“Why go through me? You afraid of him?”
“It’s not that. But officially, I can’t.”
“Then try being unofficial.”
“Anne, this is important.”
“What’s this all about, now? You turn up just like that, all of a jitter, like a schoolboy going to his first party, and then you ask me to do you a favor without even telling me why?”
De Palma pulled over a chair and sat down beside her.
“The other day, someone shot at me,” he blurted out.
She immediately pulled her feet off the table and leaned toward her colleague.
“WHAT?”
“You heard me.”
She ran a nervous hand through her hair and stood up.
“And now you tell me!”
At first, she looked at him tenderly, then her expression hardened. De Palma shook his head in surrender.
“I found the bullet and showed it to Diaz, he …”
“Just a second, Michel, just a second. You’re telling me that you were shot, you found the bullet, you showed it to Diaz and …”
Moracchini was worried. She walked round the desk to sit down opposite the Baron.
“Michel, look at me. We’ve known each other for fifteen years. You’re the only cop I admire in this fucking profession. You’re the man who … Anyway, I think you’ve seriously lost the plot and you need a good head doctor plus a few months of R and R.”
She let a long moment of silence go by, then moved close enough to touch him.
“Show me.”
He uncovered his shoulder. A piece of lint with two strips of plaster made a white square on his brown skin. She placed a kiss delicately on the dressing.
“‘The little kiss that cures everything,’ as my father used to say.”
He realized that he had not felt the least touch of affection for days.
“I spoke to Maistre yesterday. We talked about you a lot, but he didn’t mention that. There’s male solidarity for you. How touching.”
It was difficult for de Palma to hide his emotions. His temples had tightened and were pressing on his eyes. He wanted to hold Moracchini in his arms, even for a moment. But he stopped himself.
“Le Gulvinec isn’t here at the moment,” she added in a somber voice. “He’s on leave back in Brittany. Lucky him. It’s baking here. A real scorcher.”
De Palma rubbed at his forehead.
“What did Diaz tell you?”
“He said that the bullet came from a SIG and that the gun had already been used in a hold-up. He also told me that Le Gulvinec had caught the case. Young thugs from the north suburbs robbing the local Arab grocers.”
“Why don’t you call Maistre? It’s his section, after all! If they’re his local thugs, then he must know them. Also, he’d love you to call him. I bet he hasn’t slept since you told him your story.”
Daniel Romero came into the office and came up to the Baron.
“M. de Palma, I have been so much wanting to meet you!”
“So you’re the new recruit?” De Palma said, shaking Romero’s hand. “How’s old Casetti?”
“Fine. Listen, I’m really pleased to … I mean, to get to know you, Michel. I’ve heard so much about you.”
De Palma kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Romero caught Moracchini’s eye.
“When I was in the B.A.C., Maistre was always telling us that there was only one good officer on the force … and it was you. The 36, the French Connection, the works.”
“That’s nice for the rest of us!” Moracchini said.
De Palma stood up, holding the small of his back as though nursing lumbago.
“Tell me, Daniel, what if I said the name Ben Mansour?”
Romero sat down, propped his chin in his hand, and flicked his lips with his index finger.
“Ben Mansour … Shit, that does ring a bell … But in the B.A.C. you see so many of them! Ben Mansour …”
“A grocer, on rue de Lyon.”
“Ah right … a hold-up in a corner store. It was the gang from La Paternelle, with a few boys from Bassens. Arabs and gypsies who’d teamed up.”
Romero was waving his hand in the air.
“Seriously mean bastards, I can tell you. They’d put a bullet in you for the slightest reason. In Ben Mansour’s place, they shot up the bottles of plonk. Poor old bastard.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No. He died shortly afterward, just like that. It was really sad.”
“And then?”
“Some bigshot in your office took over the case. We gave him everything we’d found out, but it didn’t do any good.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, in the B.A.C. you know no one can spell their own names!”
“Leave it out, Daniel, don’t start that crap.”
“The man in the Criminelle … I can’t remember his name, something weird, with a Breton ring … anyway, he never got back to us.”
“Le Gulvinec. He’s a good cop. When was all this?”
Romero looked up at the ceiling and wrung his hands, as though to rack his memory.
“1988. In the winter and spring. I’m sure about that. The year my daughter was born.”
De Palma studied Romero for a while. He was in very good shape. An athlete’s physique and square features, which suggested a straight character, but with considerable abilities beneath his rather rugged look.
“We questioned one of those bastards once. It was some years later, in 1991 or thereabouts. A little routine I.D. check at the McDonalds drive-in on the roundabout, and who do we come across? Jérôme Lornec.”
“The gypsy?”
“Spot on. In an Audi A6 and everything. The bugger was straight. With his papers, and all. But he wasn’t insured. And that was enough to drag him down to the station. The fucker was furious.”
Moracchini was tense, concentrating on what her new colleague was saying.
“The problem with people like Lornec is that they have an answer to everything.”
“What happened?”
