“Why haven’t you told me this before?”
She moved even closer to him.
“I don’t know. I never took it very seriously. William was a mystic about nature, I have trouble believing in God.”
De Palma put his arm round her shoulder and hugged her hard. She let her body lean against his chest.
“I believe you, Ingrid.”
He relaxed his embrace.
“Can I offer you something to drink?”
Through the window, he stared at the spectacle of trees under the sun. She smiled at him gently, then produced two glasses.
“I’ve opened another bottle of Muscat, Michel. I know how much you like it.”
They drank the sweet white wine and spoke at length, first about William Steinert, then about the few notions of magic that de Palma possessed. Then the conversation drifted on for over an hour. She opened a second bottle. The wine came from the old vines alongside the Downlands.
They played at exposing their lives, taking care never to say everything, until their minds ran out and a strange sensation of joy arose between them.
She was standing beside the window, and it seemed that the forms of her body had suddenly been highlighted by a watercolorist’s brush. Irresistibly he went over to her, and took her hands. She did not resist and offered him her lips. He lost himself in the warmth of her face. It was as if she had been born from the sun.
Her breasts were hard under the cotton of her dress. He raised his hands along her sides and then her back; her skin was bathed in her woman’s heat.
27.
The sultry humidity had been rising for some time.
Chandeler reckoned that the sun must be approaching its zenith or possibly past it. The sounds of drawers and cupboard doors being opened and closed reached him through the wooden slats of the trapdoor.
Suddenly, he heard a door slam with a heavier noise, different from the others. The man who was keeping him prisoner must have just gone out. This was not the first time. On each occasion, the lawyer had noticed that his jailer returned after a period he reckoned at over an hour.
He went over to the trapdoor, guided by the tiny point of light that glinted through the shadows, then he started to bang on the wood, first with his shoulder, then with his heels. His keeper gave no sign of life, which gave him courage.
He braced his hands on the floor for maximum support, then drew his knees up to his chin and kicked out hard. A violent pain shot from the tips of his toes to his spine. He slipped his nails between the edges of the door and noticed that there was now a little give. He crouched back down and kicked, again and again.
The pain in his feet and legs was becoming unbearable.
He clenched his teeth. Tears were in his eyes.
Another blow.
The trapdoor gave way.
He threw himself at the aperture.
He was free. Blinded by light.
On a desk in front of the trapdoor was a huge computer with a screensaver showing large white birds. The cries of birds emerged from the loudspeakers. On the other side of the room, to either side of the window, stood two stuffed white birds the size of storks, the same as the ones on the monitor.
On the walls there were photographs pinned up. In snapshots taken with a zoom lens, Chandeler recognized Morini, his former client, taken at a three-quarters angle, sitting in his bar. In two other shots, a man was walking in the street. Above it a Post-it read: Jean-Claude Marceau.
Chandeler began to tremble. Thirst was constricting his throat, but he did not take the time to look for water. He gathered the little strength he had left and headed toward the door. It was locked from the outside. A huge bunch of keys hung from the door jamb. His fingers shaking, he tried the keys one after the other. Twice the bunch fell from his hands. His feet hurt as if they had been beaten by canes. About a dozen keys later, he found the one that turned.
The door opened out onto a narrow path that retreated through a reed bed. He walked as fast as he could, trying not to scream each time his feet touched the ground. Most of the rushes had to be over three meters high. He turned round and saw that his prison was no more than a tiny farmhouse, half engulfed by ivy, concealed in a grove of ash trees and reeds. It was absolutely invisible in its jungle sanctuary.
Father Favier’s fingers were long and gnarled, as though one-euro coins had been slipped in between the phalanges. His hands were in constant motion, which Moracchini read as a sign of nerves.
“You’re telling me that just before the death of Christian Rey you spoke to Gouirand in your church!”
“That’s right, yes. But why are you asking me these questions again?”
She ignored the priest’s reply, went over to him and tossed her hair back provocatively. Favier did not even notice her gesture.
“Never mind about your discussion. You then state that once Gouirand had left your church, you heard some noises, is that right?”
“As I’ve already explained several times: Gouirand had come to fetch the Tarasque to clean it. When he had gone, I closed the door behind him. Everything seemed quiet, then I heard those noises. I couldn’t find out where they came from, but I’m sure I heard them! Someone was there, and then that someone left. I’m sure of it!”
“As if with the help of the Holy Ghost?”
The priest smiled with mild disdain.
“You could put it like that.”
She stood up and stretched. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt she had won at the police marksmanship competition.
“So what do you think about all this, Father?”
“I don’t know what to reply. Of course, I don’t believe all these stories that are going around in Tarascon! Just imagine it, only yesterday some more people came to ask me to say masses to fend off the evil spell. Masses to fight the Tarasque … Some people believe in a curse, others are asking for processions through the places of the legend of the Tarasque. Do you see me telling the bishop that I’m off on a procession to the castle of Tarascon or in the marshes of the Camargue? Not to mention what the journalists would have to say.”
“Yes, I can quite understand!”
