The Beast of the Camargue

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  On the other hand, this meeting with Bérard had sent his mind into a panic. He had been expecting anything but that, and suddenly whole sections of the mystery had fallen. He now understood why La Balme farmhouse had meant so much to Steinert and why he had changed nothing in most of its rooms.

  He stopped beside the vines that grew along the Downlands. To the right, between the white crests of the rocks that rose up as far as the fortress of Les Baux, the sky was still red from the sun. In the valley, a silvery light flattened out the contours.

  The Baron went in among the pines, took a few steps, then stopped. There was a smell of warmth and roots. As far as the eye could see, there were the twisted trunks of oaks and stumps rotting on a bed of needles. As the night fell, the pines and mastic trees stood like threatening sentinels.

  The Baron retraced his steps. In the distance, he could hear cars driving up to Les Baux, and a solitary cuckoo among the creaking branches.

  It must be warm on the beach.

  The sand is golden with pink and violet glints.

  The image is slightly hazy,

  Stippled by time.

  Isabelle is in her swimsuit.

  She’s fifteen and a half.

  She’s walking across the sand like a clown.

  Close-up. A smile at the camera.

  She’s just been for a swim. Her swimsuit is taut.

  Her breasts are hard.

  She has sand on her calves and the tops of her thighs.

  Her grandmother is watching her and waving at the lens.

  Then the letters and numbers stand out on the white background.

  Maistre turns off the projector.

  Marceau stands up.

  De Palma doesn’t move.

  He’s turned round his chair and leaned his forearms on the back rest.

  He yawns.

  “What’s the time, Jean-Claude?”

  “Three o’clock. I’m knackered.”

  “Me too,” Maistre adds.

  “You coming, Michel? Let’s go and get a bite to eat at the Pied de Cochon.”

  The Baron grimaces.

  “You want to eat after what we’ve just seen?”

  “Yes, Michel, I still want to eat. Because we have to keep our strength up if we want to find that fucker.”

  That night, de Palma leafed through the pages of his notebooks, looking for a truth that was receding a little more each day. Isabelle Mercier had been his only failure. He had found answers to all the other investigations, even if the courts had not always delivered the verdicts he was hoping for. There were policing certainties and then there were judicial truths.

  He had sent to prison a countless number of people who had committed bloody crimes. Most had received maximum sentences: a life behind bars, as well as few executions when he was a young officer.

  Each time, the truth had emerged, and that was what really mattered for him.

  Except for Isabelle Mercier.

  He remembered the feeling of powerlessness that had gripped him and which he had shared with Maistre and Marceau. He felt the same way now. He did not understand why Steinert had died. The little voice that whispered to him that it was for a few hectares of land did not satisfy him. Morini did not kill people without knowing the whys and wherefores of his action. That much he was sure of.

  On the day of the billionaire’s funeral, he had glimpsed a truth: Steinert had died accidentally. Yet he knew that the context of this accident had not been natural. Around the edges of that accident he could vaguely discern a meshing of events that went beyond the harshnesses of life and had made death inevitable.

  15.

  Tuesday, July 29. 10 a.m.

  Marceau was the first on the scene. He was alone, having intercepted an urgent message on the Homicide frequency. The call had mentioned the cleaning and maintenance depot of the town of Tarascon. The operator had then specified: “In the municipal garage.”

  A patrol was on its way.

  The first thing Marceau saw was the Tarasque, then Marc Gouirand and, sitting beside him, Father Favier, who had raised the alarm. The monster had been placed amidst a stack of equipment, in the very place where Gouirand had left it the day before to treat it to a wash and brush-up. In front of its maw lay a horribly mutilated body: a torso, a head and an arm caught in its wooden teeth.

  Like a barbaric offering to the hideous creature.

  “Have you touched anything?”

  Father Favier advanced toward him.

  “No, nothing, sir. I was a doctor before I became a priest. I know the police’s methods.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  Gouirand did not respond. He was sitting on a low wall, his head in his hands.

  Favier took Marceau by the arm.

  “I think it would be better to wait. He’s still in shock.”

  A patrol arrived and started to trample over the scene of the crime, before coming to a halt at the sight of the corpse. Marceau shooed them away at once. He did not approach the body straight away, but stood for some time in silent observation. Then he took out his mobile, asked for the forensic unit in Marseille, hung up and turned toward Favier.

  “O.K., Father. Can you tell me exactly what happened, between the moment when you discovered this horror and now?”

  Favier took a deep breath.

  “I was about to go through my sermon for this evening’s mess one last time, when I got a phone call: it was Marc Gouirand, to tell me …”

  “What did he say precisely?”

  “Not much.”

  “Try to remember.”

  “He was having trouble speaking. All I understood was Tarasque and municipal garage. That’s all.”

  “But you realized that something was wrong?”

  “I used to be an emergency doctor. I’m very familiar with accidents and tragedies.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, I came here. Marc was sitting just as you see him now. He hasn’t moved since. I saw the corpse and called the police. Three minutes later, you got here.”

