Saint-Julien.”
“Watch it, de Palma, you’re not untouchable. Just deal with Autran! As for the rest, we’ll see what the gendarmes can extract from Caillol.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Commissaire. It’s just that there are only two of us working on a highly complicated case.”
“O.K., I’ll give you Moracchini on a permanent basis.”
“She’s a very good officer … excellent even. And what about Ferri?”
“Just see what you can do.”
“Thanks a bunch …”
De Palma had a fleeting vision of the long queue of witnesses at police headquarters, the questions that had to be asked, which were always the same, the reports to be typed out one after another, in other words, the dull side of policing in all its splendor, with nothing proven at the end of it beyond the fact that it was a contract killing carried out by a professional. He turned away and swallowed his anger.
Paulin did not believe in the Baron’s theories about the murders of Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier. He had succeeded in getting him taken off the Saint-Julien case and had now lumbered him with a gangland killing, as part of his great crusade against the mob. This was the only way he would be able to leave Marseille for a comfortable post at headquarters. It was the fast track to Paris.
At the station, Vidal spent an hour with Patrick Fitoussi, showing him dozens of photos. The mechanic shook his podgy cheeks at each one, as if to say “No, I don’t recognize him.” At 4:00 p.m., a disappointed Vidal took his statement. And that was the end of his Tuesday.
22.
Spring was at its height. Heat enveloped Marseille in a heavy, humid cloak. Everyone waited for thunderstorms, as a deliverance, but the storms failed to materialize. It was incomprehensible.
Hunched up in the police Clio, the Baron cursed the stifling heat. Beside him, Vidal was chain-smoking and fiddling with his mobile. The temperature did not seem to bother him.
It was 10:00 in the morning on Wednesday. Palestro had taken his students to a prehistoric site at Châteauneuf-les-Martigues, just by the motorway between Marseille and Fos.
All of a sudden, Vidal emerged from his torpor.
“Shit, Michel, I forgot my cuffs.”
“You always forget something! Don’t worry, I’ve got mine, and we shouldn’t need them anyway.”
“Really?”
“No, he’s a very well brought-up gentleman. Anyway, we’re only here to ask him a few questions.”
Thirty minutes later, they parked on the dusty track at the foot of the hills of L’Estaque. A wobbly, wooden signpost, its writing half faded, indicated the Vallon de Valtrède.
In the distance they could hear Palestro’s voice, coming from somewhere above. The heat weighed down on their shoulders as they followed the path that led up the valley, between pine trees burned in the recent forest fires. A smell of charcoal still hung in the air.
At the far end of the valley, they reached the prehistoric site of Châteauneuf-les-Martigues. From there, despite the tormented shapes of the pines, they had a superb view over the silvery waters of Lake Berre.
Palestro was standing in the middle of his students. “If you wish … the Upper Magdalenian, in other words the Magdalenian in its final phase, appears in various sites. For example, a series of cut flints have been found in the remains of the Cornille shelter. It is a very large shelter, which is no longer accessible … It has completely collapsed. Note also the sites of Carro, near Martigues, Lamanou, Riaux Cave on the L’Estaque coast, and of course Sainte-Baume. And, if you wish, going further north there is Bernucem and the cavernous shelter of Eden-Roc, in the Vaucluse.”
Vidal and de Palma stood back from the group of students. They could still hear the sounds of the motorway, rising up the valley on a slight breeze. At the center of the site, a corrugated-iron roof protected a wide trench, about two meters deep, that revealed a whole series of strata.
“We note too that Magdalenian culture, so brilliant in other regions—just think of Lascaux—seemed very poor to us in Provence for a long time. Most of the relevant literature was produced before the discovery of Le Guen’s Cave, and we’ve had to rethink our theories ever since … Just remember the polemic after the discovery. For example, it was thought that the reindeer, which was still present in Adaouste Cave, no longer existed further south, toward the coast. It was thought that those groups of hunters who had crossed the Rhône were in fact less numerous to the south of the Durance. It just goes to show how difficult research into prehistory can be.”
Palestro went over to the trench, followed by his group of students. Vidal caught sight of a pretty brunette who was chewing her pencil and furtively glancing around. When she noticed Vidal watching her, her expression changed and she pulled a nasty face.
“Here we see the Castelnovian industry. This is a very important deposit for the study of the Mesolithic and Neolithic. We are now standing on the bed of a vanished stream, between two strata of Urgonian limestone. There is nothing here that concerns the period we have been studying. I’ve brought you here so that you might have a better sense of a prehistorian’s work and, maybe, before the intermediate exams for this module, gain a better understanding of the transition between the Paleolithic and the Neolithic.