“Oh no you can’t! I’ve had official requests addressed to me to go and bless the waters of the marshlands. It’s as if the people in the town were possessed by this demon. Even the young lads from North Africa are talking about the Tarasque, can you believe that? I mean, it’s not even part of their culture … My predecessor did warn me, but I never thought it would go this far.”
She continued to stare at him, trying to catch his attention with female wiles, which had to be bothering him, but he did not show it.
“Each to his own monster. You have the Tarasque, we have the city football team.”
She pointed at the window.
“And do you know where this Gouirand is right now?”
“No, honestly, I don’t,” he replied, turning his hands up toward the ceiling. “I think he may have simply gone away on holiday.”
She turned back toward her computer and clicked on the criminal records file.
“O.K., I don’t see any reason to detain you. Thanks for coming in.”
“I have nothing to add except to say that this is the work of a madman!”
De Palma appeared in the doorway and tapped on the frame.
“Come in, Michel. I think you know Father Favier.”
De Palma held out his hand. Moracchini placed herself between the two men.
“I just wanted to check a few details again with the priest of Saint Martha,” she said. “But I’m through now.”
The priest got to his feet and picked up an old battered leather briefcase, which he had placed on her desk.
“Your colleague in Tarascon also questioned me twice.”
“The Tarasque ate him too!”
The priest stopped playing with his fingers and stared back at de Palma. He was wearing a curious expression, both eyebrows raised at a slant.
“It isn�
�t funny to say that, sir, really not funny.”
De Palma placed a hand on the priest’s back and guided him gently to the door.
“You’re absolutely right, it’s no joke.”
The man of God slipped out like a shadow and disappeared down the green corridor.
“We’ve got to lay hands on Gouirand. I’ll have him brought in.”
“Bérard too was a Knight of the Tarasque.”
“Really? I’m going to end up wondering who wasn’t.”
He handed her a sheet of paper, on which he had made a series of notes:
White spoonbill (Platalea leucorodia).
Shape and size of a pure white heron. Long black bill, shaped like a spoon at the end. The adult has an orange strip on its chest and, in spring, a long orange/yellow head crest. Immature: no strip, black wingtips, pink bill. Silent except during the breeding season when it produces a groaning call.
Shallow fresh and coastal waters, nests in colonies in trees, bushes and reed beds on marshy ground.
86 centimeters.
Can be observed in the Camargue in spring and autumn. Nests in North Africa. Groaning sound from nests (not in Camargue). Occasional clicking of bills.
Long neck, long feet. Flies with neck extended.
Feeds on aquatic invertebrates and small fish.
“Very interesting, Michel. But it doesn’t tell us much.”
“I copied it from a birdwatcher’s guide for the Camargue. Take another look.”
She read back through the notes, murmuring each word.
“Jesus, so it sings only when nesting, and that happens only in North Africa.”
“So the recording was a sound montage. A very clever one, but a montage all the same. I think we really are up against a madman of a kind we’ve never imagined before.”
“Any ideas?”
Moracchini had sat down on the edge of her desk; she was examining her nails and frowning.
“We’ll have to investigate the ornithology freaks. All those obsessed with our little feathered friends. You never know …”
“Yeah, but in the meantime Chandeler is out there in the wilds, with the psycho.”
“What can I say?”
“Nothing. Just say nothing.”
As he emerged from the reed bed, the man knew at once that his prisoner had given him the slip. Without knowing why, he felt it, but he had had to prepare the beast. And that was not an easy thing to do. He had been making it fast for a while, and the storms that span in the sky above the delta had swamped the air with electricity.
The beast was more uptight and dangerous than ever before.
He took out his knife and ran inside the house. Inside it was quiet. He stopped, his arms flailing in front of the staved-in trapdoor. In the late afternoon shadows, the white spoonbills were watching him with their glass eyes. They seemed to be laughing at the strange trick that fate had played on him.
He stayed still for some time. His mind was so clouded that he felt as if his cerebral convolutions were muddled together.
From the computer came the clicking of beaks and groaning. It was the spoonbills’ song of love and grace during their nuptial display. He smiled as though emerging from his torpor. The recording was on a loop. It dated back to the days when he had worked for an Algerian oil company.
After a moment, it seemed to him that the stuffed birds were coming to life on their varnished wooden stands. He walked over to them on tiptoe, uttering little cries, like quiet groans.
Tears filled his eyes. He wiped the sweat that was running down his temples. His hands were trembling, his guts churning. He tried to get hold of himself, but shakes and painful spasms were knotting his entrails. He went closer to the birds, and stopped less than a meter away. With the tips of his fingers, he stroked their marvelously white plumage. He sank his fingertips into the down of their long graceful necks.
He asked the spoonbills to give him the strength to fight through the crisis that was now submerging him, but the trembling soon turned to convulsions, and he collapsed.
He came round some time later, unable to tell how long the attack had lasted. The spoonbills were still there, he could hear the dry clicking of their long, spoon-shaped beaks and the groaning of the males.