  Marceau looked at his watch. It was now 10:20 a.m. Favier’s version of events fitted perfectly. He looked at Gouirand, who still had not moved. In a few minutes’ time he would question him.

  Meanwhile, he went back to his car and radioed to ask where the Marseille forensics team was.

  “On their way,” yelled the voice on the radio.

  At 10:45, Larousse arrived, accompanied by the deputy public prosecutor: a pretty and slender brunette with square glasses and a little upturned nose decked with freckles. Marceau had never seen her before.

  Larousse introduced them.

  “What do you think, Marceau?”

  He scratched his head.

  “A real act of barbarism. The work of a lunatic. I haven’t seen anything this vile for ages. This is Father Favier, who alerted us.”

  The young deputy prosecutor tried to move closer to the body, but Larousse held her back by the arm.

  “We’d best stay here in case we disturb something. Let’s wait for the technicians. They should be here soon.”

  Marceau glanced at Gouirand. He noticed that he had now raised his head and was staring into space. The detective decided that it was time to ask a few questions. He went and sat down beside him.

  “How do you feel?”

  Marceau held out his hand, but Gouirand took no notice.

  “That’s Christian in front of the Tarasque.”

  “Christian who?”

  “Rey. A former knight.”

  Marceau offered him a cigarette, but he refused with a shake of his head.

  “And did you know this Rey well?”

  “He’s a childhood friend.”

  Marceau drew a little nearer to Gouirand.

  “And you said he was a knight?”

  “A Knight of the Tarasque! One of those who push her and attend to her.”

  Gouirand raised his eyes and looked at the corpse which was just a few meters away. A sme
ll of panic and death hung over the municipal garage.

  “What happened when you got here earlier?”

  “I discovered him, just as you see him now. I didn’t touch anything. Can you imagine?”

  Gouirand buried his head back in his hands. Marceau saw that he was not going to get anything more out of him. He stood up, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and went back to Commissaire Larousse.

  “You know who that is in front of the Tarasque?”

  “No.”

  “Rey.”

  “Christian Rey?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you explain?” the deputy prosecutor butted in, a hint of authority in her voice.

  “An old acquaintance of ours,” Larousse replied. “Christian Rey: pimping and illegal gambling machines. We also long suspected him of being the local mob’s executioner. That’s who.”

  “Do you think this could be a settling of scores?”

  “Why not? That would be the classic scenario.”

  “I don’t think so,” Marceau replied.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Larousse concluded coldly.

  The team arrived from Marseille. Marceau gave them a very brief run-down, then he put on some gloves and overshoes before following the technicians toward Rey’s body.

  After each step, the technician in charge placed a yellow marker on the ground with a big black number written on it. Behind him, his colleague took a photo of each one.

  A couple of minutes later, they were two steps away from the corpse and bent down to catch their breath.

  A chest. Arms without hands. And a head, which was weirdly intact. The body had been severed across the torso.

  Gaping wounds. Bones sticking out. Marceau noticed a vertebra and a rib, cut clean through by what he supposed must be a machine.

  The face gave out a ghastly impression. The cheeks were phenomenally hollow, as though there was nothing left but leather over the jaws. The teeth stuck out, while the eyes seemed to be still biting into what remained of the visible world.

  Marceau had rarely experienced such a sensation of animal terror. It felt like being transported years back, to Paris, when he was a young inspector and doing his apprenticeship in horror.

  Rey’s skin was still pink. There was no trace of decay, while the blood had already coagulated on the surface of the wounds.

  The police officer examined the skull, but saw no wound. There was no round hole, the sign of a bullet. No ecchymoses or hematomas either.

  Marceau took a step back.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said to one of the team. “We’ll see during the autopsy.”

  He went back, carefully placing his feet in the traces of the outward journey.

  “So?” Larousse asked.

  “So, you’d have to be a genius to say what exactly Rey died of. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a good old 11.43.”

  “You’re thinking of something in particular?” the deputy prosecutor said.

  “Yes. A machine. Only a machine could amputate a body like that. Something like a huge pair of shears.”

  “And that’s not going to happen in the context of a gangland killing?”

  “That’s not what makes me wonder. Because they don’t always gun each other down.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The Tarasque.”

  “The what?”

  “The Tarasque.”

  “Oh right, that nasty great thing over there.”

  “Michel? Jean-Claude here. I’ve got a stiff on my hands. A Christian Rey. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Jesus, Christian Rey. There’s definitely a time and a place for everything. And some people will be saying that it was high time.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a catch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was found practically in the mouth of the Tarasque. This morning.”

  The Baron let a silence pass by.

  “And what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking it’s more than just a gangland killing. What about you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all news to me. Have you got anyone who’s talking?”

  “The one who discovered the body. He told me that Rey was a Knight of the Tarasque.”

  “A what?”

  “One of the people who push the thing when they take it out for the carnival.”

  “The Tarasque, you say!”