“We knew he was involved, because we chased them once. They’d just done a grocery in the town center, the one next to the station, when you go down …”
“Rue de la Grande Armée,” said Moracchini.
“That’s it. So we went down boulevard des Dames then the dual carriageway toward L’Estaque. We caught up with them near the petrol station. A real race! All of us were breaking two twenty, with them in front with their foot down, driving like crazy! And they could have kept going! But then they turned off toward Saint-Henri, and so we were sure to nab them.”
Romero was gesticulating wildly, his left hand imitating the getaway car, and his right the pursuers.
“First roundabout, by Saumaty, they go straight across. Second, they mount the pavement. For a couple of seconds, they stop … Jesus, I had the window open … I remember it as if it was yesterday, it was poor old Jacky who was behind the wheel … Believe it or not, I emptied my clip. Six .38s in the driver’s door. Jesus fucking Christ!”
Romero stood up, gripped by a sudden excitement.
“My whole clip, it had never happened to me before.”
“I remember that business. Maistre told me about it. He misses you, you know.”
“Poor old Maistre, he had a lot of reporting to do about those six .38s. Me too, for that matter.”
“And what about Lornec?”
“Jesus, you don’t let up! Lornec was the driver. I put one in his shoulder.”
Romero slapped his left side.
“We found out because we heard tell that they were looking for a nurse later that night. At the time, they weren’t too careful with mobiles. But that’s over now!”
“What about the motor?”
“We found it at the bottom of Plan d’Aou. Classic.”
Moracchini tidied away a file that was lying on her desk, making as much noise as possible.
“And Lornec?” said de Palma. “W
hat happened when you nabbed him at McDonald’s?”
“I got him to take off his shirt, and bingo! He had a lovely scar on his left shoulder.”
“Nice one,” said de Palma with a whistle.
“That day, I cracked. I stood right in front of the fucker and said: ‘I’m the one who got you in the shoulder. The next time, it’ll be one in your head.’”
Romero sat down, lost in his memories.
“All he answered was: ‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’ End of story.”
“And what became of Lornec?”
Moracchini closed the cupboard door, making a sound of buckled sheet metal.
“He does odd jobs,” she said. “He’s a big boy these days. In fact, he’s just out of prison. He did a year for gun possession. Apparently, security vans are his thing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I told you, they were a gang of real bastards. You should see the boys in records to check if there’s anything new.”
“You haven’t got any other names?”
“No, none,” Romero said, gazing at de Palma as though he wanted to question him in turn.
“I’ve found a bullet that comes from a gun used in a hold-up by that gang. The Ben Mansour case.”
Romero literally jumped backward.
“Fuck me! Show!”
The Baron stuck his hand in his jeans pocket, removed the plastic bag and placed it daintily on the table. Moracchini looked at him sharply.
“I shouldn’t think it was them … after all this time. They must have passed on the piece, though it’s surprising they didn’t junk it.”
“Not that surprising. Such things happen. Especially with gangs like that. They aren’t great thinkers. They aren’t about to take a PhD in logic, if you see what I mean.”
“So, if I’m getting it right, you’re back on the team?”
“Soon, soon. A month from today.”
Romero was longing to ask where the bullet came from, he could sense it.
“That bullet almost killed me a few days ago.”
Moracchini looked daggers at the Baron. Romero didn’t know what to say. A few seconds later, he walked out of the office.
“I’ll have to check. But I reckon I know how to get hold of your Lornec,” Moracchini said.
She walked over to the Baron. He realized that she needed to hold him, to feel him against her. He hugged her waist and nestled his face in the hollow of her breasts. They stayed like that until the ringing of the telephone parted them.
Casetti looked around in all directions when he saw Moracchini draw up beside him and lower the window of her Xsara.
“Jean-Luc, I dropped by at your place, and your wife told me that you’d taken the car. So I drove round the block, and here I am. Can we talk for a minute?”
The gangster glanced at his rearview mirror.
“I’m alone, Jeannot, so don’t worry. I just want to ask you for some information. You’re not scared of a woman, are you?”
“Follow me, I don’t want to be taken for a grass.”
“O.K., except you follow me.”
She drove toward L’Estaque along the coast road, keeping Casetti’s Volvo in her mirror. Once they had reached the village, she took the chemin de Cézanne up toward the hills that overlooked the whole of the port of Marseille, with its huge sea wall, the Sainte-Marie pass and further away the white heights of the city.
Glancing around him, Casetti got out of his car. Moracchini checked her clip, undid the leather strap of her holster and walked over toward him.
“I’m here as a friend, Jean-Luc. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m trying to connect Lornec and Le Grand. Do you know how?”
The gangster swayed from one foot to the other, his hands stuck deep into his jeans pockets.
“Le Grand you say?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Morini!”
“Lornec is at home, in Les Tourettes, you know where! But for Morini, it’s more complicated …”
Casetti was panting as though he had just performed some feat of acrobatics.
“Does he carry a gun for Le Grand?”
“Who, Lornec?”
“No, the Pope!”
“People say a lot of things … anyway, what I’ve heard is that Le Grand spreads the good word whenever he can.”
