“So the policeman is here too!”
“A policeman, but above all a friend,” Ingrid said, still clutching his hand. “Come on, we’re going to have something to drink.”
“Oh, I can’t stay long. Especially in this weather. You know, my charges are waiting for me. Quand plòu en Avoust, tout òli e tout moust.”
“What does that mean?” Ingrid asked with a smile.
“When it rains in August, all is oil and grape must.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it?”
He stared at her, then twitched his head with a twist of his lips.
“Don’t you think so?” she asked.
“It’s the beginning of August. And there was thunder this morning. Good God! Quand trono lou matin marco d’auro. You don’t understand!”
She raised her hands then let them drop to her sides.
“When there’s thunder like this morning, it’s often a sign of wind. Sweet Jesus, I’m afraid it’ll start blowing, and what with all those fires around here …”
“Fängt der August mit Donnern an, er’s bis zum End’ nicht lassen kann: if it thunders at the beginning of August, it will continue to the end of the month,” she replied.
Bérard lowered his eyes and stared at his feet for a moment. Then he adjusted his beret, uncovering a lock of silver hair.
“Goodness, William understood patois.”
“It’s true, he had learned Provençal.”
“He spoke it better than I do,” said Bérard with a whistle. “He had really studied our language.”
“Come on, M. Bérard. Let’s have a drink in the shade. You’ll feel better.”
“Oh, don’t worry. The sun doesn’t bother me.”
Bérard was feeling embarrassed. He was glancing around darkly. De Palma was impressed by the vigorous aura given off by this man who was almost a hundred years old.
“So you asked me to come to tell you about the former owners?”
He looked at the Baron.
“I thought it preferable for Mme. Steinert to know what you told me when we last met. But it wasn’t me who asked you to come today.”
Bérard gave Ingrid a long stare.
“It’s all ancient history. Especially now the poor soul’s dead.”
“Did you know his father?” she asked.
“Oh yes. In the prewar days, before everything fell to pieces. He used to come here in search of antiquities and, as I knew a lot about such things, he used to ask me questions. Sometimes, we went for a walk together and I showed him places.”
“Such as the Downlands,” de Palma said.
“Yes indeed. We went there … I remember as if it were yesterday. He was walking behind me, on a day like today. Really muggy! We started on the Fontvieille road then went as far as the big oak up there. That’s where I showed him the old stones, as we call them.”
“That’s where the statue of Hercules was?”
Bérard looked up at the Baron.
“He called him Heracles. That’s the Greek name. Because in fact the stones came from Greece. The Romans only arrived later. I read that in books.”
Bérard wetted his dry lips with his pastis. Then he took an olive.
“Ah, Carpentras black. They’re excellent!”
“We’re going to plant some more.”
“Wait for the spring then put them in that large plot you have by the road up there. It’s neither too damp nor too dry.”
Bérard took a good swig of pastis, then looked with interest at Ingrid.
“If you mean to plant, does that mean you’re going to stay?”
“Why, were you afraid that I’d leave?”
“Yes, after William’s death, I was really afraid of that.”
“No, we’re staying.”
“Well, in that case …” Bérard said, flapping his hand.
De Palma waited for a moment.
“What do you mean by that, M. Bérard?”
“Some people aren’t going to be best pleased.”
Mme. Steinert was about to say something, but the Baron motioned to her to stay out of this.
“Who do you mean?”
“The ones who want to open the park. They came to see me the other day. I told them that I wouldn’t sell them an inch of land. That they’d have to wait till I was gone. And that anyway, I’d left everything to William.”
“Can you describe these men to me?”
“They looked very respectable. One of them told me his name. It sounded German or something. Not like a name from these parts.”
Ingrid started.
“Not M. Chandeler, by any chance?”
“What was that?”
“Chan—de—ler.”
“It could well have been that.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall, very tall. With nicely combed hair. Forever smiling, like a salesman. Like, like … the people who work in banks. Know what I mean? They’re always trying to sell you something. But don’t worry, they left me a calling card. I’ll show it to you. But I reckon it was the same name as the one you just mentioned.”
“And the other?”
“The other man was fat. He was a tall man too, but fat. And he looked like a real crook.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No, no. He didn’t say much. And outside there was another one waiting in the car.”
De Palma’s head was racing. There was nothing surprising about Chandeler being there. He was simply a lawyer who was trying his luck. But who was he working for? And who was the fat man who came with him?
“Tell me, M. Bérard. Do you remember what day this was?”
“Goodness, no. I sometimes lose track of time a bit. I might tell you something wrong.”
“But it wasn’t yesterday?”
“Definitely not,” he replied, raising his hands. “It was a few days after poor William’s death.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The shepherd took another swig of pastis, then stood up.
“I must go back, my flock is waiting.”
Ingrid took both his hands. She looked at him affectionately.
“Can I come to see you one of these days?”
“Oh, my house is a poor place, you know! Only William used to come by, he didn’t mind. My wife’s dead and gone these twenty years now. So things aren’t kept as they should be.”