  For a few seconds, the Baron hesitated. Ideas were spinning through his mind.

  “Is the prosecutor there?”

  “His deputy. A skirt. She’s new and she looks to me as thick as they come.”

  “And where are you at with Steinert?”

  “The case has been closed. I’ve just heard the news. Officially, there’s no more Steinert case.”

  “But I still think he was killed.”

  “The only thing that’s certain about it is that the prosecutor’s closed the case.”

  “O.K., we need an urgent talk, Jean-Claude.”

  “Why urgent?”

  “See you later, my lad. I’ll be there this afternoon.”

  Marceau’s office stank of stale Gitanes and sweat. He was sitting in front of his computer, with his feet on the table. De Palma was standing in front of him, staring intently, his face tense.

  “And you’re telling me that you went to see Morini, just like that, with Maistre?”

  The Baron did not respond.

  “And then you tell me that it won’t be the last time. That you’ve been shot at and you’ve got some names!”

  “Affirmative,” de Palma said, his voice slightly muted.

  Marceau suddenly stood up.

  “Affirmative, my ass! I reckon that you’re operating more and more like a cowboy and that you’re putting your fellow officers in danger. You have an influence on Maistre, don’t abuse it! He’s a father. I thought I’d just remind you of that, in case you’d forgotten.”

  De Palma relaxed.

  “I hope you still have a scrap of conscience left, to show you the possible consequences of your foul-ups.”

  “I needed to know. That’s all there is to it.”

  “What did you expect Morini to tell you? In the police we don’t always know everything. That’s the way it is.”

  “And you can live with that?”

  “For ages now, I’ve learned to live with small truths and big lies. And with more and more unknowns in this big equation of shit.”

  De Palma folded his arms over his chest. He glanced at the missing persons notices stuck up on the walls. Steinert’s was still there.

  “Does Morini come from Tarascon?” he asked, opening his pad.

  “He was born in rue des Archives, and he’s still got plenty of friends in the neighborhood. What’s more, he does a lot of business round here. I’d advise you to watch your back in these parts. Tarascon is a bit like his manor.”

  “Born in 1943 in Tarascon, Bouches-du-Rhône,” de Palma said laconically. “Arrested for armed robbery in 1963, then for procuring and so on and so forth. The irresistible rise of an asshole. A big lie, as you put it, on legs.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it? They say that he lunches with the mayor and mixes with freemasons as casually as you go to the barber’s … People say a lot of things about Morini.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “He’s got a huge villa in Maussane, just in front of the village. And land all around it. Enough to spot an enemy coming.”

  “That must make a change from his lousy little bar in Aix. Because he can’t spot an enemy coming there. Can you show me on the map where the fucker lives?”

  “I’ve got it on my machine.”

  Marceau clicked his computer mouse to open a file.

  “Here, that’s where it is. On the road to Eygalières. Just by this big forest to the right on the way up.”

  De Palma suddenly
realized that he meant the Downlands. In other words, Steinert and Morini had been neighbors of a sort.

  Marceau sat down again.

  “They say that he runs all the one-arm bandits from Nîmes to Toulon, including all the small towns to the north as far as Valence, and maybe even Lyon. Plus the whores, and the nightclubs. He’s not much into drugs, as far as I know. Morini’s thing is gambling. Christian Rey was one of his men, by the way. He used to be the local debt collector.”

  Marceau lit a Gitane and watched its blue smoke rise toward the ceiling.

  “Him and another guy, an ex-cop called Bernard Dominguez.”

  “I know him,” said de Palma. “He was a good officer until he started screwing whores all day long.”

  “I’d just love to nail him … Anyway, apart from that, there isn’t much to say about Morini. In the end, he’s a classic godfather. He’s got a hell of a reputation, but in fact he’s just like the rest of them.”

  He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette.

  “Which is bad enough already!”

  Marceau suddenly looked tired. He seemed sad and empty. He closed the windows on his computer screen and lit another Gitane.

  “I haven’t forgotten Isabelle either. Sometimes I realize that I haven’t thought about her for the past two or three days and I feel guilty. Jesus, do I feel guilty.”

  That day, there was a space between the two men that nothing could fill, not even their memories.

  “It was you who gave Chandeler my number.”

  Marceau simply raised a hand and lowered his eyes, while trying to look indifferent.

  “I’m not holding it against you, Jean-Claude.”

  A long silence.

  “And Maistre, what does he say?”

  “You know Jean-Louis. It all goes on inside. He’s not much of a talker.”

  There was quite a crowd on place de l’Hôtel de Ville in Aix. It was market day. Marc Morini was sitting on the terrace of his bar, with his bodyguard in front of him. The man took out his 200 mm and took two photographs.

  Just like last time, the man noticed that the nearest stall to Morini’s bar was an Italian cheese seller. He went over and ordered five hundred grams of parmesan and a chunk of mozzarella. From there, he had a three-quarters view of Morini. He took a third photograph.