“He’s a saint!”
For the first time, he looked straight at her.
“I swear it, he always spreads the good word.”
“And it’s best to listen.”
“I think so.”
She shifted so that she was looking at him in profile. In the underworld there are things that aren’t said face to face.
“I closed the case yesterday. But I’d advise you to change your mobile. Understand? Change it at once.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
“And if you hear about a SIG 9 mm lying around there, you phone me, O.K.?”
“O.K., Madame. I’ll ask around for you, but don’t think I’m turning into a grass. This is just returning a favor.”
She lowered her head and whispered:
“And if you want my advice, drop Le Grand. It’s starting to smell bad for him.”
She turned on her heel and went back to her car. By radio, she notified Mélina, the center of all Marseille’s police, of her whereabouts just in case Casetti changed his mind and lost his cool.
Lornec was sitting on a low wall outside a building. He looked to be rehearsing his prison career to a couple of teenagers who were hanging on his words.
“What shall we do, Jean-Louis? Jump him?”
Maistre dropped his binoculars onto his stomach.
“This is a gypsy camp, my old mate. You can’t barge in just like that! We’ll go round the block and in from the other side. After that, let me handle it.”
Maistre started up the unmarked Clio and drove round Les Tourettes: two rows of shacks lined with the wrecks of cars, standing back from the coast road, between Saint-André and L’Estaque.
The Clio pitched across the bumps on the only road. Maistre stopped in front of the second house and got out. A little old man, bearded and wrinkled like a piece of old fruit, raised the curtain over the entrance and shook the officer’s hand. They exchanged a few words, then Maistre returned to the Clio.
“It’s O.K. We’re expected.”
Lornec had not moved. He stood up and waved away the teenagers when he saw the Clio approaching.
“Jérôme Lornec?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Commandant Maistre of the north section and this is Commandant de Palma of the Brigade Criminelle. Can we ask you a couple of questions?”
“Anything you want, boss!”
Lornec was more than 1.80 meters tall, lean and wiry. His face was pockmarked, his hair black, and his green eyes flashed with energy. He kept tensing the muscles of his jaw while he gazed from one policeman to the other.
“We’ve found a weapon,” said Maistre, “a SIG that belonged to you and your gang a few years back. Does that ring a bell?”
“I’ve never had a gun, boss.”
“Bullshitting already! Look, Jérôme, you’re going to change your tune, because you and I haven’t got any time to waste. This weapon, we’re not trying to pin it on you, because we know you’ve got nothing to do with this business. Only it’s killed somebody, and it used to belong to you. So, as we’re decent people, and know that you’re a real man, we’ve come along to talk to you respectfully.”
Maistre walked over to the gangster.
“Respect, Jérôme! But if you mess me around, you’ll be explaining yourself to the magistrates.”
“O.K., boss! Respect. It’s just I don’t get why you’ve come to see me. Because the guns from back then were captured.”
Maistre and de Palma glanced at one another for a second.
“I was even questioned about that SIG. It had my prints on it. Y
ou should look in your own house, boss!”
Maistre took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. He nodded to de Palma to indicate that he could now join in.
“They say that you’re working off and on for Le Grand. Is that true?”
Lornec’s expression changed at once. He was angry, and bristling with violence.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Are you taking us for idiots? Don’t try and be smart. Does the 421 ring any bells?”
Lornec scuffed up the street dust with the tip of his shoe.
“You know where I mean? The nightclub, near Marignane, with the dice-shaped neon lights on the front.”
“I go there sometimes.”
“I know, and once you were seen with a certain Morini. You know who I mean.”
“Don’t know him,” Lornec said, shrugging.
“The snag is, kid, that we’ve got photos.”
De Palma walked into the middle of the road. It was deserted. He kicked a tin can hard, making it bounce against the wall.
“In your opinion, how many people know that you’re talking to the pigs? How many, apart from your tribe?”
“I couldn’t give a fuck, boss! Everyone knows I’m no grass.”
“For now they do, Lornec. For now. But I’d advise you to watch out in the future. Because I’m going to put the word around.”
Lornec clenched his teeth. His eyes looked as though they were going to pop out of their sockets. The veins in his arms stood out.
“What do you want from me? For me to tell you I’m with Le Grand? Everyone’s with him these days, you prick. You know that as well as I do!”
“O.K., cool it! Just try and understand what we’re after.”
De Palma took out his notepad.
“The scene is the northern suburbs. The three boys who might have used that SIG are in the same gang. Their names are Lornec, Vandevalle and Santiago. They’re travelers. Vandevalle was nailed in 1988 for armed robbery, he went down twice, including five years for pimping. He died in 1997 in the scrubland round Carpiagne—it was the start of the barbecue season. Santiago: done for armed robbery in 1990. He was the youngest. Three sentences: possession of a weapon, robbery and criminal conspiracy. Died in April 1998.”
“A work accident?” Maistre asked.
“Exactly.”
“Still nothing to say, Lornec?”
The Beast of the Camargue Page 15