“It doesn’t matter … Or else I’ll come to see you while you’re watching your sheep.”
“Alright. I’ll be by the rocks a little later, when it’s not so hot.”
The Baron’s mobile rang.
“Where are you, Michel?”
“In Provence, Anne.”
“Still with Ingrid?”
“There’s no hiding anything from you.”
“Go straight away to the forensic unit in La Timone.”
“Why?”
“They’ve taken Morini there. But we’re on the case.”
“I’m on my way.”
“But don’t go inside, Michel! Remember, officially you’re not involved in this investigation.”
“O.K. I’ll join you in a couple of hours’ time.”
He arranged to meet her in a café on boulevard Baille, just by the hospital.
Bérard sat back down on a wicker chair. De Palma noticed that Ingrid’s eyes were wet with emotion.
“See, what did I tell you? The wind’s rising. That’s not good.”
A greenish light fell from the neon lamps in the dissection room. Moracchini and Romero, dressed in green overalls and with masks on their faces, were standing behind Doctor Mattei and his assistant.
Mattei looked at Moracchini and pointed his scissor’s at Morini’s injuries.
“There’s saliva on the wounds. The same saliva as last time, at least I think so.”
The doctor of the dead indicated a dangling strip of flesh.
“Look, his dermis, epidermis and muscles have been completely ripped apart! As if
something had bitten him, then pulled to remove the piece.”
Moracchini looked at Romero. Above her white mask, her eyes looked anxious.
“Any ideas, Doctor?”
“None.”
“I think that the D.N.A. will help us out once again. And I’m ready to bet we’ll find the same as last time.”
“So?”
“He’s been fed to something. That’s how he died. What do you think, Mattei?”
“I can’t think of anything at this level. I can’t imagine jaws that powerful. Unless there were several animals at the same time.”
Mattei bent down once more to examine Morini’s wounds, almost touching them with his nose. He frowned and held his breath.
“The spinal column has been bitten in two by jaws. It’s not possible otherwise. It’s just like a dog bite, but ten times bigger. And it reminds me of men I saw in the tropics, who’d been attacked by sharks …”
Mattei had slit open the thorax and neck up to the chin. He had levered the thoracic cage open before removing the lungs and heart.
“There was adrenalin in the heart and water in the lungs. I also found some algae on the body.”
“So it’s just the same scenario as with Christian Rey. Exactly the same … The guy is dropped in water, then he gets eaten.”
“And it’s fresh water, too. So no sharks … A crocodile maybe …”
“Why not a Komodo Dragon? What a headache! I just don’t get it.”
She looked at Romero and noticed that his eyes had glazed over. She had not known her new colleague very long, but she had worked out that this was the sign of intense mental activity.
“The Tarasque,” de Palma murmured.
Moracchini’s eyes were red with fatigue and disgust. She had picked up the Baron and was driving down the motorway toward Château-Gombert.
“What are you muttering about?”
“The Tarasque. That’s all.”
“You wouldn’t be starting to lose it, by any chance?”
“No, no…”
“But the Tarasque doesn’t exist!”
“Perhaps not. But someone is crazy enough to play the monster for us.”
The overhead metro overtook them. She noticed a group of youths horsing around in the last carriage.
“Someone is staging a scenario? Now that’s more like it!”
“The bite, the algae … it all fits together. There’s someone somewhere who wants to resurrect the Tarasque.”
“That’s one possibility. But what might also have happened is that Morini and Rey were quite simply snuffed by their little chums in gangland. There wouldn’t be anything very surprising about that either.”
“Not the right modus operandi.”
“How can you be sure, Michel? They’re getting crazier and crazier, you know that as well as I do.”
The Baron waved away her suggestion and pursed his lips. His face was almost ashen and a headache was starting to grow at the base of his forehead.
“Romero’s gone back to Tarascon to pick up Marceau’s report. The bastard, he couldn’t bear us being given the case. He’d had our friend removed before we got there.”
“It doesn’t really matter, Anne.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve got nothing and he’s maybe hiding things to keep us slaving away like idiots.”
She drove under the metro line and accelerated suddenly, as though she was fleeing something. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel and the headlamps of the cars on the other side of the road glittered in her damp eyes.
The next evening, at 7 p.m., the Baron leaped over the surrounding wall of the Résidence Paul Verlaine, drew his Cobra and made a panoramic scan.
He let a neighbor from the third floor go by, holding his son by the hand. Then, when no one else was in sight, he went along the path leading to his building, careful to stay close to the pines and the shrubs that bordered it. The Cobra was tight against his thigh. In case of sudden danger.
It was the first time he had been home for three days. It smelled musty and full of bad memories.
The answering machine flashed up ten messages. Two of them were people hanging up, while the other eight were from his mother, whom he had not called for a week.