“To finish with the Magdalenian, in terms of artistic production, it has to be said that we used to have only one engraving. The little Ségriès bison, in Moustiers-Sainte-Marie. And then came the Le Guen bison … Remember the fineness of the execution. It was drawn on a curved wall … A model of perfection. It’s very important to note that it is presented at a three-quarters angle, which is extremely rare. This would have required real artistic mastery. And then, of course, there are the horses … which all of you know. Marvelous … So that was what upset all our wonderful theories. It was thought that the first man in Provence was crude, and completely stupid … But he has turned out to be one of the greatest, our first man. In terms of his lifestyle, I must admit that Le Guen’s Cave has not taught us very much. There is talk of hunting, of course. But that’s not particularly interesting. He may have gathered plants, buds, berries and shoots. Or else animal produce such as honey, eggs or larvae … There is less talk of fishing. It would seem that salmon did not swim up the few streams that flow into the Mediterranean—I mean, there were practically no salmon in the sea … This was not the case in Aquitaine. In fact, we think there were a few, highly mobile groups of hunter-gatherers … We draw this conclusion from the thinness of the floors in their shelters, their modest living areas, and their distribution … There were few or no permanent habitations, which seems to be in contradiction with Le Guen. But that’s the way it is.”
Vidal stepped down into the trench and ran his hand over the various layers of sediment. From the center of the excavation protruded a long measuring pole with centimeters marked in white on a yellow background. A colossus of a man, aged about fifty, appeared at the far end of the trench. He looked at Vidal suspiciously.
“Are you one of the students?”
“Not quite. My name’s Vidal, from the murder squad.”
The man dropped his trowel and brush.
“You’re investigating Christine’s death?”
“Yes, did you know her?”
“Vaguely. I work on the Castelnovian, and she was only interested in the Magdalenian. To my knowledge, she never came here.”
“This looks like really hard labor!”
“We have to do quite a lot of spadework. But most of it was done ages ago,” he said, kneeling down. “This is an old site … the picks have been put away, now its more about brushes.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Less and less. The most important artifacts have already been removed. The last piece we turned up was a very long pebble, with a geomet
ric pattern engraved on it. Very nice.”
Palestro had approached along the edge of the trench.
“These Mesolithic Provençals were still hunter-gatherers. They ate rabbits, deer or boar. But in the strata you can see here, there are also sheep bones. This is unique! However, there does not seem to have been any farming. Just remember that this was a moment when mankind’s environment changed enormously. There was economic and social evolution. Sheep farming was about to appear, agriculture would then follow and, at the same time, the idea of property. Just think of the huge repercussions this was to have on human behavior … Then read, or reread Proudhon …”
Palestro grinned broadly at his students, who tried their best to appreciate this unexpected allusion.
“Any questions?”
A slight wind cooled the air and brought with it a smell of oil from the refinery at Fos. De Palma walked through the site, being careful not to cross the ropes which marked off areas under investigation. He heard a voice behind him:
“So Monsieur de Palma, you have come back to see us?”
“Yes, Professor. You’re not easy to find. But your lessons are always so fascinating …”
“Thank you, but that’s not why you’re here!”
“I’m afraid not. Still, I would have preferred it that way. I could listen to you for hours.”
“That’s what my students do when they don’t fall asleep.”
“This is a magnificent site. It’s a pity about the motorway.”
“Yes, but modern man needs to be on the move.”
Palestro stood on a little hillock overlooking Lake Berre, and stared into the distance.
“So, Monsieur de Palma, what can I do for you?”
“I have to ask you a few questions; some are routine, others are more serious.”
“So let’s start with the serious ones.”
“I should point out that this is a routine questioning, nothing more. All the same, do not forget that you’re talking to two police officers on duty.”
“Let’s get to the point …”
They walked a few meters toward the diggers’ shed. Vidal joined them, ostentatiously removing a notepad from his rucksack.
“First question: why did you go into Christine Autran’s flat after her death? To be precise, before my first visit to her home, in other words during the month after her murder. And then again, between that visit and the official search we conducted in January.”
Palestro was not surprised by the question.
“It’s simple. Christine had some papers which belonged to me. That’s all … I have the keys to her flat …”
“You do realize that what you did is extremely serious.”
“Not at all. I went to a colleague’s flat to reclaim some documents. Full stop. And if that’s all, I don’t see what you’ve got on me.”
“Let’s proceed. Why did you go back a second time?”
“But I didn’t.”
“Perhaps not. Why did you erase the messages on her answering machine?”
“I didn’t erase any messages. I don’t see why I would have done that.”
“Really?” said Vidal. “On the one hand, you admit to going to Christine’s flat, on the other, you deny the facts.”
Despite the heat, Palestro seemed to shiver.
“I repeat, I wanted to get back a few papers. I have them in my office in Aix. They’re topographical studies of Le Guen’s Cave, and they’re extremely important because we only have one copy of them. I needed them for an article I’m publishing at the end of May.”
“Monsieur Palestro,” de Palma said. “Let’s say I believe you. But there’s something else that bothers me: I don’t understand why you went to Christine’s flat in early December, after she’d disappeared.”