Mad with rage, he went outside and headed for a lean-to beside the house. He returned a few minutes later with a jerry-can of petrol. His eyes were red with fury, and saliva was dribbling from his lips, twisted downward by an unknown pain.
He went inside the house and methodically spread fuel at strategic points. Then he nervily struck a match and rushed outside, pursued by the fire’s hot breath.
He stopped running a long time later, when he found himself on the road to Salins-de-Giraud. A column of smoke was rising in the distance, a huge exclamation mark above the marshes.
At that moment, he thought of the beast. Only at that moment did he realize that she would be furious and that nothing could stop her.
28.
Chandeler felt a bony hand shake him vigorously. He half-opened his eyes and saw a weather-beaten face with slanted eyes staring at him, its lips twisted upward in a grin that revealed two rows of ivory teeth.
“Wake up, sir! … Wake up … Can’t stay here.”
Chandeler squinted and saw that two Asians were looking down at him nervously.
“Wake up, sir! … Not possible …”
He gathered the last of his energy to mumble a few words:
“Must … call … the police. I …”
“We not police, sir … We work in fields. Workers!”
Chandeler heard a torrent of onomatopoeias flooding his weakened mind. He thought for a moment that he was hallucinating again. Since being kidnapped, he had constantly been wandering between the real world and nightmare visions.
He tried to stand up, but immediately felt powerful arms catch hold of him and raise him from the ground to carry him to a trailer coupled to a vineyard tractor. All at once he found himself lying in the middle of some crates that smelled of raw earth and greenery, with the sun blazing in the sky up above him.
Four people sat beside him in the cart. Four Asians to whom he gave a smile of gratitude. Then the procession crossed a field that was out of his line of sight and turned down a sunken lane bordered by ash trees and poplars.
It must be quite late in the day, the blue sky was becoming tinged with pink and orange. A smell of diesel and smoke enveloped him, the tractor almost stopped and the engine shifted up a gear: now they were driving down a tarmac road.
He gradually recovered his spirits as he exchanged glances with his saviors. After escaping, he had walked for some time until, exhausted, he had found a stream, where he had drunk his fill of water, and a place in a curly bush, away from prying eyes. It was next to a field, maybe a vineyard, he could no longer remember. What did it matter? He had fallen asleep.
For some time, he observed the men who had rescued him, and realized that they must be illegal migrant workers. He had heard tell of this sort of workforce trafficking in the Camargue. Several big landowners had been caught red-handed using modern-day slaves. They generally came from Thailand or Cambodia, and worked like coolies for a handful of euros.
The man who greeted him in the farmyard of La Fraysse must be foreman, or something like that. The Asians vanished into the buildings.
“The workers found you just as they were finishing work. I am Fabrice Luciano, I’m the manager here.”
“Chandeler, member of the bar in Marseille.”
The foreman recoiled.
“How did you come to be in such a state, on the edge of a strawberry field?”
“I … I … it’s too long and too crazy to explain. I must speak to the police.”
“I can take you to Marseille if you like.”
“No, no, I must call the police!”
“Listen, sir, I … how can I put it? The workers who brought you wouldn’t like the police to know that they were working here … if you s
ee what I mean.”
“I must speak to the police. Let me call them.”
“So long as you don’t tell them what happened here. I don’t want to see any policemen or gendarmes around here.”
“O.K. I’ll call a friend.”
At 7:12 p.m. de Palma’s mobile rang.
*
It all went very quickly. Less than an hour later, de Palma arrived at La Fraysse with Moracchini and Romero. Chandeler was sitting at the big dining room table and finishing the meal he’d been given.
When he saw the police officers, he stood up and wrung their hands for some time.
“It’s the first time in my life that I’m glad to see a policeman.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” de Palma replied. “Now, tell us about it all.”
Chandeler’s expression changed abruptly, a veil of terror covered it. It was only after a long silence that he started the tale of his kidnapping: on leaving the court in Marseille, where he had been defending an industrialist accused of bribing civil servants, a man had approached him then discreetly stuck a gun in his belly.
“He was forty-five to fifty years old. A meter eighty, maybe more … He was about my height in fact, and I measure one meter eighty-five. Dark, shoulder-length hair, small blue eyes and bushy eyebrows. A thin nose … Unshaven. He was wearing a safari jacket, jeans and sandals.”
Chandeler had not argued with this man’s orders and had got into a nearly new Ford Scorpio. This detail had struck him: it must have been a hire car. Then they had driven toward Martigues, Fos and the Camargue.
De Palma produced a map of the Rhône delta and unfolded it on the table.
“Try hard to remember. We’re on the long straight line of the R.N. 568. At some moment you turn left. Is it this road?”
“Yes, that’s it. Beside it, there’s an old caravan and a wrecked fridge.”
“Then you drive on.”
“We drive for quite a while down the same road. There are mown fields on both sides … I mean, there’s nothing in them … We continue and arrive at a junction, there’s a signpost pointing to Sambuc. We drive …”
Chandeler reflected, his eyes closed, rerunning the journey in his mind.
The Beast of the Camargue Page 32