Without wasting any time, he went into the bedroom, grabbed a traveling bag and threw in two pairs of jeans, a pair of trainers, a few T-shirts and a drawer-full of boxer shorts and socks. In the wardrobe, he noticed the box in which he kept a hoard of souvenirs. He looked inside and found a notebook that contained a photograph of Isabelle Mercier. He examined it for a moment, before noticing something that had hitherto escaped him, despite the scores of times he had stared at it: she had a beauty spot shaped like the ace of spades just between her ear and the angle of her jaw.
He had spotted this detail only today. And he knew why. Because he had also seen it somewhere else. On Ingrid Steinert’s cheek.
He lay down on the bed and sank into the dark waters of his memories. As ever, all he could see was a face that no longer existed, and a body already stiffened by death. A single eye that still stared at him over all those years and sleepless nights.
For a long time, he stayed in the shadows of his bedroom, watching the daylight gradually fade away between the slats of the shutters. Isabelle had been the first victim, but how many more corpses had he seen since then in his life as a detective?
At least three hundred. Maybe more.
The number made his head spin.
At the beginning, he had thought that he should hang on to all of them and hold them in his memory. It was his debt to the dead, because the dead know that they exist so long as someone pictures them. And if they are forgotten, it is all over.
As a little boy, he would sometimes walk in the alleys of Saint Peter’s cemetery. He liked to read the names of the deceased on the slabs of granite and to invent their life stories, little novels in a nutshell telling of their vanished destinies, instant dramas in which love and wonders played leading roles.
Starring roles.
He jumped up, closed his bag and headed for the door.
Outside, the night had stretched its canvas. He waited for there to be nobody near his building, for the stairwell and hall to be plunged in darkness, then he walked out into the gloom of Marseille.
Thirty minutes later, he was bounding up the stone staircase that led through the prickly pears to Maistre’s patio.
He served himself a kir then sat down on the low wall that overlooked the little houses of L’Etraque. In the distance, the sea was like a vast black slick running from the harbor wall as far as Maïre and then to the flickering star of the Planier lighthouse.
Maitre was browsing through a boat supplies catalog. The murmur of the city could be heard from afar.
“Do you think we’ll ever find our fishing boat, Michel?”
The Baron answered with a grunt.
20.
Controller General Lamastre had been regional head of the P.J. in Marseille for five years. He was rather a stylish man, he was in the town hall’s good books, and didn’t like disciplinary scandals.
That morning, Lamastre was getting impatient. He picked up the F.B.I. special agent badge which he always kept on his desk; it was a souvenir from his stay in Quantico years before, when he had decided to try to adapt the American super-cops’ profiling techniques to French procedures. The badge had been given to him by James Lehane Jr., one of the best manhunters in the U.S.A.
“Take a seat, Michel. I don’t like having to talk to you like this, but I have no choice. How are things?”
“Fine, sir. I’ve completely recovered. And I’m longing to get back to work.”
“You knew Lehane too, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He was a great guy. I’ve read both of his books and must admit that I’ve used his ideas a lot.”
“Indeed,” Lamastre said, putting down the badge. “Quite a detective. Let’s drink to his health before I give you a scolding.”
Lamastre came from Normandy. His blue deep-set eyes, perpetual three-day beard and a complexion fired by alcohol did not undermine his natural elegance. He produced a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses from his desk drawer.
“The news isn’t good,” he said as he poured out the bourbon. “Certain people around here want your balls on a plate, Michel.”
“I know.”
“In this country, cops like you are becoming a rare commodity … and certain people like that fact. To be quite honest, I’m seeing what can be done to avoid your being charged.”
“They’ve got nothing against me, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“The problem is that you were seen having a rather physical conversation with that bastard Morini, just a few days before he passed on. Do you follow?”
“Of course I do, but …”
“Don’t try to explain yourself, Michel. I know full well that it wasn’t you who cut him in half and I’ve already rejected any such insinuations. Don’t forget, however, that they exist. But the snag is that we have a statement from a customer of Morini’s bar. He saw you and he’s willing to sign, with his elbows if need be.”
“I don’t follow you …”
“Leave it out, Michel. I’m not out to get you.”
Lamastre handed him the official report.
“They want your ass, and they’ll get it if you carry on like this. Our friend here apparently saw everything. Just read the statement! It’s highly detailed.”
“O.K., so I talked with Morini and I handcuffed his bodyguard.”
“And both of them died within the next few days …”
The Baron sat back in his chair. Lamastre picked up his badge again.
“I need to know why, Michel.”
“It’s a bit complicated. I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world, and there’s plenty of bourbon left. This is a friend asking, Michel!”
Caught in the trap, the Baron stayed silent for a while. He was going to have to talk, but first he wanted to find out exactly how much his boss knew. When he reached out his hand to take the report, Lamastre gripped it.
“Don’t play silly buggers now. The report is mostly about Lopez. The man you blew to pieces not far from where you live. It’s all rather messy, isn’t it? As for the rest, I honestly couldn’t give a damn!”
The Beast of the Camargue Page 24