“But I didn’t know that she’d disappeared. All I knew was that she’d given no sign of life for a week. She often did that when she had no teaching to do, which was the case at the time. I needed those notes. I tried to telephone several times before going round there. It was about December 7 or 8. I can’t remember exactly.”
Vidal raised his voice:
“So, she’s no longer answering the phone, and all that interests you are your papers!”
The prehistorian scratched his head, and looked condescendingly at the young policeman.
“I’ve just told you, she would often go quiet for several days. It wasn’t the first time I’d been to her flat to fetch some documents.”
“What time did you go there?”
“It was in the morning, at about 10:00.”
“That’s why Yvonne Barbier didn’t hear anything,” de Palma said to himself. “She must have gone out shopping.”
“And is there anything new on the items stolen from the laboratory?”
“No, nothing. I asked around, but didn’t find out anything. But haven’t you questioned everyone who has access to the lab?”
For two whole days, Vidal had quizzed the scientists and technicians working in the lab. He had even seen the cleaning lady. Nothing. The only lead was a period of two days between the last time Sylvie Maurel had examined the flints and the moment she had noticed they were missing. This was from February 21 to 22 last year, a few days before the disappearance of Agnès Féraud. But nothing in the report on her death provided a connection between these two events. The autopsy had been a mess.
“Monsieur Palestro,” said De Palma; “is it possible that Christine took them home with her? Like she did with your documents …”
Palestro stopped beside a clump of glasswort, which had grown up in the middle of the dig. He seemed troubled.
“No, no … that wouldn’t make any sense.”
But he was clearly disturbed. He looked round at the lake.
“Did you suspect Christine, Monsieur Palestro?”
“No, I didn’t. But it is true that she had changed over the previous few months.”
“What do you mean? She’d changed in her behavior toward you, or in general?”
“She often worked very late at the lab, she hadn’t done that before. She wouldn’t tell me what she was doing, whereas we used to be … One evening, after lessons, I followed her. She went home, then left again a few minutes later.”
“How long exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ten minutes perhaps.”
Palestro was embarrassed. He started to pace again, but more slowly.
“Did you hide?”
“Not really, I was on the other side of the road.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see what she was doing.”
“And then?”
“And then I thought she’d take her car, so I’d be able to follow her easily. But instead she got on the first tram, which meant I couldn’t. So I went home and thought things over.”
Vidal stood in the middle of the path, facing Palestro.
“So you stopped following her?” he asked.
Palestro took a step to one side and paused.
“What struck me was that she didn’t take her car, but she was dressed like someone going on an excursion.”
“Hang on, you were out to follow her, but you didn’t, supposedly because she took a tram! That’s a bit hard to swallow.”
“But it’s the truth. I just thought she must be heading for the creeks. But why at night? I have no idea.”
Palestro’s eyes clouded over. He breathed deeply and scraped at the small pebbles on the path with his shoe. In the distance they could hear the constant rhythm of huge oil tankers going in and out of the refinery.
“And you never saw her again …”
Palestro could not answer him. He was shaking all over. The Baron placed a hand gently on his shoulder and looked round at the dig. The students had gathered near the entrance, waiting for their tutor. Beneath the corrugated-iron roof, the colossus could be heard scraping at the earth with his trowel. From time to time, the noise stopped and a faint whistling emerged from the tren
ch. Always the same tune: Léo Ferré’s “Avec le temps.”
“There are some things you haven’t told me, Professor. You haven’t told me why you followed her that night in particular. Why?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Listen, Monsieur Palestro,” Vidal said, “we’re going to be honest with you: we have at least one good reason to take you into custody, and you could end up rotting in prison for a few months. Of course, we could turn a blind eye to what you’ve just told us, for the moment at least. But you must understand that your statement makes you the ideal suspect. This was a murder, you do understand that?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“So, I’ll ask you my colleague’s question again. Why did you follow her that evening?”
“I’ve told you, I have no answer to that. It must have been intuition.”
“Perhaps …”
They stared at each other for some time, then the scientist set off again. They went as far as the diggers’ shed. It was a dilapidated structure, just a few struts nailed to wobbly beams and covered with rusty corrugated iron. Through the window they could see a table covered with trowels of various sizes and a mason’s riddle.
“I have one more question to ask you,” de Palma said. “The evening in question … do you remember the exact date?”
“Of course. It was November 30. I never saw her again.”
“November 30,” Vidal repeated out loud, “and you never saw her again.”
De Palma looked daggers at his colleague.
“Do you know a psychiatrist called François Caillol?” asked Vidal, ignoring the Baron’s evil look.
Palestro leaned on the side of the shed.
“In the prehistory world, everyone knows Caillol. He specializes in neuropsychology and he worked with Christine on rituals, trances and hallucinations.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“No. Christine knew him well, but I don’t. In fact, I don’t really believe in all his theories.”
“What do you mean?”
The First Fingerprint Page 20
